Foreigner

I wrote this a few months ago, maybe in April or so. I was about to go out, and I was wearing the same shoes pictured here, only I was home in America, and the picture was taken in Ghana. As I laced the sandals, these words began flooding my mind, and now, I am sharing them here with you. Grace and peace to you.

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The dust on these shoes comes from a land far away, across the Atlantic to the Gulf of Guinea. It reminds me of the roads I treaded not long ago, of the paths I once followed: out of the compound and into a taxicab or perhaps on the back of a mocada, holding tight as though my life depended on it. I am reminded of the dry air that tickled my throat, and the way that you could hear nature singing: birds and bugs harmonizing with children’s laughter. I’ll never forget those innocent smiles, their little hands waving as a sign of welcome, of hospitality, of peace. Yet...

I remember feeling like an outcast: the discomfort of having the word “foreigner” plastered over my skin. I remember feeling more alone than I ever have before. I did not often hear from my friends or family, and though the place where I was felt like home in my heart, I knew I didn’t belong--not in their eyes. It made me wonder if this is how it feels to be Black in America. Do you feel like a foreigner, too? I’m sorry. I may have felt like a foreigner in Ghana because that is what I was, but here, you are American. I’m sorry you’ve been treated like you’re not.