Dream: I’m at a potluck gathering in a lovely barn decorated with lovely yellow flowers. There’s a sumptuous spread of prepared delights on the table, unique items that each of the attending women have brought. All look interesting and are presented with the exquisite touch that the host brings. It’s all so airy, light, and appealing. I’m a little reticent—happy to be there, but feeling a little self-conscious, as I usually do in groups where I’m the only or one of few persons of color, particularly of African descent. Another woman enters…someone familiar who I can’t recall…maybe a childhood acquaintance. She brings a dish containing okra. Part of me wonders why she brought “that.” I immediately feel the shame in my question—my embarrassment about something about me.
Icky, icky. Painful. I had this dream a while ago and know I’ve needed to write about it, but I have avoided it like the plague. No doubt this one is difficult to write, but I’ve promised to myself to write AND post before I get up from this particular sitting. Interestingly, I wrote this almost 10 years ago and am just discovering that I never published it…it’s been sitting in my drafts folder.
I’m an African American woman from the South. I was born in Germany and spent my earliest years there, but once our family relocated to the States, we lived in the South. I don’t remember what the social-racial climate was like on an Air Force Base in Germany…I was pretty young, then. But I do remember that upon coming to the States, as early as 4 years old, I quickly absorbed that there was something peculiar about being “chocolate,” and it wasn’t so good. At the Air Force base in Tennessee, my best friend and next door neighbor, Mary Ann, was white. My parents explained that nothing was “wrong” with me because of my color. I was simply “chocolate” and Mary Ann was “vanilla.” But my elder brothers weren’t allowed to attend the school within eyesight from our house because of segregationist laws, yet my father served in the military just as white fathers did. I’d started reading by age three, yet we weren’t permitted to check out books from the base library. My parents joined a small consortium of other African American parents and legally fought to desegregate the schools of Rutherford County, Tennessee (which included the Air Force Base). The military followed suit and permitted us to use the libraries. I didn’t learn about the lawsuit and media publicity until I was an adult. My parents, in an attempt to shelter their children from racial oppression, came up with this chocolate-vanilla thing. I didn’t like it because I knew something was wrong and I ddin’t like being lied to. Despite their efforts to instill in me a sense of high self-esteem, my social realities still were able to inject into me the notion that something about my blackness was not right, less-than.
It takes a lifetime to crawl out from under the rock of “injected” racial psychological oppression. The mind may understand new constructs, but feelings and impressions remain in the body and emotional memory. And every now and then I am reminded of how far I have come, and still there is always more learning, more to embrace—more, more, more. In my dream, the lady bringing the okra wants to help me clear more residual matter from those early days. Thankfully, with her presence I’m able to question my false thoughts and beliefs.
The “okra” is about me–my okra–my uniqueness belongs on the table. I like my okra, and it’s a nutritious superfood. Okra is good!
What is your okra? What separates you from embracing your powerful, unique self AS you? Unpack those wounds. There’s help and support. Your dreams will lead the way. Go back and fetch your okra and put it on the table!
Now journey home with courage and self-love!
Cheptu
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If you would like to know more about the inward journey led by your dreams, or if you have a dream you’d like to discuss, please reach out to me via this platform or email me directly at nowjourneyhome@gmail.com.
NOW Journey Home with Grace Cheptu 