A Change Is Gonna Come
By: Deneishia Jacobpito
Tags: Spirituality, Fiction, Social Justice, LGBTQ, Racism

A Change Is Gonna Come

Oh, yes it will

Photo by Olga Kononenko on Unsplash

The air was so thick I felt like I was trying to take a breath while asleep, face down in a bowl of soup. My skin attached to everything, my leather chair, the walls if I bumped into them, the door every time I opened or closed it, the humidity had turned me into a piece of velcro. I had forgotten what humidity felt like. I left the American Midwest 25 years ago and after traveling I took up residence in the arid Southwestern United States. Living in the desert presented its own set of difficulties but the humidity was not one of them. Recently, I had given up the predictable comfort of arid air to return to the rich soil and multiple seasons of the American Midwest. I had needed a change, and the move had definitely provided change.

My Dad’s repetitive phrase, “Frightened white folks are dangerous” and my first spiritual counselor’s, “Don’t scare the straights”, both echoed in my memory.

Walking into the grocery store I found myself walking into the familiarity of forced self-awareness. I had forgotten, or possibly blocked out, the acute hypersensitivity that came with being the only person of color in a building. The shuffling of feet and side glances of the patrons when I would walk passed them reminded me to be aware of every movement and every sound.

Equipped with my shopping list, I fell back on childhood lessons. I chose a cart instead of a basket so that I could have my hands visible at all times. I didn’t put my hands in my pockets for any reason, I didn’t pick anything up from the shelf unless I was certain I was going to put it in the cart. I would try to read the packaging without touching it and I made sure to stay far enough away from the people so that I wouldn’t frighten them. My Dad’s repetitive phrase, “Frightened white folks are dangerous” and my first spiritual counselor’s, “Don’t scare the straights”, both echoed in my memory.

I became nauseous just thinking about having walked in here with my girlfriend. I realized that actually, I should have sent her in the store instead of going in myself. However, then I would have been filled with anxiety sitting in the parking lot in the car alone. My mind jumped from thought to thought trying to distract me from the whispering older women over by the oranges who were too obvious in their attempts not to stare at me as I looked over the produce.

I had made a special stop at the ATM before the grocery store because my card was getting old and I wanted to avoid the annoyed reactions of the clerk and others in line if the reader had any problem with the magnetic strip. I filed through the memories of breathing through snide comments like, “just use your welfare card” and exacerbated sighs.

I made some silly comedic comments to ease what I thought could be the checkout attendant’s visible discomfort. I mentally scolded myself for assuming their response was about me. They could have physical issues attributed to medication or illness to account for the shaking, and not looking me in the eye could simply be introversion. I handed them the cash and walked out of the building, thankful for the fresh air.

The sun was behind clouds, it was daytime, but I hadn’t seen the sun in weeks because of the clouds. I had forgotten what Spring fever and seasonal depression felt like. Living in the West, there was plenty of sunshine. There were still uncomfortable moments but in a place where the crime was heavier, I felt safer than I did in the Midwest. In more dense urban areas across the country, people have no filter. If they are angry or trying to deceive you, it’s much easier to spot.

In the Midwest, it’s more subtle. The body language and the words just don’t seem to match. The things people say sound nice, but the way they say it is definitely not nice. When traveling in the Southern parts of the United States, open condescension and snark were evident only in vocal tone, in the Midwest, it was veiled and nearly undetectable in tone or nonverbal communication. Safety was just more difficult to assess.

I was exhausted and I had only done one errand.

I looked at my list, triaged the most important, and determined what I could live without. I needed some rest. I knew if I didn’t step away for a few days, I would start to get reactionary, so I assessed that it was time to run to the safest place I knew.

Camping, no people for miles, no one to talk to you.

My friends and family hated that I would go camping alone, especially my Black family and friends. “You just be out there with them crazy White folks. You better watch out because one day you aren’t going to come back because one of them turned on you”. I would choose the most remote spots over packed camping grounds. I needed a place where no one was telling me how to be, what to be, where to be, and how fast to be it.

The trees didn’t expect anything from me. There were no stereotypes to fight against or live up to. I didn’t have to be a woman, Black, tall, fat, thin, happy, sad, angry, contemplative, educated, on time, late, there were no rules, no preset goals, no “trying twice as hard to get half as far”, as the old folks used to preach.

In the forest there wasn’t anyone to look at me out of the corner of their eye. No one that visibly relaxed only after I smiled first. I didn’t have to wear the right outfit, say the right words, or carry someone else’s emotional baggage by making sure they were ok while monitoring my unease. In the woods, I don’t have to ease anyone’s fear or be aware of someone working too hard to prove that they weren’t racist. That over-anxious hyper attention was worse than the hatred and more exhausting to deal with. In the forest I just had to sit in the silence and listen to the low whistling of the breeze through the leaves of the trees.

I parked the van, opened the door, and just sat. I felt the energy drain from the tip of my head out through my hands and feet. The ringing in my ears stopped. My jaw unclenched. My heartbeat slowed. I got out of the van to go sit on the large tree stump just a few feet away, tilted my head back, and allowed the breeze to flow over me, and I cried. I always cried when I first arrived at camp. The first time it happened surprised me. Now, I recognized it as part of the release, an essential part of the process, part of the medicine of the forest.

I felt eyes on me, wiped my tears, and turned around. In the distance was a fox, just sitting in a little clearing, not at all worried about hiding from me. They wanted to make sure I knew they were there. Sitting proud in the grass, tail tucked around their feet, breeze flowing through their fur. I sat silent and didn’t move. I looked at them, they looked at me and I calculated how many feet away the van was in case the fox charged. I am open to spiritual messages from the wild, but I do not forget that they are indeed wild. I could be receiving a message, or I could just as easily be on the menu, I wanted to be prepared for either scenario. I jumped when I suddenly heard a voice to the left of me.

“Hey do you have any matches?” they asked. I turned my head to address the person and looked back to where I had seen the fox, who had now disappeared.

“Yeah, I do” I replied. I heard the stiffness in my voice and felt the annoyance in my body. I didn’t take the time to feel the person out. I just wanted them to go away and give me back my solitude.

“Oh, great! We were crossing the creek a little bit away and ours fell into the water. I thought the pack was more waterproof than that. That’ll teach me to trust advertisement instead of putting things in plastic baggies like I usually do.” The person offered an uncomfortable laugh, I recognized that laugh. I had performed this dance before. I opened the van door, took a box of matches out, and handed them to her.

“Yeah, advertisements can be misleading. Here ya go.” I looked her in her eye, lowered my tone, and smiled to make sure she knew she was safe, and hopefully buy my safety in return.

She was a shorter woman, possibly five feet tall, dark blond almost brown hair, shockingly green eyes. Pure green, not hazel, and not blue, but a stunning green, like new leaves. She smiled and took the matches. I recognized her need to say something else. Her weight shifted from side to side, her eyes darted from me back to the ground, and her head leaned toward her right shoulder. I stood quietly, armed with the weapon of my smile, and made sure my arms didn’t cross or rest on my hips, I didn’t want her to think I was impatient or annoyed. If you give someone silence, they will usually fill it, so I waited.

She stammered. “I just… I was wondering… well… my friends and I don’t go camping very often but when we do… we don’t see… I mean…You aren’t usually the type of person we bump into.”

“I’m not a usual type of person, I agree.” We both laughed. I didn’t offer any other information, just nodded and smiled. I kept my eye out for movement around us, listened for broken branches or rustled leaves. I wasn’t sure if she was a distraction for her friends or if she actually needed matches. I smiled, but stayed alert.

“My brother and our friends didn’t want to scare you by being the ones to ask you for the matches, so they sent the woman. I was just excited to see another woman out here, and if you need anything, we are right over the hill. Honk the horn or whatever.”

She grinned and turned to leave. I thanked her and watched her disappear behind the trees. The sun was starting to set, so I got my things ready to start a fire. Right before I lit the paper under the logs, I again felt the familiarity of being watched. I slowly turned to discreetly look over my shoulder, and sure enough, the fox was making itself known.

I made sure not to make any sudden moves and took longer to sit and turn than I probably needed to. I sat cross-legged, staring at them, and they stared back at me. The fox picked something up from the ground, tentatively walked forward a few steps, dropped the thing, looked at me, and ran away. I finished lighting my fire, grabbed my flashlight, and walked in the direction of the fox’s present.

In the grass, next to a smooth white stone that seemed out of place in this area, lay a very large, old, metal compass. The glass covering was nicked but it seemed to work just fine. I took it and the stone back to camp. The compass cleaned up nicely and I noticed an inscription on the back.

Your heart is true north, follow it. I love you.

I fell asleep wrapped in my sleeping bag by the fire, so tired sleep simply overtook me. My body didn’t give me the chance to properly go to bed. I dreamt of sea adventures, turning the boat’s direction to find the right school of fish. I dreamt of being lost and changing direction to find my way home.

I was awakened by the hooting of an owl. The fire was low and my hip was sore since I was sitting on the ground propped up on a log without padding underneath me. I poured my water on the fire and gathered my stuff. I got into the van and lay down on my camper bed. I turned on the vent fan so I wouldn’t have to open the windows.

I had forgotten my magnetic screens and I did not want to deal with more flies and mosquitos than I had to. I reached for my journal and documented the day. What happened, how I felt, and again overcome by sudden exhaustion, fell asleep with my journal and pen in hand. “Good night Mr. Owl” I said nonchalantly.

Sunrise burst through the window and beckoned me outside. The fresh air, whistling birds, and the light breeze were glorious. I gathered my coffee maker and camping grill to put over the fire and started the ritual of making breakfast. A small green snake surprised me, slithering past my feet toward the grass. A black crow made sure I heard their call and didn’t quit until I looked up at the tree branch from which they were yelling down at me.

“I hear you disturbing the silence,” I said. My phone made a noise for the first time since I had left town. I didn’t realize I had a signal. I looked at the notification.

Minnesota Man Killed By Police

I cursed under my breath and tossed the phone to the passenger’s seat of the van in disgust. I silently longed for the days before social media when I was only aware of the local killings every few days. There was rarely a reprieve from the anger and sadness now that the murders were finally being recorded and reported more frequently. I turned the compass over in my other hand and noticed more inscription than I had been able to read in the light of the campfire. I immediately recognized the quote from one of my favorite authors, James Baldwin.

“You have to decide who you are and force the world to deal with you, not with its idea of you.”

I looked up and the fox was again making sure I saw them. I reflected on the symbolism of each animal that had worked so hard to get my attention. Snakes can send the message of growth, shedding your skin, creating something new, and leaving the old behind. Crows are fearless, intelligent, and usually send a message about metaphorical death, they come to tell you that your direction will change, warn you of personal transformation, and raising your perspective. The owl can bring attention to physical or symbolic death, the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

The fox, continued to stare at me as if challenging me to figure out what they were trying to tell me. I had been visited by foxes before, but I had never been given a gift.

Foxes are clever, stealthy, and rarely let themselves be seen. Other animals have a hard time tracking a fox, only seen when they want to be seen. They change their direction unexpectedly and rarely cover the same pattern twice. I looked down at the compass and up at the fox. I turned the key in the ignition and realized that I never turned off the radio before I had turned off the car last night. Sam Cooke sang, “A Change is Gonna Come”, and then I understood.

I held up the compass so the fox could see it. “I hear you”, I told them. As if they understood, they walked into the forest. I cranked the volume and joined my voice with Sam Cooke’s and drove away. “It has indeed been a long, long road, Sam Cooke” I said out loud.

I turned toward a new horizon and found a different way home.

This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt, Love and New Beginnings.