Reminders of Tuscaloosa

Yesterday’s drive through Nasvhille to Lexington hit me hard emotionally. Along the way, quick glimpses of the aftermath from the April 27 tornadoes reminded me of Tuscaloosa.

On May 3, I left Tuscaloosa for the last time as an undergraduate. Since that time, I rode over 1500 miles from Washington D.C. to New Orleans, Louisiana on a bus with a custom wrapping that screamed “FREEDOM RIDERS” in bright, fluorescent yellow. I was one of 40 lucky college students with the opportunity to retrace the original path of the 1961 Freedom Riders, when young people from around the country challenged the segregationist South for the equality of all people.

Though this ride took us down the same roads that I traveled yesterday, my focus during the ride rarely turned outwards. For 11 days, the most interesting people from around the country—and even the world—surrounded me on the journey, so how could I turn away from that opportunity? Here I had the future leaders of tomorrow in nearly every industry and field imaginable.

In addition to the focus on my fellow riders, the trip was an exercise in personal identity. For years, I had tried unsuccessfully to reconcile my family’s history—at once I’m a 7th generation Alabamian with plantation owning ancestors, a great, great-grandson of a Cherokee, and a great-grandson of a poor sharecropper who had 13 children. Throughout the ride, I came to understand my family history in new term—terms without shame or guilt—but also terms that will never settle for oppressive or unjust systems in society.

So while this trip allowed me to learn from future leaders and reconcile my complicated family history, in a way I didn’t spend time remembering Tuscaloosa. Yes, I posted photographs and a reflection about Tuscaloosa; sure, I talked with family and friends back home. But ultimately I was shielded from the realities of devastation in my home state and my home of the past four years.

Yesterday, the drive brought the realities of this destruction back into my mind. Snapped trees, bent road signs, darks clouds or even the threat of rain, send my mind racing back to Tuscaloosa—to my walk with Jake and Jameson along 15th street at 11:00 p.m. on Wednesday, April 27, a few hours after the storm. We were speechless; was this really my town? I had been to Chipotle that day for lunch, and now the buildings I passed to grab lunch were demolished? Couldn’t be. Nope, this wasn’t real.

But it was. And it is still is real. Too real to forget.

For the rest of my life, I’ll be reminded of April 27, 2011 and the days afterwards. That day will stay with me, but I won’t be paralyzed by the destruction. No, I’ll play my part in the rebuilding process. Somehow, I’ll find my unique role and play it to the best of my ability.

Ask yourself this: what’s my role and how can I play my part to the best of my ability?