Before you ask: I already voted. In a time when even basic decisions — like whether to keep your dentist appointment or celebrate Labor Day — have become Sphinx-like riddles, it was elating to do something with such assuredness. The wait was over two hours, but I literally danced my way home afterward. Another upliftingly decisive act on my part was to make arrangements to leave the country before election day. If I succeed in clearing all the myriad travel hurdles — visas, vaccinations, flight changes, multiple clean covid tests — I will be spending the month of November far, far away in Ghana.
Until then, though, that giant “if” of uncertainty looms over me. To discuss my upcoming travel plans in Spanish would require use of the subjunctive mood — “cuando me vaya” — to express that I am speaking of an unknown future. And while this particular grammatical mood of uncertainty is undoubtedly affecting all of us in the face of current events — the pandemic, civil unrest, political turmoil, economic strife, a relentless hurricane season, and more — as a Black American, the uncertainty feels doubled.
With regard to the pandemic, a sense of apprehension is perfectly appropriate for a virus whose potential effects range from nothing at all to death. The veritable Russian roulette nature of this illness — will you have the sniffles or a stroke? — makes presidential statements like “Don’t be afraid of Covid” all the more infuriating and inane. In a bad flu season, as many as 60,000 Americans might die from that infection. Meanwhile, coronavirus, a contagion that isn’t even seasonally limited, has already taken more than 220,000 of us. Also noteworthy are the potential long-term effects of surviving it, like kidney and lung damage, which we haven’t even begun to fully know. Now take all of that and add a coat of blackness on top.
As a Black person in America, according to the CDC, I am more than twice as likely to contract coronavirus, more than four times as likely to require hospitalization if I do, and more than twice as likely to meet an untimely demise should I be infected. It’s a Donald Trump versus Herman Cain scenario that makes me more than infinity times as likely to adhere to every coronavirus safety protocol promulgated.
Even if I manage never to be exposed to coronavirus, I am still more prone to untimely demise if I stay in this country. Medical associations and governmental administrations all over the United States are declaring racism a public health crisis. Short of ALS and osteoporosis, if a condition exists in America, Black people will suffer from it disproportionately. Asthma, cancer, heart disease, stroke. Pregnancy-related deaths. High blood pressure, diabetes. Income disparity, sentencing disparity, wealth disparity, education disparity. Lack of access to quality food, clean air, healthcare, housing, opportunity. Extrajudicial killings.
When I originally began planning my trip, back in January, my intention was simply to use distance to buffer myself from the potential of another harrowing election night in America. As it is, the previous wounds from 2016 were never healed. But over the past several months, I have noted an already volatile tenor rising in pitch every day. Vigilante murderers are being defended by so-called Christians; armed white nationalist militias are “standing by”; plots for violent action against progressive governmental officials are having to be foiled; the President has threatened to refuse peaceful relinquishment of office. We have the makings of real upheaval in this country, and I know where the lines have been drawn and on which side I have been squarely placed.
This is no longer the America that could deem citizens of other countries killing each other in the streets a distant curiosity. We are no longer immune to militaristic action against civilians and outright abandonment of civil rights. Many of my Black female friends, in acknowledgment of this, have procured firearm licenses and begun practicing to defend themselves in response. But I’m a lover, not a fighter, so in the throes of such a wildly subjunctive mood, I have chosen, instead, to flee.
My destination, Ghana, has much to offer its visitors, including a better managed coronavirus pandemic response. And, should things truly go awry in November, the nation has already proved open to granting citizenship to returning descendants of the diaspora. I wish that I were making this motherland pilgrimage under different circumstances. I wish I were merely excited about the prospect of experiencing the continent for the first time. Instead, I have the sense of seeking asylum, of fleeing to a country where I won’t have to cower from the rise of open-faced racism or live in fear of being a state-sanctioned target of violence.
The past near-year of uncertainty and relentless vulnerability has rendered me angst-ridden and acutely…subjunctive. But if I can clear all the hurdles, dodge all the outbreak monkeys, and complete this reverse Middle Passage, I’m holding out hope for a stark change of mood. Both literally and grammatically speaking.
