I freeze as he places his papers on the stand, the red book peeking out from under his legal pad, and he straightens to address the audience. I swallow the worry that he might’ve recognized me in the café ... a dead woman. My brain toggles through the memory of pictures of Jimi, of me, printed at times in the periodicals and newspapers I once wrote for.If he did recognize me, he would’ve said so, right?He would’ve been shocked. I try to cling to that thought as he begins his lecture. He’s changed his clothes, now wearing a black suit jacket that fits him perfectly, accenting the breadth of his shoulders. Under the white fluorescent light on center stage, it’s as if he’s been made smoother, shinier, and more confident in his clear brown skin, flashing his matching dimples and easy smile. He’s transformed into Professor Sebastian Moore, a seasoned PhD of history and an accomplished academic.
One who’s about to lecture about me.
Dr. Moore lays his hands on the podium’s edge, entirely composed, at ease in the limelight, his presence intriguing. He clears his throat. “First, I want to thank the dean, my colleagues, and the SSU community for this warm welcome.” He smiles down at us, and we can’t help but smile back, his enthusiasm infectious. “During our time, I want to go deep into our subject; today, I will feature some of the divergent voices in Black journalism. Not just the bylines of your typical journalist or the editor’s words, but the voices and lives of everyday African Americansas they shared their travels.” His voice rich and deep, the cover of his book on the screen. He eases around the podium, and the room seems to shrink, drawing us all closer like we’re in a living room, having a casual chat.
He continues, “I wroteBlack Travel Narrativesbecause I’m fascinated by how we traverse life and the stories we tell, based on the rich experiences we have as we explore this world and embrace all that it has to offer, despite the limitations that others place on us.”
His words ripple through me, the baritone of his voice ringing with sincerity. He’s a good orator and storyteller, artfully weaving together the disparate threads of history and tying them into a cohesive narrative of strength, resilience, and possibility. He has that quality where you can feel as if he is speaking only to you—just you—and having a normal conversation, even though he’s addressing an entire audience. “And so many voices, especially those of women—Black women—have been erased and silenced.”
The crowd claps at his words. An easy rhetorical flourish to endear a mostly female crowd. The words from hisNew Yorkerpiece flutter through my head: “From all Jimi Ireland’s notable travels and firsthand accounts of the gargantuan historical events that shaped the modern world, she transforms solely into a naive eyewitness, neglecting to showcase the cracks of humanity ... the dark places where the light cannot roost or take hold and destructive decisions rain down. She ignores the human appetite for the bittersweet, the pain, and our everlasting tug toward selfishness.” I snort at the thought.What is he even talking about?His assessment of me is wrong. If he only knew why ...
I grind my teeth, hoping I can make it through the entire presentation if he continues to hammer his thesis home. As he clicks through the slides—images of Black and Brown writers in exotic locations—I’m hooked on every word despite myself, and the rest of the audience is, too, having fallen under his spell.
I fall back in my seat, clutching the armrest as my own words and a grainy picture of me grace the projection screen.
“Here we have the work of Jimi Ireland, a writer for prominent Black newspapers, notablyThe Chicago DefenderandThe Montgomery Advocate. Her work in travel writing and the Civil Rights Movement was featured inEbonymagazine, bridging World War II, civil rights, and pop culture until her death in the early 1990s.”
I can’t hear as he continues, a buzz building in my brain.
Her death.
My “death.”
I fight away the memory of all the small methods I’ve used to erase myself before moving on to a new city, a new country, time after time. Having to leave everything and everyone behind. Having to be unable to take credit for many lifetimes’ worth of bylines.
A shiver of misgiving worms its way up my spine as he continues. All the coincidences could’ve been explained away before, but what might explain him selecting my words, written under another name in another life, for his article and for the talk I’m attending today? Why me?
As if he can hear my thoughts, he continues: “I’ve centered Jimi in my talk and my current research because her writing was some of the first travel writing I encountered during summers at my granny’s house in Alabama. I was flipping through old newspapers because I was bored and, as you probably guessed, hot. When I read Ms. Ireland’s works, I wasn’t roasting in the living room under the box fan, but I was transported to a place beyond, somewhere my mind could take me that my body had not yet been. All the things she’d seen were awe inspiring.”
He pauses, the weight of his statements pressing upon us all, and perhaps me the most. I begin to feel the hard grudge inside me soften. “This experience was the spark that lit my passion for travel and the search for something bigger than myself, proof that I could explore the world beyond what others had set out for me. I saw that my experiences could be shared and potentially resonate with someone else—and that revelation brought me to where I stand today.”
He reads aloud, his voice carrying my words through the auditorium. The crowd around me dissipates, and it feels like he’s onlytalking to me. “‘Travel is the bridge between who you were and who you’ve yet to become. If you live your life in just one place, it keeps you there, holding you small, limiting you to the scope of its reality. But once you glimpse the bigger life—the possibility to, perhaps, dream a little more and go a little farther—then maybe you will meet yourself on the other side of the globe, the true you, the one who was there all along.’”
He pauses, facing my direction, though he can’t possibly see me this far back and through the lights.
“This is the power of travel narratives. You can experience a place, a time, or a people through another person’s eyes and feel the truth of their lives as they traversed through time. But as much as I’ve hunted for all things Jimi Ireland ... and other Black female journalists of her ilk like Tessa Thorpe, Maria W. Stewart, Vivian Edwards, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, Arden Bell, Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin, Hazel Garland, Carmella White, and so many more whose names have been lost to history ...”
My skin warms as I hear several of my former names folded in with those other great women.
“I have a bone to pick with her. With how Black diasporan writers have a narrative urge to clean up the terrible parts of what it means to live and travel and exist as a person of African descent on this planet and all that comes with it. Our greats often clean up the untidy bits, sweep them away by folding the suffering into the language of God and the devil and pious struggle for the sake of our legacies ...”
I ball up my fists, trying to keep myself from interrupting him, his words tinged with Death’s point of view on humanity. He clicks through his final slides, where he’s dissected a travel series I did in which I followed Victor Hugo Green’sThe Negro Motorist Green Bookthrough the American South. He misinterprets the beauty I noted in the impoverished Black communities listed there for neglecting reality.
“You’re wrong!” The words leave my mouth before I can catch them.
“What was that?” He cups a hand across his forehead, squinting to see me.
The auditorium spotlight finds me.
He smiles so wide I can see all his perfect teeth.
A roving microphone appears before me. “I said you’re wrong.”
“Is that so?” he challenges.
“Jimi Ireland, like so many other Black women, shouldn’t have to solely focus on the hardships of being a woman, or of being Black, in order for their words to be of value or understood.” My upset is a shaken bottle of champagne. “They should be able to witness beauty. Why should they only report suffering?”
“I never said her words held no value. But rather that they neglected to capture the entire portrait. That she, like so many in our community, glamorize to appease—”
