Nautical Joyride Aisha Truss-Miller

Nautical Joyride

Aisha Truss-Miller

On our first and only family vacation my mother Doris, sister Shannon, and niece Shamari head for one night in Miami, and then a cruise the following day headed to the Bahamas. I’m no swimmer- none of us are.

Before now, I had only heard and felt light splashes of the Atlantic Ocean. I had read so many pieces of work by Black folks, about her history and mightiness. That first night on the cruise ship my forethoughts of good food, good drank, non-stop dancing were replaced with the excitement of foreignness and familiar-ness intertwined in blood memories that took hold of me, as I stood next to my 16-year-old niece listening to the whispers and roars of the ocean.

While on the deck I looked into the light and hope of darkness- it’s so Black, blacker than me. Darker than my favorite hue of Midnight Blue, Blue-Black, Beautiful, Majestic, Strong, Seamless. The night’s sky and Atlantic are one, nothing to tell them apart with exception to the handful of stars the universe rolled and released in the air like a pair of dice on concrete, hitting 7, time and time again. The sky and the ocean are one.

I hold the railing tight as I curiously and cautiously lean forward to look overboard, to see the subtle waves I hear sparring with the ship. She whispers, and I imagine how sharks and other creatures of the ocean move freely under the surface of their natural and seemingly endless liquid homeland. I imagine if Atlantis is real- and about mermaids with curvy hips and underwater flawless afros living free- with no desire to give up their power to walk the lands with man-kind.

I think of my ancestors, the millions of souls thrown overboard- the sick, the elderly, the differently abled, and pregnant women; and I imagine those of us who found a way to get little, get loose, and liberate- jump to death’s liberation while their spirits raced with the conviction and will, and - their minds jumped with flashes of what future ills kidnapping, torture, rape, human trafficking, and genocide would rev’ up, so- THEY JUMPED, jumped to freedom.

My heart raced with theirs, in the present parallel, that tapped into yesterday’s ancestral blood memories. I can see them. I can hear them. My people jumping overboard. Jumping hysterically at auction blocks while children and mothers and tribes are ripped apart, broken hearts jumping out and breasts, shattering into a million pieces that we are still trying to mend today, and tomorrow.

I see, secret jumps over brooms with little to no room for jumping hearts beating to silent drumming of fierce Black Love.

I see us jumping before even asking, “How high Bossman?” Jumping at combines for agents, jumping off private planes, and we practicing how high we can jump at games for drunken fans jumping in stands, in order to jump out of generations of the poverty their ancestors drowned us in.

Can you see us jumping from station to station while following the North Star? Jumping at the chance to escape bondage, jumping at the chance to pay freedom forward by freeing others. Jumpy fingers preparing for rebellions to kill the masters and all that represents him, and jigs telling plans to jump in masters’ good graces. Nerves jumpin’ inside Black hands on steering wheels when the jakes jump in rearview mirrors with them blinding blue lights.

I see the waters reflect jumping and jerking bodies, instinctively fighting for life for seconds while hanging strangely from trees watered with our blood. I see jumping chests and limbs against concrete from 16 shots, from 16 shots, from 16 shots, from shots fired, clubs swung, and knees in necks of jumpy, murderous cops, and from AR-15s that too easily jump into the hands of hurt people- quick to jump at ops- hurtin’ more of our people.

I see jumpin’ juke parties, and Jumpmans, and my people jumping in line for Jordans, because when we were little we had to jump-up quick and get in line for free breakfast and free lunch, before we got the block jumpin’ with music and jump rope competitions, while our junkie relatives were on the jump for a bump of something that could jump them back to when times were good.

Our ancestors, they’ve seen us jumping for white Jesus to free us while in our Sunday Best, while us kids analyzed who’s really jumping with the Holy Ghost or jumping for attention- jumping to give our last so pastor can jump out of his Cadillac, while we jumped onto foams and pallets on project floors at bedtime. I saw us, jumping from person to person to fill the void of self-love that has jumped into the abyss of the deeply-rooted hatred of self, of life as a Black person navigating all this shit. Jumping from public school to public school, alternatives to juvy, to the County and prisons in jumpsuits. Capitalists jumping to fill prisons with our bodies that jump failing economies in white, rural communities in the pursuit of their happiness. We jump to alarms and sounds of roosters to jump the figures of families that jumped to sell their souls to own human beings. Then they jumped to operate non-profits, political parties, housing developments and tenements, government agencies, and businesses that jump to exploit Black time and talent. They jump on grants, contracts, and tax-cuts to profit on the plight, pain, and power of my people. They jump quick to call it human services, organizing,

and charity in support of Black people- but can’t seem to jump to create change we demand. Without jumping to hire and put in “real” leadership or share power with those of us that have been jumped on time and time again- by anti-Black racism, structural racism, elitism, economic deprivation, and state-sanctioned violence. Afraid we’d jump the line designed to keep us dead last.

I see us jumping in front of injustice time and time again, jumping and screaming from whippings across the back- jumping to generations where whippings are dealt from Black parents to Black children- from Black men who jump on Black women, getting jumped in; they all jump to scripture and egos to justify jumping to incorporate slave control tactics into our relationships. Jump on top of our bodies when we cannot- did not- consent. I see people that jump to exploit those in need, those who are vulnerable.

My spirit jumps back into the moments of now, after jumping across ancestral timelines the ocean’s mirrors have shown me. She calls, but it’s more like whispers, whispers in the dark from liquid graves, sanctuaries of seas see my spirit seeking, searching …. I look. I listen. She says, “Remember me, remember us, teach us, unlearn, learn, re-learn, build with your hands and hearts; our legacies survive histories stolen, distorted, falsely reported- so jump for joy, for freedom, at chances, and for praise- in remembrance of us that survived the journey, for those that didn’t, and for those that jumped and laid ourselves to rest in the Atlantic.”