Black American Refugee by Tiffanie Drayton

Author:Tiffanie Drayton [Drayton, Tiffanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

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The day Barack Obama was elected president of the United States of America absolved my father—and all men—of wrongdoing in my mind. Obama ran on a simple platform: “Hope.” He promised change in America and spent $400 million on his campaign to convince us all that he was the man capable of bringing it about. It was hard not to buy into the dream. He was Harvard Law School educated, a father of two, and an apparently doting husband to a Black woman, and he spoke with equal parts conviction and passion. He had dedicated much of his career to organizing in Chicago’s South Side, one of the country’s most dangerous Black neighborhoods. He was the child of a Kenyan father and a white, midwestern mother. He could bridge the country’s racial divide and heal the nation. It was not long before Democrats were unified in chants of his slogans, “Change we can believe in’’ and “Yes, we can!” For Black people, a Black man reaching the pinnacle of political success meant they could do it as well. For white liberals, his ascent to the presidency proved America was officially past its racist history.

“I never thought I would live to see the day,” my grandmother said during his inauguration.

America’s first Black president wasn’t the only important man in my life promising change. Alex had hit an impasse in his life, tired of being bogged down by his family’s expectation that he find a lucrative career in the midst of a gloomy recession. He wanted us to run away to an exotic world once more, but in a more permanent way.

“Let’s move to Hawaii,” he suggested late one night.

I toyed with the idea in my mind. I could take online classes so it wouldn’t interrupt my schooling. And I knew I could depend on him to help us transition.

“All right,” I responded. “Let’s go.”

“HAWAII!?” my mother cried in disbelief when I told her about my plans. “That’s on the other side of the country, and you don’t even know anyone there.”

I shrugged and allowed her to scold me until she was tired. Finally, she rolled out her largest black suitcase and helped me pack my belongings. I wanted to take everything, because I had no idea how long I would be gone. I tucked away my high-heeled shoes, in case I needed them for a job interview, and several pairs of pants, jeans, shorts, sneakers, sandals, and sunglasses.

“Just be safe,” Mom sighed in resignation.

On June 25, 2009, the plane bounced onto the tarmac in Honolulu. Alexei wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed them in giddy excitement. As we walked through the Honolulu airport, my eyes caught a glimpse of a shocking news headline spread across a TV screen near a gift shop. I immediately called my mom.

“Michael Jackson is dead,” I told her through tears.

I was in shock and disbelief.

One of America’s greatest Black icons had fallen, leaving behind a legacy riddled with self-hate and self-destruction. In

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