#timelineinthesouth Savannah, Georgia was a slave port

Day 2 – 3 Savannah, Georgia

This is where I was hit with the vastness of the United States. I have been to the west coast, the east coast, the very to top the very bottom, but this was my first time in the south (outside of my frequent visits to New Orleans), and my first time really conceptually thinking of the European past of the United States.

I had fallen in love with New Orleans because it reminded me of my time in Spain, it was clearly built by Europeans. But Savannah, this was a European city to me, built with inspiration of being in a ‘New World’. New opportunities, new riches, the space to build a new society, away from the corruption and lack of resources in the Old World, European nations. It was apparent I had walked into a region that was previously resilient in its wealth. This is where I was first started to see this was not like my home state of Texas.

Here in Savannah, lay traditions of the south, visions and realities of southern living and properness that I am greatly unfamiliar with. And statues, I am unfamiliar with seeing proudly standing in public spaces. And historical markers much older than I am used to seeing.

As a historian I was fascinated with the places and spaces that gave tribute to the early and humble beginnings of the United States, and celebrated the 13 British colonies. And still there was room for dissatisfaction with the small traces of the history of the cultural woes of this same past. I found a statue remembering the Black Haitians that fought in the American Revolutions, but the slave market in this port city, my ancestors entrance into this country was sparsely identified. I’m still not even sure if I walked on the same ground or not. I walked in circles and finally I had to read from the city’s visitor’s guide that the street intersection and new cement park is the remaining indication of the stories that highlight the peoples that looked like me in the city of Savannah.

Likewise it was Savannah where my brain started to go, and to be honest hasn’t really stopped even to this day, and I’m nervous might not stop any time soon. (And by go, I mean thinking like crazy, about race and America.) I was met with an array of questions, feelings, fears. How could there not be more spaces pointing to the slave past? How could there be a distinction for Jefferson Davis’ home, but not the home (market) of slaves waiting to be sold? Why are we hiding or forgetting this past? Why are people not more enraged with this type of forgetfulness or avoidance more often? If they were not seen as worthy enough for a historical plaque, what does that mean for me, traveling through this place, a black woman, nameless to many. Am I safe here, with my white husband? How quickly what you see or the lack of can take you to a past you didn’t actually know.

And from that day on, I felt the weight of the South. Riding on my shoulders, while I road through its boundaries.

Note: Savannah, Georgia is beautiful. It can feel touristy in sections... a lot of the sections, but it also feels like a resting place for the well to do of the southern region. It is also full of wonderful history and wonderful food. The trees there are grand, and I can only imagine all the people they've met, all the stories they've seen, all of the shaping of the United States they've witnessed.