I recently returned from my first trip beyond the borders of these United States. My son, who is 20, and I went to Spain with a couple of backpacks, a general idea of the cities we wanted to visit and no hotel or transportation reservations for the two weeks of our stay. During our time there knew we would visit Madrid, Barcelona, and Granada and the rest of our days were open for whatever adventures we might happen upon.
One morning we ventured south to Gibraltar, the British territory on the southern tip of Spain. Gibraltar, famed for the massive Rock of Gibraltar, which is really a small mountain in the midst of the flat waters where the Mediterranean Sea and Atlantic Ocean meet, is known as one of the Pillars of Hercules. Historically, the Pillars of Hercules mark the end of the known world and the entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar. With the Rock of Gibraltar as one Pillar, the other Pillar, is a mere 7 miles across the Straits, is in Africa. The exact location of the south Pillar is often disputed as there is not a physical monolith as distinct as the Rock of the northern Pillar.
Despite the fact that there is no monolith, the short distance across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco, Africa’s northernmost country, yields an irresistible and inviting view of its northern coast. So, we decided to go there. To Africa. For the afternoon. Because we could.
We hailed a cab and within an hour we were on a ferry, passports stamped, and were crossing the Straits for a leisurely afternoon in Africa. As the ferry crossed, a large foothill dominated the view–possibly the Southern Pillar? As we approached the coast, I could see on the side of the foothill very large Arabic lettering and wondered what it meant.
When I saw that sign the reality that we had just decided to go to Africa for the afternoon started settling in. I went from feeling excited to feeling sick. The closer we got, the more sick I felt. Why did I feel like this? Was it because in our hasty departure from Spain it had not occurred to me that I do not know a single word of Arabic, the language of our destination? Or was it that I had a one-way ferry ticket, only 40 euros in my pocket, and it was just occurring to me my credit cards were only authorized for use in Spain? For a second, it might have been some of that, but I knew between my son and I we had the problem-solving abilities and moxy to get us back to Spain.
That sick feeling persisted until I finally slept sometime the next morning (we did get back to Spain that night). I spent most of that afternoon in Africa, and many hours since, knowing that sick feeling was a result of suddenly realizing how cavalier I had been about getting to go to a place from which so many have been taken against their will.
Instead of spending that afternoon strolling the city and relaxing with some mint tea, the customary drink of Morocco, I spent it struggling in my thoughts with the global and historical context of my privilege and wishing I had been more thoughtful and intentional about that brief journey.
In the weeks that have since passed, the logistical details and mishaps of that day have become an entertaining anecdote as we share our stories of our trip with friends. More importantly, that brief journey has become part of my ongoing personal journey to understand my white privilege, both at home and beyond.