How to Return Home

My first trip to Puerto Rico, how to deal with the unexpected, and my soundtrack from the trip

In the Black Literary tradition, there are tales of journeys back home. Across the diaspora, stories are written about a return to a physical space, and characters find wholeness through that journey and eventual arrival. I recall exploring this theme in a course on the literature of the African diaspora. The two novels we read that use this trope were Praisesong for the Widow by Paule Marshall and Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. Both books feature a female protagonist and their journeys to wholeness as beings, and physical journeys to significant ancestral spaces. After reading these novels, my desire to have a journey back “home” intensified, and I wondered, what would a journey home look like for me? Would it be a trip to North Carolina to see where my ancestors were enslaved and eventually freed? A long-haul flight to China to explore the place my grandfather left never to return? There wouldn’t be a singular place or journey that could play out like the respective novels ’ protagonists, Janie and Avey. However, the one place that made the most sense to me and that I consistently looked forward to was Puerto Rico.

A plumeria plant and a gorgeous sunset

This past June, I went to Puerto Rico for a week. It was my first time going to the island that was home to generations of my family. I had high expectations for the trip. It had the potential to be; rather, I wanted it to be an emotional journey connecting me to my heritage and pushing me to discover a new aspect of who I am. For years, I had been yearning to go. Daydreaming about what it would be like. Listening to songs about Puerto Rico or sung by Puerto Rican artists while sniffling at the idea of one day being “home.” Until my mother booked the plane tickets earlier this year, traveling to the island was always an abstract fantasy, one that held incredible importance to me, but as it became a reality, I didn’t want anyone or anything to get in the way of me making a connection

Frankly, Avey, Janie, and I are very different. Their stories were far from a roadmap, but they did offer important perspectives of Black American women navigating a journey that isn’t always straightforward or looks different because of the realities of slavery in the US. The main difference between the three of us is the company we keep. For the most significant parts of their journeys, Avey and Janie are alone. I, on the other hand, was accompanied by my family. My mother, father, brother, and I made the trip together, and we are all adults with different interests and needs. I won’t mince words when I say, as a unit, we don’t do well together on vacation. I don’t know many families with adult children that do. If your family is a part of the few, well, congratulations, but that wasn’t the case for us. I’m not embarrassed to admit it, but as I continue to write about my family, and they continue to read what I write, it feels difficult to be honest about many things. Still, even before I had my less-than-ideal experience in Puerto Rico, I knew I wanted to write about it. What good would this piece be if I didn’t share my genuine feelings about the experience, many of which I am still struggling to understand. I expected to be emotional on this trip; it was inevitable. For years, the idea of Puerto Rico could make me tear up, but the emotional weight I carried wasn’t what I was expecting.

It wasn’t all bad. There, we had experiences I wouldn’t trade for anything, like hiking through El Yunque or snorkeling and swimming off the coast of Icacos Island. I also had a decent soundtrack for myself, and since many of my readers like my music opinions, I’ll include the playlist here. But it wasn’t enough. I was missing a crucial element of the journey home trope: alone time. I did spend a decent amount of time alone, but not exploring or pondering my family’s lineage while sitting on the beach. I spent time alone in my room watching season 4 of The Boys. I know what you are thinking: who goes on vacation to watch videos on their computer? Let’s say it wasn’t my choice to stay in. When I imagined Puerto Rico, I thought about entire days spent on the beach, eating fried food from kioskos, fresh fruit right from the trees, a slower pace, and authentic island life. I imagined having a tender moment on the beach, toes in the sand, a horizon far off in the distance, and an indescribable feeling of wholeness. It was too late when I had a moment alone to try to engineer that feeling. I was already disappointed, and the natural element felt impossible. I don’t want anyone to think my disappointment came from the island or its culture; it is the opposite. I hope I can go back again soon so I can truly become immersed and have the space and support to experience it. Right now, it feels like I was never there.

El Yunque

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Last October, I traveled to London. The trip was a graduation gift and my first real experience traveling alone. While I was there, I caught up with a brilliant friend. We had several enlightening conversations over tea that made me feel both understood in my current state and supported as the new person I hoped to become. There was one particular conversation I think about often. She and I were discussing traveling back to our ancestral homes. In sharing my desire and excitement about my eventual trip back, she shared her experience returning to Jamaica as someone who has grown up in the UK. By no means did she discourage me from making the journey to Puerto Rico, but she did introduce the idea of caution. Caution to not put too many eggs in one basket, to hope something would be magical and life-changing like the stories we read. There was potential to have an indescribable spiritual experience or a time that was just okay. I’m grateful for her warning. Often, as people who are part of a lineage of migration, whether forced or voluntary, we are encouraged to identify with a motherland that is distant and unknowable to us in the way our ancestors had. That conversation was a vulnerable one, and what I hope for my next journey to Puerto Rico is the chance to be vulnerable. For there to be an understanding of what the island means to me and space to establish that meaning. I wasn’t confident in how I showed up on the trip; perhaps I didn’t take enough initiative, but that’s where vulnerability and respect come in. For characters like Avey and Janine, at their most vulnerable, they are thrust into situations that connect them to home but also illuminate pieces of themselves that have been buried. There will be another opportunity to have a better experience, and in the meantime, I’ll continue to learn about Puerto Rico and create new daydreams for what’s to come.