In the same way that we now recognize a variety of sexual identities, I have a racial identity that differs from the skin I was born in: I identify as a black woman. I have been this way since I was a little girl. I remember how comfortable I was when my father would take me to visit black families: Their behavior... their interactions... just made sense to me. I fit right into the black Florida ghetto back in the 90's. The neighborhood recognized and respected me as one of their own. I have endowed a scholarship in return for everything my people did for me way back in the day*. Going to Africa felt like coming home... and they knew it. To be sure, I was immediately gifted with a father, a family, a village, a country, a tribe, a culture, and a husband. One of our griots wrote me into African history. You will have a hard time convincing me I am not of African descent.

*easternflorida.academicworks.com/donors/forever-in-my-heart-scholarship

The reason I did not immediately rebook my flight to Ghana was because my passport was going to expire, and I was running out of money. I returned to my property seeking shelter and found none. Remember, the neighbor turning me away and the local police refusing to help because I had been involved in politics? i.e. PTA. Anyhow, I checked into the local state park prepared to stay for three weeks, until payday.
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honestly, i remember thinking i could live in the car when i bought it. 
i just didn't think i would ever have to...
I had just started hiking 5 miles/day through volcanic foothills…

At one point, I became exasperated with my stay and ventured back into Clearlake to ask a friend who owned several homes for help with shelter. She refused, choosing instead to dress me up in fancy makeup, take pictures, and post me as available in an online dating site. Realizing the futility of that visit, I drove to my father's house where I was turned away in the same perfunctory fashion. Apparently, he blamed me and felt I deserved to be homeless.

Having exhausted all my options, I returned to the state park where I was visited by a man who warned me about continuing to promote reggae's revival because I was infringing on the territory of the west coast gangs. I smiled and acknowledged his statement. Despite his words of warning, he was an outwardly friendly person, so I chose to spend the evening visiting with him. While going for a walk on a path over the water, he placed his hand around my waist, gently shoved me toward the lake. and caught me before I fell into the water. I began wondering about his motives. Back at the campsite, he offered me food. I was starving... literally... and gratefully accepted his invitation. After dinner, I heard stories about how he worked with quadriplegics, victims of gang violence. The more he talked, the less comfortable I felt. When he asked me to spend the night in his tent and go boating on the lake the next morning, my thoughts turned to the virtually bottomless lake and his earlier moves that almost landed me in the water. “No, thank you...” I replied. He walked me back to the car, checked out my living arrangements, and watched as I prepared for bed. Just like a dream, he was gone before I awoke.

While visiting the ranger the next day, she commented on how well I was handling myself. My thoughts flashed back through the previous three weeks and the mysterious visitor. I wondered what she was implying but decided I didn't want to know so I didn't ask her. After all, she was the one who had surprised me with the question, “What do we do with the gangs show up?” as I was introducing myself the first day in the park. The things that were coming out of her mouth were surprising me.

While we were talking, I had to hand a visitor's brochure to a tough looking black couple in a high-end truck because the park ranger froze with fear when they pulled up to the guard shack. Looking up from the hash mark tattoos on the driver's forearm, I smiled and said, "Welcome!" Speechless, the ranger just turned and stared at me.

That night, I visited a local musical show thinking I would be acknowledged and accepted by the drummer who was the owner of a local club I where I had been working to book shows before losing my home. He ignored me, and the headliner's attorney told me I had no business being there if I insisted on viewing the show through a camera lens.

Returning to the park, I realized that I no longer felt safe staying in the spot where I had received the warning about the west coast gangs after greeting what appeared to be gang members at the park gate while visiting with a ranger who didn't know how to handle herself in the face of perceived danger. I was out of gas and money, so I could not drive to another state park.

I pulled into an empty space in a large lot away from all of the designated camping spots, sheltered behind a large electrical box, but on the main road where I could see approaching vehicles, crawled into the back seat of the car, and fell asleep.

Awake early the next morning, I called roadside assistance for fuel and went to wait for the tow truck with the nearest rangers. Walking through the grass to return and check on the car, I was stung by a wasp. Having packed for almost any emergency, I had Benadryl on hand. I immediately took two capsules to avoid an allergic reaction to the bite and returned to tell the rangers. “You came prepared. I'm impressed. Most people don't think about things like that when coming out here. Nobody realizes that the things that live here have extra-potent venom. It has something to do with being part of a volcanic eco-system. Sit with us for thirty minutes to make sure everything is okay, and then you can return to your vehicle.”

After I quit feeling light-headed, I walked back to the car just in time to meet the tow truck. I knew I could make it to the next campground on the little fuel he gave me, so I drove out of Clearlake State Park and into Napa.

Missing the state park exit, I pulled into the first gas station for directions where I met a man who scowled at me while I stood there speaking in broken English and Patois. Nevertheless, he wrote directions on a small piece of paper. Driving to the south side of Napa, I found myself in front of a remote trailer park with no one in sight. I hailed an approaching vehicle and told the man my story. He removed his suit coat and, placing it in the back seat of a very expensive sedan, reached for his smart phone to look up directions for me. He was friendly, sharing about how he was returning to his home on a ranch up the road. After finding correct directions, he sent me back to the other side of Napa, dismissing me with two words of warning, “Be careful.”

It was late in the day, and I was almost out of fuel. Not wanting to miss my turn in the dark, I pulled into the first exit that mentioned the state park and spent the night sleeping next to the gate for an historic flour mill. Greeting the ranger as he opened the gate the next morning, I smiled and asked how to find Napa State Park. “It's just up the road. You can't miss it.”
Praying that I had enough fuel to finish the journey, I pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. Cruising on fumes, I slid the car into a disabled camping spot next to the bathroom and settled in for the night. I had three days until payday. Hot, steamy tears burned my cheeks. I was not, however, crying for myself.