Selma -- Syntyche's group -- kala

After a week of traveling from city to city and museum to museum, the mass amount of information began to blend and blur, and I seemed to be in a daze. Selma woke me up. The group visited the National Voting Rights Museum and Footprints to Freedom Tour. There, we learned about “Bloody Sunday” in depth and about the efforts and planning that went into the successful march led by Dr. King. I was inspired by the will power and spirit of those who had resolved to march to Selma despite the beating they had experienced only two weeks prior, on “Bloody Sunday.”
The second leg of the trip took us all back in time and space to the Africa, the middle passage, and slavery in the U.S. The Selma Slavery and Civil War Museum approached the topic differently from others because we were forced to simulate the experiences of our ancestors. Once off the bus we were made to line up against a wall and were “inspected” – immediately I realized what was going on – and while we were being humiliated outside the entrance, I couldn’t help but to think of how many captured individuals were humiliated, cursed, beaten, and suffering from utter confusion and sorrow on the coasts of Africa as they were dragged from the interior. After making it through the selection process, we were roughly told to enter into a holding room, which led to another room which served as the dungeon and final stop before we were to pass through the infamous door of no return . While in the dungeon, we were surrounded by screams and loud wailings, which frightened us all, and caused many of us girls to cling to one another. Again, I tried to imagine the harsh reality of what that dungeon may have been like – I failed. No, matter how hard I try, I may never be able to fathom the foul stench, terrified cries, and complete fear that my ancestors experienced in those dungeons. We were then forced to cram tightly onto a “ship.” Initially sitting, we were made to stand as more and more people boarded the tiny boat. Three of us in the back locked arms so as to comfort each other, and then we were all made to crawl through a hole (which I assumed to symbolize going up to the top deck) and then form a line from which about five were selected to choose ten to throw overboard so that the traders could make a deadline. It was then that I realized that my friend and I had been separated, and then I began to think about families divided and friendships torn apart, and how much more difficult the journey must have been alone – surrounded by many, yet all alone. The doors opened again, and we were put into a dark room, in which we witnessed a mother beg her master to let her keep her child, but to no avail; all sixteen of her children had been stripped from her, and she would never see any of them again. Then the lights came on,the simulation was over, and our integrated group had an opportunity to discuss the disconnect between our races for generations and how that was brought on by slavery.
In reflection, I thought that even though mistreated, I had never been hit or cursed at. I didn’t really see anyone die, and most importantly, I never believed at any one time that my life was ever in any real danger. Unfortunately, it was not the same for my ancestors. They did not participate in an hour long simulation and then return to their normal lives; they participated in history, real life unchanging events of the past, and they experienced the many things I merely glimpsed to a degree that I cannot fully imagine.
The museum definitely reopened wounds that had been passed down by generations of slave descendants, but hopefully now those wounds may be dressed and healed correctly, and although they may leave a scar so that I may always remember, they will no longer leave the hurt.