Finding My Happy Place While Healing from Generational Trauma

The beach is my happy place.  However, it wasn’t always so. 

Although I grew up on a beautiful island, I was both afraid and in awe of the water.   As I mentioned in a previous post, my sister helped me to overcome my fear of the water.

Childhood Fears

As a little girl, I sat on the beach with my mother and the other old women who could not swim.  I wore glasses and the ocean looked like a blurry mass of water when I took them off.  I was afraid of the water because my mother, grandmother, and aunts were afraid of the water.  And, their fears and my fear of the water was largely rooted in the trauma our ancestors experienced during the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.  

Additionally, there were stories of public drownings of those who ran away and were caught.  Obviously, a graphic lesson and warning about the cost of freedom.

Yearning for Africa

As a child, my happy place was not the beach.  Instead, my happy place was anywhere as long as I had a book or some version of the written word.  My love of books took me to far away places.  And, one of those places that I yearned for was Africa. 

I yearned for Africa in an indescribable way.  Even as a child, I looked beyond the Eurocentric portrayal of Africa as a savage place where people ran around half naked scaring the life out of the missionaries who came to save their souls.  I yearned to know which country or countries my ancestors came from.  How many tribes ran through my veins?  And, did those who remain ever think about us, ever yearned for us as much as we yearned for them 400 plus years later?  

Awake at 3 am

And, as I write this article at 3 am, tears run down my cheek.  Believe me, I did not wake up this early in the morning to cry.  In fact, I woke up happy.  So, there I was lying in bed laughing with and talking to God.  Yeah, that’s what I do when I wake up and can’t go back to sleep.  So, instead of fighting it, I embrace my occasional insomnia as the time God wakes me up so that we can have some uninterrupted time together.

As I started telling God about the things I was thankful for, issues that needed to be overcome, people who needed to bow down to me, and how stressed I was, I distinctly heard, “You need to go to your happy place.”  My response, “It’s 3 am and I am nowhere near a beach. You know the beach is my happy place.”  

So, I took a few minutes to meditate about the beach.  Ohm.  Today, if I were home in St. Thomas,  my sister and I would be heading to the beach by 7 am to our mutual happy place—Brewers Beach.

However, five minutes later, I decided to write about my happy place instead of thinking about it.  So, here I am writing.  However, what started out as an upbeat article has me in tears in less than five minutes.  The ocean was not a happy place for my ancestors, and the beach was certainly not their place for meditation, fun, and relaxation.  Instead, they were symbols of trauma.

Calling Trauma by Name

Thoughts of my ancestors being dragged, beaten, stolen, and herded like animals to a dank holding place with the sounds of wave crashing around them has me holding nausea at bay.  The tears flow and I sob occasionally as my fingers pound freely over the keyboard.  Instead of thinking of me gathering sea shells and sea glass, I am thinking of my ancestors being shackled and packed like sardines in the hull of a ship with cargo.  Actually, they were part of the cargo, a valuable commodity if they survived the months at sea.

I think especially about the women—the mamas, the aunties, and the girls bursting into womanhood.

• What did they do when they had their periods?
• How did they handle a miscarriage on board?
• Did their breast produce enough milk to feed their weak babies?
• Were the beatings and rapes their new normal?
• Would they ever feel the secure, tender embrace of a lover again?

And, I think of the men—the papas, the uncles, and the young warriors whose fight was beaten out of them.

• Would they again know the joys of tossing their child in the air and being engulfed in giggles?
• How did they handle their own rape (or “buck breaking” as it was called)?
• Would they ever again know and experience the love of a woman warrior who gives herself freely and who hasn’t become hardened by her own trauma?
• Did they grieve the loss of their roles as protectors?  

Happiness and Healing 

So, I sigh and wipe the cleansing tears from my cheek.  And, I am thankful for the legacy of survival, resilience, and community.  I am because they were.

I hear the crashing waves of my favorite beach, I smell the sea spray, and I feel the cold sand between my toes.  Although I grew up afraid of the ocean and the beach, and understand their generational symbols of trauma, I have reclaimed them as spaces of empowerment and inspiration.

The beach is my happy place.  It renews, refreshes, and reminds me that there is still work to be done.

Happiness is not always about the giddy, delirious feeling.  It certainly is a state of mind.  More importantly, happiness is one of the biggest choices we make daily.  Today, I choose to be happy while I heal from the generational trauma of slavery.

Now, It’s Your Turn

We look forward to hearing about your happy place especially as it relates to healing.  And, you can join the conversation on the Keep It Tight Sisters Facebook Page.

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