White Like Me: My Venture to SE DC, the "Other" Side of the World

Call me stupid.

Call me naïve.

But I don’t like to live my life in fear.

Before I left this morning, I took out my earrings, put away my ring, and removed my Wal-Mart watch. I wore ratty tennis shoes and a plain gray t-shirt. I hid all necessary cards on my person and placed my “mugger 20” and a canceled credit card in my front pocket just in case. I left my new camera behind and memorized my walking route.

Was all of this necessary … especially just to visit the Frederick Douglass National Historic site?

When he was alive, the abolitionist lived just a mile or so from the banks of the Anacostia River atop a knoll (with an unbelievable view of the entire city of Washington, I might add) in the rolling hills of the ‘countryside’. Now, the National Park site sits squarely in the heart of SE DC, the quadrant of town that doesn’t show up on any tourist map. It’s the area of town that most politicians and city officials have long since neglected or have forgotten its existence entirely. It’s the DC of the highest homicide and HIV infection rates in the country, the part of DC where there are no grocery stores, hospitals, or safe parks or adequate schools serving tens of thousands of residents. If you were to study Census tracts, it’s the quadrant of DC that’s as black as the quadrant I live in is white. One would think that over the past few decades, the races and classes would have integrated better, but sadly, the dividing lines have only grown starker.

According to Mapquest, I had only 0.63 miles to walk after getting off at the Anacostia stop on the green line … a quick walk down Howard, hang a left on MLK, Jr., and follow this until I hook a right on W Street. I hated the fact that I was a bit nervous to walk alone in broad daylight. It’s not the walking that is bothersome, per se, but rather the potential looks and gestures and ridicule. I’m somewhat used to this uncomfortable situation; being tall and blindingly white didn’t really make me fit in too well in most areas of Brazil, where I also traveled alone. After all, I reminded myself, SE is a part of the American capital city.

I walked purposefully away from the Metro, immediately noticing vehicles too luxurious for the surroundings. A man offered me a dozen roses on the street corner for $5, and a group of teens grilling out in an abandoned parking lot across the way waved in my direction. I noticed only one or two taxis throughout my entire trek but plenty broken glass, liquor stores, barbed-wired fences, “graffitied” walls, loud bass stereos, and boarded houses. I was relieved to have chosen the northern side of MLK, for I could pretend not to hear a large man lounging at the bus stop across the way yell, “You looking like a white woman!” Quite frankly, I’m not sure I could ever look like much else. Two more, “Hey, baby!” lines and several stares later, I stepped inside the gate of the Douglass estate.

Douglass’ prized Cedar Hill and the grounds were well worth the trek. He and his first wife moved in to this home, the last before his death, when he assumed the post of Marshal of the District of Columbia in the 1880s. A self-made and self-taught man who lectured and taught, traveled in Europe, dabbled in politics, advocated to end slavery and for women’s rights, was a civil servant both domestically and overseas and a father of four, he supposedly walked the six-mile round-trip loop between his home and the Capitol daily. Perched high on a hill, I could easily understand why he loved this Anacostia retreat: from his front yard, I stared directly at the Washington Monument and the Capitol. As I waited for my tour to start, I wondered how many of those living around Douglass’ home had ever stepped foot in the Capitol building itself. I would wager a hefty sum only a small handful.

I left the house and museum and retraced my steps to the Metro, still aware but a bit more at ease. I passed another white woman walking in the opposite direction, and we exchanged a knowing, if not startled, glance. I was the only pale face waiting at the station for the green line train to arrive. It shortly came, and within fifteen minutes and two trains later, I returned to the “other” side of the world.