There’s something different about standing on land your family once walked.
It’s not just history.
It’s presence.
I remember taking it all in—the air, the space, the stillness.
And feeling something I can’t fully explain.
Like I had been there before.
Like something in me recognized it.
You can research all you want.
But some things…
You have to feel.
DNA gave me percentages.
But it didn’t give me the full story.
It showed me African ancestry.
European lineage.
Native roots.
But what it couldn’t show me…
was how those identities were lived.
How they were navigated.
How they were protected.
That part…
came through the journey.
I thought records would give me answers.
Instead…
they gave me more questions.
Names didn’t always match.
Ages shifted.
Identities changed from one decade to the next.
Black.
Mulatto.
Indian.
White.
The same people.
Different labels.
At first, it felt like confusion.
Now I understand it as something else.
Survival.
Because records don’t tell you who people were.
They tell you how they were seen.
And sometimes…
those are two very different things.
This Well Runs Deep 