The thorny brush surrounding the path was at least 8 ft tall. They could hear very little up ahead, only birds and the faint blowing of the wind swirling through the open air of Tybee Island. Senna was humming an improvisation of sorts, old bedtime melodies with a twist; her voice was calm in the air. She had a knack for coming up with tunes like this on the fly, it was almost as if she didn’t like the quiet in her head similar to a person who chose to sleep with a fan. The low noise provide a peace to her, gave her the ability to focus on anything but the rambling ideas in her head.
Tacred met Senna in the late nights of Savannahs melting pot; both had attended SCAD (Savannah College of Arts and Design) at one point and dropped out for a variety of reasons only to linger in the cities cultural mixture, wandering for the next level in them. In a sense they were stuck in the tourist trap economy, still captivated by the eerie history that was Savannah. Tacred had bigger dreams beyond seeing some success as a street performer in town, he felt captivated by resisting the modern urges of tearing down walls of civility. Laws (written, and morally common) were put in place to protect ourselves from ourselves, but they should be broken from time to time to challenge where we are in any moment. However, any new wave movement with the best intentions had plenty to fear. This thinking got him into trouble with feminist friends, but they respected his willingness to challenge everything, even the ones that made the lives of people seemingly more accepting. Sometime he would question others for fun. How boring is it to sit around sycophantically in a night that could get heated with just a couple words, he often mused.
Senna found her bond with Tacred came from their differences. She knew his heart and mind meant well, that people like him moved society in the right direction or at the very least kept things interesting. Rather than give into the temptations of a group or what was in vogue for the youth, Tacred let the ways of others flow around him…pulling from each thought an understanding toward the center of his own values. He was not afraid to say the word “black” when referring to black people or use language that was hijacked by supposed liberals to make society a more tolerant place. He believed the very tools of soft language, politically correct tone, and meek persona where not the ways of progress. But those very things hid from our discourse the essential elements to understand how in America…we speak, think, interact, and controlling the truth of people was failing to accept history and upbringing. This is not to say he thought hurtful language was okay, or hurting anyone was acceptable. He was just skeptical of being brainwashed from groups he agreed with already on most things.
Many nights they would quietly lie in the courtyards around the squares, underneath the willows weeping and sounds of horse’s hooves carrying travelers in their carriages. Savannah was such a weird place, a beautiful edge to the faces that worked along the River walk, selling trade, playing blues, cooking the morning beignets as the port hummed its usual tunes of industry. They were young and white; napping in the afternoon in the middle of the week outside on a Tuesday…their privilege was beyond reason.
Senna had plans to move west as soon as she had the money to do so, but Tacred wasn’t sure if he’d hop trains here in the States, or save money then head to Paris to meet an old flame he met years before in Chicago. They could go in any direction they choose. With free time and endless possibility the pressure could seem impossible. Even if nothing is pressing you, courage was still required to take a step in any direction.
“All we ever have to do is step through a door”