Steam rose to the ceiling, beading water droplets outside of the kitchen cabinets. Foamy
bubbles filled the sink as boiling water mixed with soap. Dressed with a basic pair of flip flops, shorts and a tank top, I was set. As I plunged my hands into the comforting waves of foam, I allowed my mind to drift. I started to think about my time in the past two weeks. Two weeks in Ghana showed me reflections of my identity and heritage. Where did my ancestors walk? Did they pass through here? What happened?

As each plate became clean, I thought about the castles. “Castles” was too regal or prestigious of a word to describe the places I went and the things I saw. Places of torture, where the screams and cries of the enslaved were endless. Places where my ancestors were not granted the title of human being. Men were branded like cattle. Women were used and tossed aside. The enslaved had no value. They were deemed worthless. Water drained from the sink. The dishes gleaned from their drying post. My face felt ho with tears ungushed. I felt guilty. I had no knowledge of my ancestry growing up. I had no idea how
to begin to find my ancestors from Africa. Perhaps the damage from from centuries of
oppression and denial would be reduced if only I could find them.

At some point in the castles, I witnessed a small boy clinging to his mother. We were about to
head into the dungeon where the men were confined. I thought of that boy in front of me as I
considered the boys who passed through there. I felt sick for those boys. Boys who could have been sons, brothers, or friends. The fear that chilled them each day. The tears that wouldn’t come for those who were drained. Those who fought until they were shoved into the darkness of confinement. My heart hurt for those boys who wouldn’t see their mothers again.

I grabbed the broom near me. The gentle sweeping connected me to generations of women
who consoled themselves with sweet twinges of pine-sol and clear pathways. The bristles
across floor provided a lullaby to soothe raw nerves. I can only express my gratitude by producing good work. As the floor became clearer, so did my mind. For all those who perished, I felt my heart release. I could begin to let go, to start healing.