When Black folk migrated from the South, we left the woods behind. We packed the cities and became accustomed to concrete and glass. We forgot the sounds of silence. We forgot what the stars look like. Then we forgot that those things are our birthright.

We had good reason to run. Atrocities happened in the Southern woods. It was our kin that sometimes ended up swinging from the pines. Every family has a story. You can tell them by the blank spaces in the conversations of our elders. The gaps in the family tree. But nature is our birthright. It’s time to go back.

I have some Black friends who go hunting and camping. Most, however, look at me as if I am crazy if I bring it up. The same big, strong dudes who recall surviving the shooting at the bar down the street from their Mom’s house, get terrified when you suggest that they sleep for one night, outside. They think the guys from Deliverance will be up there, waiting to grab them by the cheeks and coo, “You sho got a purrdy mouth.”

The truth is, I can’t think of any instances that confirm our fears that the woods will gobble us up whole. That doesn’t mean that every camping experience is guaranteed to be a good one. But the benefits – the fresh air, exercise and a sense of belonging that extends beyond our front porches, outweigh the risk. Besides, my children have never seen the stars without the haze of light pollution from the city.

Besides, how prepared are you if you don’t know how to survive outside of your house?

I want to go camping. Who’s down?

Oprah, that’s who!