ABSTRACT
I drove east toward the bridge that connects Hilton Head Island to mainland, South Carolina. During slavery, this passage was precarious and rare, leaving the African inhabitants relatively isolated. But now, with a BMW tailgating me at 65 mph, the history of my ancestors mixed with the hot, moist breeze that circulated in my rented hatchback. For a week I would finally be with relatives whom some of my family had been so eager to forget.
