Though I have lost count of the times I have returned to Spain since 1991, the days prior to my departure and even a few days after my arrival are filled with a strange sort of internal reflection--a profound reflection that accompanies me, in fact, at this very moment.

I am on a RENFE train headed toward Valladolid, the city where I studied in 1991 and 1992. In spite of its historical significance, few of my students or friends back at home have ever heard of Valladolid. Miguel de Cervantes and Christopher Columbus lived there. The Catholic Monarchs, Isabel and Fernando, were betrothed there. Today, the city is not a significant tourist destination, taking a backseat to Spain's more well-known gems--Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla--but to me, Valladolid will always hold a unique place in my heart.

Valladolid is where I gained the tools and experiences that would solidify my career path. It is also the place where I gained greater insight into the dynamics of being a black man living in Europe. These dynamics are more involved than they may appear on the surface. The most profound of which being how to reconcile having an international experience that is not expected of you by some people—by Spaniards or by your own countrymen for that matter. The question was sometimes articulated but most often implied, yet always clear: What’s a black man from the United States doing first of all, learning the king’s Spanish, and second, in Castilla y Leon, the seat of the birthplace of the Spanish language and of the Spanish national identity.

I recall on December 31, 1990, the morning of my departure for my first trip to Valladolid, I sat in an Atlanta doughnut shop with my journal and pen in hand. I was preoccupied with the thought of how Spain would receive me, being a young black man. I wrote optimistically and romantically: "Europe! My most esteemed heroes--James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Josephine Baker, Langston Hughes--they all knew you very well. Their stories tell that you received them warmly. Their words reveal that you embraced the very art and ideas that many of their compatriots rejected in the land that they called home.

"I continued, "I'm no great artist. Not yet anyway. So, how will you receive me? Spain! How will you see me? Valladolid! How will you treat me?"

It took only a few days for me to realize that my heroes had obviously experienced a very different reception when they walked the streets of Europe many decades before I was even born. Perhaps because they were artists who satisfied Europeans’ thirst for exotic entertainment or maybe because the atmosphere toward people of color has simply taken a turn for the worse in Europe since the days that African American artists crossed the Atlantic in search of greener pastures and human acceptance. I lack a certain answer that explains this change over the decades. I can say for certain, however, that I was not prepared for many of the attitudes that I encountered.

I went to Spain expecting the very best from the opportunity that I had dreamed about since my childhood. I went to Valladolid prepared to immerse myself fully in its cultural beauty. Yet, admittedly, it was a challenge for an eighteen year-old African-American male who was raised in the secure and confident bosom of a "Black Mecca," Atlanta, to dismiss the stares, the pointing, the jokes and the frequent shouts of “¡negrito!”(nigger), as a simple expression of culture. I do not see racism as valid expression of culture. Many of my days were filled with the challenge to immerse myself in a society that at every turn appeared to reject even my most sincere efforts.

I came to Valladolid very much in tune to the difficulties that accompany adjusting to a new culture. As an African-American, I felt that I had arrived in Spain already sensitive to the criticism of arrogance, insensitivity and disrespect for other cultures that our world neighbors sometimes unfairly apply to all citizens of the United States. Even prior to my first trip to Spain, I had always felt quite sensitive to the United States’ image abroad effectively because many African-Americans’ criticism of our society over the centuries rested strikingly upon similar issues of ethnocentric arrogance. Therefore, throughout my time in Spain, I took deliberate strides to demonstrate my utmost respect for Spanish language, customs and culture.

For some Spaniards, my efforts were appreciated. For many, however, my efforts rarely penetrated their fears, their prejudices, their misconceptions, many of which were influenced by U.S. media images that had found their way on the Spanish airwaves, having as caustic an effect in shaping Spain's view of blacks as they had in the United States.

As I make my way back to Valladolid, I reflect that there is so much about my first trip and subsequent trips to Spain that I will cherish in the recesses of my memory forever, and by the same token there are issues and attitudes that continue to perturb me. I welcome you on my journey. Mind you, I can only show you Spain through my eyes, through my subjective perspective that has been shaped by my background and by my personal history. Spain's response to my presence as a black man has made me very curious about the historical presence of blacks and Africans in Spanish society. The question that I wish to answer through my research is the following: If Africans and their descendant have visited Spain since the earliest days of peninsular history, what could explain their marginalization in the past and in the present?

I do not intend to find it easy to unearth a clear answer to this question, but I will do my best to gain a better understanding of this paradox. I will be sharing some of aspects of my observations with you. It is my goal in this project to expose you, through my research, to a country by which I am truly captivated. The express purpose of my work is to encourage people to see Spain in a more diverse light. Diversity has defined Spain's past and will forever define its future. I am northbound to Valladolid.