I will never forget the night I walked home from my sitemate Erica’s house, gazing up at the stars and thanking God for the opportunity to serve in the Peace Corps from age 23-25. It’s never been lost on me how totally epic it is that I actually get to live one of my life’s dreams as a two-year citizen of Mozambique.
I’ve always been very in touch with and proud of my heritage. I was an African American Studies minor at Georgia State in Atlanta, a kid who always wanted to attend Spelman College as a youth but that price tag scared me a bit. I was enamored by the Black authors and thinkers from around the world and the rich history I was never taught in mainstream public school. I was the 16-year-old president of Black Heritage Club at my suburban high school until my graduation. I composed talent competitions and theater productions with my classmates, celebrating our culture and unique art in a school where we didn’t feel terribly recognized. But still, it wasn’t until that night, over a year into my service in Mozambique, that I completely understood the gravity of what I am doing. I had an emotional, transcendent experience on that dirt road in the darkness.
“I love you so much and cannot wait for you to be here,” I wrote as a text to my mother later that night; she was less than a month shy of her first visit to Africa and we had an ambitious, multi-country, multi-city trip planned. It was all we talked about for weeks and the gravity of what we would experience together overwhelmed me with such joy.
“Just think, Mommy. Your great-grandmother could’ve only dreamed of what you’ve accomplished [as a registered nurse] and what I dream of accomplishing as long as I have breath in my body. I’m living it, and soon you will as well. I am so blessed; we are so favored that you get to come here. Your visit is such a blessing to me, but far beyond that. It is proof that our ancestors fought and didn’t struggle in vain. That their wildest dreams were realized in you and your children. That they will continue to be realized in me and my children [someday]. God is so faithful and unbelievable. I just dream of the moment of being in your arms again and linking some of our ancestral dreams. I love you so deep and cannot wait to wrap my arms around you. You are my unconditional love and my best friend and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel anything less than that [in my young and dumber days]. I will show you…”
From the second my body and soul landed on this continent, I felt it. My guardian angels, my ancestors, whatever you personally call it: they knew I was here. And I was overcome with emotion and elation. I also felt what many of my colleagues of various backgrounds were going through in those moments, I’m sure: shock, excitement, fear, doubt, jet-lag, and exhaustion. But this feeling that I was fulfilling some type of ancestral life dream never left me in those hours we waited collectively inside of Johannesburg’s airport to make our final descend into Mozambique.
“I feel the most happy, at peace, and anxiety-free that I’ve felt in a long time,” I wrote in my journal as I sat on the floor with a pile of luggage containing all my belongings.
“By tonight, I’ll be in Maputo, Mozambique, the country I will serve for the next two years (and three months lol). It’s exciting and scary and brave and life-changing. What will I do without my family, my friends, my city, my favorite foods?!
I’m excited to get to Moz, though. And move into life’s next chapter. God has quite the journey ahead of me and that’s the only thing I do know for sure. But I thank Him for bringing me home again. It’s like I feel the spirits around me embracing me, welcoming me back to a land that’s mine.”
I could envision my great-great grandfather. In a field of some type. Wiping the sweat from his brow. Wondering what it felt like to feel dignity as a man. To farm and sell from his own land. To protect his woman and his family. To build his own brand and company as opposed to being forced to building another’s for free. Or how about generations before his own? Packed in tight on a slave ship. Weeping for the land they lost and in a state of anxiety we can only imagine today as human beings. A complete terror for where they were going. This is what runs through my veins. I do not come from a family who kept close historical records or passed down stories or businesses or earldoms.
I come from the average Black family in America. Whose had, at minimum, a couple of generations who “did it right” and rose above poverty and have shown their children and grandchildren another life. Another possibility.
I watched my mother work her ass off as a night-shift RN to pay our mortgage. For lights, for gas, for food, for clothes, and the occasional vacation for us on her own. She took me to museums and cultural festivals and plays and churches hoping to open up the world for me. She did an amazing job. She succeeded and raised a daughter unafraid of the world or the challenges of the unknown. I didn’t thank her enough. I still don’t thank her enough. She is the living example to me, my elder sister, and my three beloved nieces that anything is possible with a lot of effort and prayer.
I graduated college with Honors in her name. I now serve in the Peace Corps and do everything in my power to be the woman she and my grandmother and others have raised. I mentor children and teens, plan hospital campaigns to improve the lives of locals, and continue to seek new opportunities to bring confidence and self-esteem to everyone around me. What would my ancestors think of this ambitious Black girl they eventually brought into existence and of those locals who assume she’s “better” only because of what her passport tells them?
I will be the first to admit: I do not have the problems of other, non-Black volunteers. I am not stared at or followed, and if I simply shut my mouth on public transportation or at a local market I am easily mistaken for a host country national and ignored. Sometimes this is awesome!
But other times, it’s not. When I work for weeks to present my JUNTOS group at an esteemed event or competition. Or when I need to arrange a meeting with a local official. Or if I need a little leniency and understanding on a bad language day. Or if want to sit in the front seat. Or if I’m hungry and need a little empathy. Or ask for help in general. People act as if I’m lazy, stupid, or plain invisible. It hurt a lot at first, especially when I saw fellow white volunteers get that handshake, or that meeting, or that compassion, or that front seat, or that general help and attention. It hurts to know that, no matter where I live on this earth, I will always be considered “less than.”
Then again, it’s a double-edged sword. I relish in my alone time when no one bothers me and just assumes I am one in the crowd. I rarely get overcharged. I love the look of confidence in young girls’ eyes when they run their hands through my natural curls or along my cheeks and I can proudly proclaim, “We are the same! You are beautiful too!”
In many ways, simply my presence here as a representation of a “better life” and a foreigner who cares about the community really does matter. For God’s sake, I live in an African country where supermarkets only sell baby dolls with bleach blond hair and everyone’s grandmother watches Brazil or Portuguese-based novelas (soap operas) with characters locals cannot physically identify with.
Erica and I talk nearly constantly about ways we can change these views in our community and about the complexities of race in general. She is a tall, German white woman. I am a short, African American woman. We’re an odd pair who stand out in a crowd without a doubt, but use our contrast to start a conversation about how we are in fact the same and both in this country just trying to figure out how to help. I’ve enjoyed hearing about her experience as well, and have appreciated the desire for her to understand a perspective she might not have had I been a white volunteer.
Being a Black girl serving abroad, specifically in an African country, is a rare and wonderful experience. Nothing and no one prepared me for this. But I am blessed to have had the experience and look forward to experiencing more. The good and the bad. Because I am tough enough for it; I’m literally built this way. And, as I look up at the stars and talk with my relatives and ancestors from time to time, I hope they hear my gratitude. For the struggles, degradation, and injustices they fought. I am the product. And I am living a pretty charmed and incredible life. They didn’t fight in vain.
Falling In Love With Mozambique 
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