Black Lens III: Sorry for the Wait (I am 26)

I began the Black Lens series of my blog for many reasons. One reason was because when I was first considering applying to the Peace Corps, I did a lot of research, specifically looking for blog posts written by Black Peace Corps volunteers or Volunteers of Color (VOCs), and found few. Most of the resources I found were by white volunteers. In fact, only 22% of Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs) are of color. This is not due to People of Color (POC) being unfit to volunteer, but because many of the recruiting events that the Peace Corps organizes are in predominately white spaces. Peace Corps has recognized this and begun an initiative with Historically Black Colleges/Universities (HBCUs) to recruit more Black volunteers. This is a step in the right direction, but there is still much more work to be done before PCVs truly reflect American diversity. Furthermore, there also needs to be training and protocol within each Peace Corps post to support VOCs when they face challenges that are unique to people of color.

I recognize that every PCV’s experience is unique. No two volunteers, whether or not they are of the same race, will have the same experience. There are a variety of factors to consider, such as housing, counterparts, type of village/town, amount of hours worked, etc. However, I knew reading posts from white volunteers wouldn't and couldn't prepare me on how I may be treated as a Black volunteer. I write this series as a way to contribute to the growing number of voices of VOCs within Peace Corps. Prospective volunteers want and need our voices heard to affirm and prepare them. I would be doing myself a disservice to have the means to record my experience and fail to do so. I write to share my positive experiences as a PCV, as well as the challenges of being a VOC. This, to me, means being honest, transparent, and vulnerable. I write, not to complain but to use my voice to inform and teach, both prospective volunteers and other PCVs currently serving abroad. I re-invite you on this journey with me. I do apologize for my absence, but I am back and ready to use my voice again.

I am blessed to live in Masoro. Though a true village, Masoro still has its own distinctive qualities; for instance, there are two incredible women cooperatives: IBABA, which creates beautifully embroidered textiles, and ADC, which creates products for Kate Spade (random, right?). It is not because of these attributes, however, that I am blessed to live here. It is because I live in a village that accepts me as an American. That seems like a no brainer since I am American, but there have been other Black volunteers who have had to constantly fight with people in their village to be recognized as American. I am truly grateful that the people of Masoro understand that Americans are not only white.

Unfortunately, my gratitude and happiness here in Masoro dissolves quickly whenever I read a news article about the latest Black person killed by police brutality in the United States. It feels like every month I am writing a new hashtag in my journal and crying softly as I pray to God to comfort the families who have lost a father, mother, brother, sister, wife, husband, son, daughter to some trigger-happy police officer. Sometimes it is twice or three times within a single month. I look up and ask God to please, please protect my family back home in Minnesota. Each hashtag I write breaks another part of me, and I start to question my motives for volunteering in Rwanda. I tell myself that I am in Peace Corps to accomplish a lifelong goal of volunteering on both a local scale (with AmeriCorps) and now internationally. I tell myself I am here to represent American diversity, to show that not all Americans are white and rich. VOCs are just as “American” as our fellow white volunteers. I tell myself that in order for Black people to make progress, we must be represented in different professions. I tell myself valid excuse after valid excuse, but the taste of guilt is still in my tears for the family of Terrance Crutcher or the next Black person who will be murdered by the police. I start to feel that I should be back home protesting in the streets with Black Lives Matter. I tell myself that I should be marching, organizing, and strategizing with community leaders in Minneapolis, endeavoring to affect change for Black folks in Minnesota. I question if being in Rwanda actually is a part of my life’s mission to uplift Black people.

These questions become louder and louder with each new hashtag. I am living in a time when an unarmed Black man can be killed by police and the media will respond by creating a narrative of every wrong that the man has ever done, thus “justifying” his execution. I am living in a time when an atrocity can be committed and Black folks mobilize and say, BLACK LIVES MATTER, and ignorant and unaware folks respond by saying, All Lives Matter, in an attempt to silence the Black voices and sweep systemic racism under the rug. The ignorant will try their very best to prove that a police officer was right to kill an unarmed citizen. Whether or not this unarmed citizen was a known violent criminal is apparently irrelevant because he was perceived to be so due to the color of his skin. Black men have been characterized as violent beasts, and officers of the law can apparently shoot and kill a Black man without having to answer for such an unthinkable crime against humanity. Piece by piece, I break, and the questions of my motives amplify. These questions continue to echo in my ears when there is a hateful incident with another volunteer. Early this year, I witnessed a PCV perform a comedy routine during which he mocked Rwandans and “starving African children” and glorified white privilege by saying that he, as a white man, could time travel to any time period while a Black person could not. With every new hashtag, I tell my co-teachers that I am sick so that I can go home to nurse my brokenness. I barely have enough time to somewhat repair myself before another hashtag appears or another volunteer decides to be intolerant. It has not been easy being a Black PCV having to put up with insensitive volunteers, new hashtags, and violent recordings of Black people being shot with their hands in the air.

In all of these harsh truths, I find peace in knowing that Black folks are mobilizing, protesting, and boycotting, and that we cannot be ignored. We will not apologize for being Black. We will not accept inhumane treatment. I find peace in the amazing support system that I have in America and here in Rwanda. My loving friends call and write me and send 'Melanin on Fleek' t-shirts. They hold me when I feel helpless. Friends of all colors write lengthy blog posts testifying that Black lives DO matter, and they write to affirm my experience, my pain in a multitude of ways. I take peace in knowing that these friends are also pursuing careers ranging from community organizers, politicians, and lawyers to photographers, teachers, and nurses. They will go on to be in positions of power and affect change for POC. When we are in these positions of power, it is our duty to create positive change for those that come after us. Black people are rising.

I sit in my house listening to To Pimp a Butterfly and letting the words, “We gon be alright!” blast through my speakers to comfort me. I remind myself why I am here. Today, on my 26^th birthday, I sit here and write a blog series that a new PCV told me helped her prepare for her service. I find peace because I am young, gifted, and Black, and I know that there are other young, gifted, and Black volunteers out there. I am still searching for the answers of how to tackle systemic racism and provide healing for my people. But in this quest, I find peace. I find peace in knowing that after Peace Corps, I will pursue a career as a psychologist so that I can provide healing for my people. In all the darkness, yes, I will feel broken and even fall apart, but I put myself back together again. I will be a light. I am in peace because when you are in peace, it is a position of power.

From Lake Superior to Lake Kivu

As I swam in the cool lake bordering the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I looked at the volcanoes surrounding me. A goofy grin plastered across my face and I let the moment sink in. Yo, I thought to myself, I am in Lake Kivu! Just a year ago I was swimming in Lake Superior in Duluth, Minnesota. If you ever took a dip in this icy Great Lake, you would know that swimming in Lake Superior isn't really swimming, well not for me. The water is so cold that my legs start to go numb after a minute or so. The only time I welcome the mind-numbing water is on one of Duluth's rare sun scorching days. Not only could I actually swim in the warm waters of Lake Kivu, I could bask in the moment reminiscing.

When I first learned I was selected for the Rwandan Education Program, I can't lie, I thought I would be roughing it in a village with no electricity, no running water, and no friends, but, in reality, living in Rwanda has been pretty great so far. Now I'm not going to sugar coat things; washing clothes by hand, cooking on an imbambura (charcoal stove), bathing with a bucket, and using a latrine hasn't been the easiest thing in the world, but it certainly wasn't as hard as I imagined. I remember one day I finally had my amakara (charcoal) delivered and I was so excited to finally be able to cook myself a meal, something that brought me joy and comfort in America. My friends knew me as the person in the group who would go to the farmers' market on the weekend to buy up all the heirloom tomatoes I could carry so I could make salsa and gift them to friends and family. If I wasn't at the farmers' market buying up pesto or learning about a new hybrid vegetable, I would joyously spend my time cooking whatever creation I made up that day. Who knew once I moved to Rwanda it would take me well over two weeks to simply boil water to make rice. The day I had my amakara delivered I was ready to reclaim my inner chef, so I assembled all my tools: imbambura, amakara, matches, sticks and paper, and then I set to work building a fire to cook some rice… long story short, it didn't happen that night, or the next, or the next, or the next! Every day that I tried and failed, I felt a little worse. How in the world was I going to feed myself?! Well, I am so blessed to have wonderful neighbors who saw me struggling and helped me countless times. I was also immensely grateful for a man named Kiza. Kiza is the Fathers' chef and he took me under his wing and taught me the culinary world of Rwandan food. Every night, I brought my tools and ingredients, and Top Chef Kiza showed me how to make incredible dishes, which is a whole other post. Every time we cooked together, he even surprised me with treats that he wanted me to try. Without Kiza or my wonderful neighbors, I would be eating amandazi (similar to doughnuts) and sambusas (triangular shaped dough stuffed with meat and/or potatoes with onions and hot peppers) every night. It's my fault though, I didn't take the “lighting the imbambura” part of PST seriously enough.

Speaking of PST, I remember a time when I was bathing at night, something I loved doing back home. In the States, when hot running water was always at my disposal, showering at night was my way of unwinding. When I lived in Duluth and my roommate was away (shout out to Courtney!), I would light my favorite incense, frankincense, play some Erykah Badu, light some candles, and treat myself to a steamy Epsom salt bath with a plethora of essential oils. I would try to read in the bathtub, but most of the time I would just sit there soaking in the warmth and enjoying my alone time. In Rwamagana, my host family's bathroom facilities were outside, separate from the house, no bathtub, just a cement space and a tin roof. That night I was scrubbing away, covered in soap, when I heard something scuffle on the tin roof above me. I looked up and saw a lizard scurry across. Nta kibzao (No problem/worries), I thought to myself, lizards are chill. I continued scrub-a-dub-dubbing away, whistling a little tune, and then I heard another scuffle. I looked up again, thinking I was going to see my new friend, Ms. Lizzy (I thought of that cool name while whistling), but nope, instead of Ms. Lizzy, I saw Mr. Rat. Mr. Rat was chasing Ms. Lizzy right above my naked body covered in soap. When I tell you I screamed bloody murder… if it wasn't for the soap covering my body I would have ran out that bathroom completely naked. My host mama (who was outside talking with a guest at the time) ran over and shouted, “Shewa! Iki (What)?!” I shouted back, while crouched in the furthest corner of the bathroom, “Maaaammaaaa!! Imbeba (Rat)!!” By this time, my host sisters crowded around the bathroom to see what all the fuss was about. When they heard my reasoning, everyone let out a hearty laugh and walked away. I made it out alive though.

Each of these moments, whether failing to light my stove or learning that my one year old sister can chase a rat away for me, left me feeling so useless, but now that I know that I am supported, I feel stronger than ever. Now, that I have mastered the art of lighting and cooking on an imbambura and though I am still afraid of rats, I know that I can handle it. Not only did my neighbors help me in my time of need, I know that I am completely capable of working with the hand that I have been dealt because I am exactly where I want to be. While swimming in Lake Kivu, which is only a 4 hour bus ride from my site, I realized that I am here, now, living my dream and I should accept and embrace every moment. Who would have thought a year ago, while I was swimming in Lake Superior in Duluth, Minnesota, that the following year I would have this very moment in Lake Kivu in Gisenyi, Rwanda?

Black Lens II

Thank you all for continuing this journey with me. I have been at my site a little less than a month and transitioning from the strict schedule of PST to trying to fill my day has been an emotional roller-coaster. I cannot lie: the stress of PST has been lifted since being in my own space. Being around 46 other people every day for the past 3 months was completely draining, and November was like the last week of finals when you are a senior and you're just ready to be done and move on.

Being an introvert (someone who recharges through alone time) was a reason for my stress overload, but also because I am a conscious Black Woman who takes race, language, privilege, and gender very seriously. As I talked about in my last post, a fellow white PCV made an incredibly insensitive racial joke; many have asked what has happened since then. Every incident, whether a micro-aggression or overt racial discrimination, left a tiny cut on my psyche. Though the pain may be caused by a slight remark, without healing, and many more incidents afterward, I was left with a giant scar. Racism and Anti-Blackness are embedded in each and every single one of us, and this includes People of Color. This mentality is a result of colonization, slavery, and media representation. It is important to note that there are no quick fixes to this kind of mindset.

To make the long story short, the other Volunteers of Color in my group and I were invited to attend a committee meeting by the group, Ndi UmunyAmerika. This translates to “I am American.” Many Volunteers of Color have had incidents where Rwandans have questioned or even rejected them as American because they are not white. That reminds me of a quote by Toni Morrison: “In this country, American means white. Everybody else has to hyphenate.” People of Color in America are given these generalized designations like “African-American or “Asian-American” and only white Americans are simply considered “American.” Because of this, when abroad People of Color are not accepted as being just “American.” Though I am speaking on the experience here in Rwanda, this is a global mindset. Ndi UmunyAmerika was created by two Peace Corps Volunteers, Helina Haile and Ciara Renae, as a support system for Volunteers of Color who have experienced these sorts of incidents (plus some even more troubling) here in Rwanda.

The Ndi UmunyAmerika meeting consisted of two parts: the first was in the morning when we all sat down with our Country Director, Jen Hedrick, to discuss the goals and objectives of the group and to share our stories. When each person shared an experience they had had with either a local, a fellow volunteer, or even a staff member; the room became heavy. Our Country Director was shocked to hear all that we have been going through. She expressed that she had no idea and that she wanted to be part of the solution. She encouraged us to come up with concrete steps to move forward. One solution we presented was to have her presence at a diversity session. We felt that if she was there during a session, volunteers would take the information and problems more seriously. These sessions are facilitated by Ndi UmunyAmerika members. Another role of this committee is to develop trainings so that each Peace Corps cohort will hopefully have the knowledge to be better allies to Volunteers of Color and become more aware of how their words and actions might affect others, so that future Volunteers of Color will not have to go through the same struggles we did.

The second part of the meeting was more like a support group with only Volunteers. We share intimate details about ourselves, discussed issues within our respective cohorts, and just built up a supportive atmosphere. To say I was filled with gratitude would be an understatement. By the end of the meeting, I found the strength to continue through PST. This is why safe spaces are needed for People of Color: no matter where else we go, people will try to tear us down. For me, spaces such as these are where I seek and find the energy to exist amongst the hate and ignorance. Because of the supportive space created by Ndi UmunyAmerika and the support of my amazing friends (S/O to Nicole, Alexx and Faith!), I was able to swear in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer.

Now here I am, a single Black, Nigerian-American Woman beginning her service in the Northern region of Rwanda. My site is both a city and village and being here has already been an eye opening experience, not only for me but also for my community members. I have experienced the range of reactions when I say I am American: from amazement, to questions like, “If you are American, why are you Black like me?” and even straight up rejection and the whole “You are a liar” bit. It makes me think back to when I was applying to Peace Corps.

During my video interview, when I was being considered for this position, my interviewer stressed that Volunteers of Color have a much harder time because locals do not see them as a “real Americans” and therefore do not view us as credible. My interviewer asked how I would deal with the stress from that. I answered with honesty, telling him that I have been Black my whole life and that the very place I call home already treats me as an outsider because of my skin color, so I know how to survive in these conditions. My answer still is true, but if I were to be asked this question again, I would have my own follow up question: “What resources does Peace Corps have to support me through these circumstances?” The more I grow in my journey of self-identity, I come to realize that it is far time for People of Color to stop dealing with these issues themselves and to start holding the systems we exist in responsible. It is far past time that we start asking questions like, “What training does staff go through to address racial issues?” “If another volunteer were to say something racist, what steps will be taken?” “If a staff member were to be discriminatory towards Black Volunteers, what are the repercussions?” Race, privilege, and gender should not be a one-time workshop given to people after they have already secured their positions of authority. Treating People of Color with respect and dignity is not a one-time lesson, because anti-Blackness and racism is so deeply rooted in us all that it is a long and demanding process to even begin to untangle. Expectations should be addressed within the interview, otherwise systematic racism will prevail. People/Volunteers of Color need more to be done; it is not right that we not only deal with the stress of being in a foreign country, away from family, friends and loved ones, but also deal with people within our own cohort making racist comments and jokes or blatant discrimination from staff members with no repercussions. Organizational cultures need to support People of Color and this means taking direct actions when they are racial attacked.

As the beginning of the new of the year is here, I am all too aware of the new set of hurdles that I will face, but I am more than ready to tackle them with the support of my wonderful friends, Ndi UmunyAmerika, and Peace Corps Rwanda. I stress with the support of Peace Corps Rwanda because during our committee meeting I was made aware that some Peace Corps countries do not allow racial and ethnic support groups like this to exist because the Peace Corps Director in that country “does not see race as a problem here.”Though I am not usually surprised by the ignorance of folks, I cannot believe that some Volunteers of Color have to fight with their Country Director to create a support group. Would that comment, “It is not a problem here,” be said if it were a women's or a religious group? We must stop belittling the effects racism have on People of Color and start taking proactive steps to support our Volunteers of Color simply because we are humans and deserve respect, dignity, and the freedom to be ourselves.