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 26th 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.