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.