I'm Moving Out of the Country

This couldn’t have come as a surprise to too many people, right? I mean I spend almost half of my time out of the country anyway. I love to travel abroad, take on new adventures, and make traveling accessible to those may not have known how to make it so. It makes absolute sense for me to move out of the country, RIGHT?? This couldn’t be shocking, right? So, who’s the most shocked person to realize they’re moving out of the country? ME.

When I tell people I’m moving out of the United States (and I haven’t told many people), there’s always a list of questions that start as follows:

1. What??? Girl, where you going?

2. Why you leaving?

3. When you leaving/coming back?

4. Why you aint tell noone? Damn!

I’ll attempt to answer these questions here. Bear with me though, it’s currently 4 a.m. and I’m writing this blog post on adrenaline alone. Mostly fear-based adrenaline, but we’ll get there soon enough. *grimaces heavily*

What??? Girl, where you going?

SURPRISE…I’m moving to Malaysia! Where is Malaysia? Hell if I know. I’m just moving there, nothing serious. Malaysia is located in Southeast Asia and is close to countries like Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia, and Vietnam. With a predominately Muslim population, my mom is banking on me coming back with a husband. I think it’s clear she’s SICK OF MY SHIT. LOL! Malaysia is a megadiverse country with a mix of Malay, Chinese, and Indian cultural influences. I already know the food ready to be popping. Let me know if you’re trying to come eat, I’m accepting guests!

Why you leaving?

Well….I WON A FULBRIGHT SCHOLARSHIP! Way to bury the lead, right? LOL I’m going to try to talk about this a little more in-depth, per my friends’ death stares and glances when I say “I just got a scholarship”. HERE I AM CELEBRATING MYSELF Y’ALL…see??? So for those of you who don’t know, a Fulbright is a Cultural Exchange Program funded by the Department of State in efforts to improve intercultural relations, diplomacy, and competence between U.S. citizens and other countries. Some call it ~presitgious~, I don’t know what that means. Either way, I feel very blessed to be part of a chosen few to discover a new country for an extended period of time…on the government’s dime OKUUURT!

When you leaving/coming back?

So…the exchange officially begins in January, but I leave mid-December. I’ll be in Malaysia for about a year. Once I leave, I’m not allowed to come back into the United States per the Fulbright contract. So, I’m really leaving, leaving y’all. For a whole damn year. Wish me luck!

Why you aint tell noone? Damn!

This one is probably the most difficult to answer. I guess I-I’m scared. I didn’t want to believe I was actually leaving, so I’ve ignored it for the past 8 months or so. Now that I’m about a month and a half away from departure, I can’t hide anymore. It must seem weird to you all that I’m nervous about this. Sure, I’ve done my fair share of traveling, so I may be more prepared than the average person, but that doesn’t supersede my fear. Terrified may be the word I’m actually looking for, but I’m trying to be a big girl here. I have never spent more than 2-3 months away from my family at a time, let alone be halfway across the world with a 12 hour time difference between us for a full year.

All of my relationships are going to be long-distance: friends, family, potential boo-thangs. ALLUM. People out here worried about their significant others missing them when they’re in a long-distance relationship and I’m out here concerned that I won’t survive without my lifelines.I know I’m being dramatic here (what’s new), but I think about all the big things I’ll miss and WOOH, the sadness. Has FOMO ever hit harder? Unsure, unclear, unaware.

I’m honestly so thankful that I have this opportunity. I know it’s big. I know it’s good. I know it’ll be worth it. I know! I know that God has been preparing me for this moment. I know this is a part of my calling. I know that this will open doors I hadn’t even dreamed about. I know. I’m so blessed to have a community here that I’ll miss, a family that promises to visit, and friends that swear they’ll keep me laughing thousands of miles away (I don’t doubt it). I’m still scared, terrified, and filled with fear; but more than anything I’m filled with gratitude and faith. I prayed for moments like this. Preparation has met opportunity, and it’s time to step up! Wish me luck my lovely wanderers <3

What scares you? Tell me about an experience where you were scared to take the leap but went anyway! Make me feel better about this move in the comments below!

Happy Wandering…

"All Black People are Scared of the Police" WRONG.

I saw him and instinctively froze, my heart beating fast. His demeanor was very casual, he had a smile spreading across his face, and he even resembled me in color: unapologetically black. These characteristics did not stop me in my tracks, but the words boldly printed across his chest did: POLICE. He was an officer, a protector of the law, and my initial reaction was...fear.

As I looked around the car, I realized I was the only one who had had this frightening moment. The other passengers (all people of color) looked unaffected by the presence of the officer, and the driver of the vehicle even went passed the policeman on the road; she didn't look back to see if he would pull her over. An unprecedented act for any person of color in the United States. When I asked everyone why they were so nonchalant, the simplicity astonished me. Someone uneasily said, " This isn't America you know, you don't have to be scared of them here." It dawned on me that I was in Trinidad. Police aren't feared like in the States. The statement was followed up by a question. "Why would we be scared when we weren't doing anything wrong?"

Great question. Why was I scared? Could it be the ongoing genocide of African Americans in the United States of America? Possibly.

Just as prey live in fear of their predator, similar to the Jewish living in terror because of Nazi officials, African Americans generally live horrified at the sight of police. The difference is that while the identifying marker for Jews was a badge in Nazi Germany, they were able to take it off at the end of the day. It was a badge they could look in their closet and see. One they could store away, not having to deal with it until leaving their home. For an African Americans to find their marker they don't need to look in a closet, they just have to look in the mirror. Their skin is not stored anywhere except on their body. In the "land of the free" the wrong skin color is enough reason to compel an authority figure to insensibly fire bullets in your direction. 

Lightbulb moment: I've been conditioned to fear those appointed to protect me. 

As a black person, you don't wake up in the morning and choose to put your skin on. You don't need to alter your clothes for people to know that you're black. You don't even need to speak for people to know that you're black. You don't need to do anything, because you were born black. You can't remove your skin color, nor should you want to.

You are not the problem. Your skin is not the problem. You should not have to fear for your life. You should not have to explain injustice to your child. The color you were endowed is not threatening. But in America you are, it is, you do, you are, it is.

The system was not built for your success, it was built for your failure. SUCCEED ANYWAYS. The unjust killings, the systemic demise of African Americans, and the justice system are the problems. The solutions are complex, but in the efforts to create sustainable change, one thing is evident: we need to be united. There is power in numbers. Revolutions start with one person, a couple of people, but real change is seen when the masses gather. 

It's unfortunate that it struck me as odd that many people of color around the world don't fear the police. I'm not saying they don't get tickets, fines or pulled over; I'm saying that their interactions with policemen are justifiable, regardless of color. That isn't the case in the States. For the first time in my life I feel that where I live is the third world country, and not the places I am traveling to.

The world is a scary place on its own without genocide, racism or police killings. There is no reason that present day America should feel like Nazi Germany. If you want to "Make America Great Again" (even though it's never really been that great), why not start with ending the senseless killings of the second largest demographic in the country. 

#BLACKLIVESMATTER

This is usually where I ask you to leave a comment. Don't bother this time. I said what it was.

How I Almost Died on a Plane and Why I Still Fly Anyways

As you can probably guess by the title, I almost died on a plane once. It's surprising really as there are more people that die in a car than on a plane. I've definitely heard the argument, "Well, there are more cars on the road than planes in the sky". My response: there are also more people on an airplane than in any car I know, so shut it! All of this to say that planes are relatively safe. You should feel comforted in that huge metal contraption. I've always felt safe on a plane, like I was being guided by the hands of God, because what human can really hold up hundreds of people as they fly seamlessly through the sky like that? Planes are really just God's work, I'm telling you. And if you don't believe that, then read on to how He still guided me on that infamous day I almost died while doing what I love most, flying.

On the Infamous Day:

It's officially my second time back to Sudan on an Ethiopian Airlines flight. At the time, I was infatuated with everyone thinking I was Habesha (a word referring to Ethiopians and Eritrians or Semitic speaking indigenous). I loved whipping my little thirteen year old braids back and forth like "Sudanese habiba (Arabic word for dear), not Habesha". What a feisty little kid, am I right? Needless to say, I was living it up. Adopting identities for an 8 hour flight and assisting the flight-attendants with the beverage cart (You can read up on that story here) were seriously the least of my mother's worries...we almost died remember?

As I boarded the plane, everything was playing out as it should be. The greeter checked our tickets at the gate, the stewardess helped us find our seats, the captain came on the intercom to introduce himself. It was a regular flight. Passengers fought for overhead luggage space, small kids were crying because it was a packed flight, and all I could worry about was when they would turn the in-flight entertainment system on. Shortly after, the flight attendants began their safety instructions. This was before all of those new in-flight safety videos were a "thing". (Watch my favorite one here) As the most mundane aspect of the flight experience, I'm glad these airlines switched things up.

What can't the airlines change? The whole takeoff and landing drill. I guess it's kind of important. Gearing up for takeoff, my mother promptly adjusted her seat and clenched my hand. You would think the lady was dying already. She hates takeoffs, and it was always a big scene when the plane was either ascending or descending. There were always multiple prayers read, eyes shut tightly with my poor hand clenched within hers. She's so adorable in that way. I bore the pain and released what was left of my hand as soon as we were at a cruising altitude.

Freeing up my limb, I was able to begin my binge-watching. Any and all movies I had missed or   were deemed "inappropriate" by my mother were now fare game. I remember staring at that small airplane screen for hours. Trying to hold back sleep to get to the ending of one of the "Bad Boys" films was the ultimate struggle. I guess you could say I was "hip" to binge watching before it became a thing. *Brushes shoulders off * I don't remember much about my dream while aboard that plane because well...I was living the dream, I was flying. The next thing I remember is hearing a voice over the intercom instructing everyone to stay calm and sit back down in their seats. As I cleared the crusties from my eyes, I saw a man with a video camera pointing towards the window. Looking for comfort in my mothers eyes, I saw nothing but fear. Actually, her eyes were closed, and she was holding on to us for dear life. Still, fear. That poor woman.

Not even five minutes later, I heard a loud pop and saw a black figurine dash past the window. A tire had just popped off the plane. Sort of an important feature for takeoff and landing. The ground seemed much closer than before, people were out of their seats, flight attendants were attempting to create order from the chaos, but failing terribly. The woman in the row in front of us held on to her baby, and I'm pretty sure almost everyone on that plane believed it was our time. I remember thinking that if I'm going to die, I sure am glad I'm on this plane, surrounded by my family and in the process of doing what I love most. Thinking back, I can't help but glow about my optimism. Seriously, what thirteen year old thinks like that? Feisty and optimistic? Little me was the best!

Bracing for the landing, my brothers and I held on tight to my mom. "I love you", I thought to myself. After bumps, turbulence and undoubtedly some screams along with the multiple memorized prayers, I slowly opened my eyes. Bewildered, I looked outside to find that although we had lived, we were only feet away from the main entrance hall to the airport in Sudan. We completely missed the tarmac. Stepping out into that hot Sudan sun gave me an unimaginable feeling. I felt...alive, and I was! I was in God's hands and he knew my time wasn't up yet. Our time wasn't up yet. I still had a lot more flying to do...

Why I Still Fly:

Most people look at me like I'm crazy after they hear this story. I'm constantly bombarded with questions like "How do you still get on planes?" "And so frequently?" "You must not have learned from that first time, huh?" The thing is my fellow wanderers, I love planes. I love flying. I love travel and adventure and experiences...ohhhh how I love experiences. While I was scared out of my mind, I found solace in knowing that what was going to happen to me was meant for me, and what missed me was never for me in the first place. Just because I had a bad experience on a plane once, I refused to allow that experience to determine my flight experiences for the rest of my life. Albeit, flying for the first time after I almost died, I was a bit apprehensive, this fear eased over time, as all wounds do. But wounds, they heal, and fear, it can be subdued. All it takes is time, patience and a little bit of courage. So while I might be "crazy" for hopping back on plane after plane, this type of crazy is the type I will wholeheartedly embody, because it allots room for growth and room for healing. You can't heal if you focus solely on the wound. Wear your battle scars proudly loves!

 

I want to hear about YOUR travel experiences! What's your favorite in-flight safety video? Have you ever almost died? What's your craziest plane experience?  Let me know in the comments below!

Happy Wandering...