Risk and Reward

**Originally written 30 April, 2018**

It’s been a year since I landed here in Moçambique. The year has passed with varying amounts of speed – sometimes creeping along like a misplaced tractor on the interstate, and at other times the days have moved forward with a swift and unrelenting diligence and persistence – leaving me beaten up and begging mercy is its wake.

You would think that after a year here in Moçambique in this role as a volunteer, that the stories I would have to tell about activities accomplished and projects realized, would be the topic of conversation for days. In reality, reaching the mid-point of time in country (not yet the mid-point of my service at my site because of the 3 months of training at the start), often comes with an active reflection on, and shifting of, expectations and plans for the remaining days of service. That has been the case for me – and in particular the experience of active reflection – as I continue forward in my time here in country.

Choosing to share my experiences through this blog, at this time, was not a decision I made because I had been accepted to serve in the Peace Corps and wanted to capture this two-year-and-three-month period, and somehow set it apart from the rest of my life in the process. Peace Corps and this blog both stemmed from my desire to live more authentically with what drives and inspires me, and with the courage to face and challenge the fear of vulnerability and risk, which is the foundation of truly living by such terms. So what I share is about my life experience, and may or may not directly reference Peace Corps as the current “container” for everything in this current day.

Over the past few months, since the last time I shared a story with you, I’ve been feeling almost a sense of paralysis in writing. It’s not that I haven’t been having experiences worth sharing with you, or that I lack the time it would take to transfer the lived experience into the words worthy of capturing and creating an accurate picture for you. No, I finally realized what the barrier has been. From a conversation with a dear Peace Corps volunteer-friend one weekend, who is located in one of the northernmost provinces, I realized that it has been difficult for me to uncover and select the words to define my experience to myself – to bring meaning to these events for myself first – before I could even attempt to choose the “right” words to illustrate them for anyone else.

This morning, which started the same way as so many other mornings, something changed as I was reading an article written and shared by another Peace Corps volunteer (now returned after completing her service in another country several years ago). She was sharing her voice with the world about her experience as a Black woman and traveler – and specifically how she continues to be received as the moves through the world in her skin. I’ve read several other narratives from those who identify as Black men and Black women Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs), and each time I think to myself how courageous they are for sharing their stories (and pieces of my own as I move through the world with “Black” skin and my own very colorful narrative). However, it never fails that as I’m reading, I think to myself that these very true, very valid experiences are not fully my own…and sometimes feel very far from my own…but a fear of sharing my own story as courageously as they have, keeps me from taking the steps to share what I’ve lived.

Over the past two weeks in particular, I’ve been feeling (and expressing) the most intense emotions to three other PCVs here who have become very dear, and very necessary in my life here (it’s not a surprise to me that they live as hyphenated Americans too, so that we are Peruvian-American, Mexican-American, Costa Rican-American, and Caribbean/Barbadian-American together). I wondered this morning why it’s been so easy for me to express my views, thoughts and emotions so clearly and passionately in their presence, but I can’t find the words and/or the courage to share these reflections here – with all of you?

Then I read the narrative by the Black woman about her experience as a traveler, and I realized that the answer is simple – it’s about the risk that we are willing to take to share the experiences that make us who we are, and the faith that we will be alright regardless of how we are received. A year ago, I would never have imagined sharing the truth of what I feel, think and believe to these three incredible people, but one year – and a foundation of earned trust – later, I know that who I am will be received, held, and affirmed….whether they agree with my convictions or not. I have come to trust that. I have come to trust them with who I am.

The process is different with people with whom I have not built this foundation of trust. Those reading my stories are a mix of family, close friends, past and current colleagues, few acquaintances, and some random people who stumble onto this blog who know me only through what they read – and how they process my stories through their own unique experiences. That could be anyone, which is actually quite terrifying, especially in this day and age where anonymity seems to be the cowardly tool used by people who claim to be courageous, while stating their own convictions and attacking people for who they are, rather than challenging the thoughts or beliefs they hold. In the article I read written by this young, courageous Black woman, she speaks of deliberately wanting to be visible in every space that she graces, so that at some point in the future, the presence of those who mirror her image will no longer be novel, surprising, “exotic” or continuously deemed as “other”. She strives to be visible, being open to the risk of what visibility could mean for her, in order to share her truth and experience walking through this world. She is both an inspiration and a lesson for me.

My personal challenge is recognizing and embracing the fact that I will be alright if I share any part of who I am, whether I am met with criticism, rejection, fear, ignorance or indifference. This is one of the lessons I am re-learning again and again here in Moçambique as an unmarried, Black, Caribbean/Barbadian-American woman from the United States with 41 years of life’s experience to share. It is a lesson I continue to encounter here, as this dynamic did not begin here in southern Africa, but continues as I grow with each and every day that passes here.