Before I continue, I should note that while I reject the prevailing story line of Africa, I also don’t want to pretend that it’s a utopia. Both of the aforementioned narratives—overwhelmingly negative so everything is tragic and sad or overwhelmingly positive therefore everything is a Wakandan fantasy, which is a standard that no place can live up to—are damaging and deny the people in them their humanity. Now with that out of the way . . . y’all, their skin though! Have you seen it?!?! My. God. I know I just said to not generalize, but the Zambians? Their skin is rich and decadent like the center of a chocolate molten lava cake. Their hair is thick, kinky, and coily, exuding sovereignty that makes you feel like you, too, can possess their innate regal confidence, even if, deep down, you know you can’t. And their teeth! Their freaking teeth. I am never smiling again, at least not when Zambians are just walking around with eighty-seven perfectly straight and white teeth. For the rest of my days (I’m talking my wedding photos, DMV license renewal, LinkedIn profile pic, etc.), I will be tight-lipped like the woman in the American Gothic painting because no one needs to see the insides of my garbage mouth.
Jokes aside, being surrounded by all the, for lack of a better word, “Blackness” felt a bit like getting pummeled by a series of tidal waves. For example, a group of children playing during recess would make my heart swell and my ovaries throb to the point that I could barely handle it, and just as I was gathering my bearings, boom! I was slammed by yet another wave of glorious beauty that felt absolutely foreign to me and also felt like the missing piece of myself that was finally being returned to me. Yes, African Americans and Africans are distinctly different from one another, and yet. Being surrounded by brown and Black skin, looking at billboards that featured nothing but people who looked like me or were as dark as or even darker than my mom, and being in an environment where Africans people are not the Other, but the standard, nearly rewired my brain. I’m not African and Zambia wasn’t home, but it felt like the next best thing. I will be forever indebted to (RED) for giving me this powerful present.
Some of the people I got to meet now have access to and can afford the medicine they need to live. They’ve gained back years that can be spent with family and friends, working, laughing, breathing. And since, statistically, women of childbearing age are the most at risk of contracting HIV, it was powerful to see women planning for a future that before was in jeopardy. As for the countless other women and girls I met? I was envious of and inspired by them. Like when I met up with an after-school program that helps teenage girls start their own businesses, making and selling food, clothing/bags, jewelry, etc. Not only that, quite a few of the business owners came together to create a community pot to which a percentage of their earnings was dedicated to support their collective business endeavors. Oh, how I wish I could have experienced something like this when I was younger. Then there was the PEPFAR DREAMS site where a group of mostly teenage girls wrote, acted, and directed their own plays that had absolutely nothing to do with dating or liking a boy. Talk about passing the Bechdel test with flying colors! Considering how secretly boy crazy I was as a teen, I was bowled over by how these young women wove narratives that centered on themselves, their wants, and their needs instead of some guy’s. So many grown-ass women spend a lifetime trying and failing to have the mentality these teens already possessed.
These are just a handful of moments that Mai and I still cherish from our four-day trip to Zambia. Many others would be shared and discussed over meals with the rest of #Team(RED), like on day three during a group lunch when Mai half-jokingly suggested that we bungee jump off a bridge at Victoria Falls during the few hours of free time that we’d have during an afternoon trip to Zimbabwe. Without thinking, I responded with, “Sure, why not?” I still don’t know what compelled me to do so. I mean, outside of exercising, I’m not physically adventurous, and I live in a constant and irrational state of fear of breaking a bone all because I saw the trailer, not the movie, but the trailer for M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable. If you’ve seen neither, the basic premise is this: Samuel L. Jackson’s character has type I osteogenesis imperfecta, a rare disease that makes a person’s bones extremely fragile and prone to fracturing, and in one scene from the trailer, he falls down some subway stairs and breaks hundreds of bones. I do not have this disease, but needlessly worrying is my cardio, so here we are.
The best I can surmise is that leaping off a bridge is something Brooklyn Phoebe would never do. Being halfway around the world gave me license to be not myself. I was Africa Phoebe. And Africa Phoebe doesn’t back down from a challenge.
The next day over breakfast, Mai let me know there’d be no hard feelings if I wanted to back out. I assured her that I was all in, so we headed to Shearwater Victoria Falls. Once there, we were told that they didn’t offer tandem bungee jumping, but that we could tandem swing together aka walk off a bridge if we wanted. Hmm. Between Mai giving me the chance to bail and now this slight change in bridge-jumping options, I wondered if the Universe was trying to send me hints to not do this. But then I replayed the circumstances in my mind: I’m in Zimbabwe. These jorts aka jean shorts got my booty looking high and tight like a floating bookshelf. And lastly, I already put on sunscreen and bug spray. Yep, that was a major factor in me moving forward. Putting on both those items is a lot of effort, which is why I don’t enjoy going camping. Like, I have to heat up my own can of baked beans AND slather on sunscreen and bug spray to protect me from the sun and prevent mosquitos from drinking from my skin like I’m a seven-dollar bottomless mimosa special? No thanks! Side note: Why is my camping cuisine the same as Heath Ledger’s in Brokeback Mountain? S’mores exist. Hot dogs taste good. Treat yourself, Pheebs! ANYWAY. I thought about all the aforementioned factors and looked at Mai, who is one of the most badass people I know. And on that day, so was Africa Phoebe. We signed up to tandem swing. Then we were weighed separately and our respective numbers were written on our forearms, in big-ass handwriting, and with a RED SHARPIE. That way, they would use the appropriate cords and ropes that would hold our cumulative kgs. LMAOOOOOOO. Writing a human being’s weight on their forearm for all to see is an attempted coup on their personhood and self-esteem. Now, I’m not one of those people who believes that a woman’s weight must never be mentioned, but also can’t there be some middle ground between information that’s shrouded in secrecy and Scarlet Letter’ing my ass? But being branded with my weight was the least of my worries because I was now riddled with anxiety that mid-fall, the cords would give out and we’d drop to our death.
Obviously, since you are reading this book, that didn’t happen because I lived to tell the tale. What did happen was I took a risk and it made me proud of myself in a way I never quite felt before. And it wouldn’t have been possible if I didn’t say yes. Yes to walking off the bridge, yes to traveling to Africa, yes to getting my passport, yes to listening to that tiny voice inside me, the one that often got drowned out by all the others saying that traveling isn’t a possibility. That small voice remained steady and constant, believing nonetheless, and, it seems, so did I. Although I’m not sure how.
* * *
Simply put: My parents are not travelers. For instance, if I ever said to my dad, “How about the whole family pools their money together and Airbnbs a cute house somewhere warm for Christmas? Maybe even a place that has a pool for my niece and nephew to swim around in?” he’d probably respond with, “I’m good. I’ve seen pictures of rectangular-shaped things that have liquids in them.”
For real though, he and my mom are homebodies, don’t really have close friends, and don’t desire to travel anywhere. They have lived long, intense, beautiful, demanding, unique lives and they’re way the hell over it all: having responsibilities, opening mail, dealing with anyone who doesn’t share their DNA, owning tote bags, answering the question “How are you doing?,” their bodies aging, maintaining a pantry, witnessing how little society has changed when it comes to major sociopolitical issues
, even though they’re eating vegan, which is extending their life expectancy on this hellscape of a planet, etc. They have raised two children, have two grandchildren, and have managed to be together for over forty years. I feel like what’s bubbling below the surface of their Midwestern niceness is a hearty “Did we win yet? Surely we must have at this point! Can we tap out now?!?!” Life has been one looooooong game of Monopoly in which Ma and Pa Robinson have been dealing with Baltic Avenue’s bullshit and they don’t wanna play anymore. Okay, I’m exaggerating. No, my parents aren’t looking forward to dying. What they’re looking forward to, I imagine, is ensuring that their streak of #NoNewFriendsOrAcquantancesOrWorldlyExperiences remains undefeated.
Ever since I can remember, my parents have never had any friends or hung out with anyone besides each other, which was in stark contrast to the movies and TV series that showed parents routinely leaving their kids with a babysitter for the evening or going on vacation with other adult couples. This was never the case with my parents as they were always home. Remember on Sex and the City when Carrie fears that her relationship with Aidan is stale and she basically asks him, “Why are you content with eating fried chicken on a Wednesday night? Shouldn’t we be living exciting, unpredictable lives?” And he’s just like, “I’m in my late thirties, have a Rogaine subscription, and maintain a quality credit score. I didn’t come this far nor work this hard to be fraternizing with strangers in stovepipe jeans at trifling-ass clubs. Quit searching for problems. We good.” Basically, my parents are Black Aidans. Blaidans, if you will. They never really felt the need to go out.
To be fair, they did take us to Niagara Falls, to see plays, and to amusement parks, but they were not the kind of parents to plan family road trips all the time or go on vacations by themselves. Maybe that was partially due to them being the only two members of the village it takes to raise two precocious children and not having tons of expendable cash. But, honestly, knowing who they are, they could have had Rockefeller money when I was growing up and still would’ve been content with chilling at home and watching Wheel of Fortune.
One of my biggest career achievements will forever be when I served as one of the moderators on Michelle Obama’s historic Becoming book tour. It was an out-of-body experience, stress inducing (I often had nightmares about screwing up so badly in front of her twenty-thousand-plus audience that I would be escorted offstage by her Secret Service detail), and inspiring. More on that later. On the night of my final stint with Michelle, she invited my parents to the last date of the tour in Nashville, which was on Mother’s Day, and said she would love to do a meet and greet with them as well as have them as guests at the after-party. I was shocked! Usually, when a person is like, “Lemme meet your parents,” that person is a white woman with chunky highlights who asks to speak to the manager when she has nothing but complaints and a desire to get a coupon or refund for her troubles. I don’t know what I did or how I did it, but I was humbled by the lovely offer. All I had to do was fly myself and my parents out and find us a hotel to stay at, and since the Mother’s Day event was still a month away, I had decent travel options. Surely, a personal invite from MO would be enticing enough for my parents to travel? Y’all. Y’all. Y’ALL, when I tell you that they came through with some plant-based, room-temp bullshit, I mean it.
I swear on my collection of wigs that the first thing out my mom’s mouth was, “Uh . . . I don’t know. I’ll probably be tired then. Let me get back to you.” Come again? Octavia Velina Robinson (née Wyckoff), are you legit RSVP’ing with a lukewarm “maybe” by pretending you know a full month in advance that staying up past 9:15 p.m. on a Sunday night is too big of an ask? Just go to sleep a couple of hours earlier the night before you fly out, so you’ll feel well rested! And even if you’re fatigued from the flight to Nashville, guess what? Rise to the occasion! Drink some tea! Have a bite of coffee-infused chocolate! Hell, snort a line of coke for the first time in your life if that means you’ll stay awake long enough to rub elbows with Michelle Obama, the Queen of Smarts and Defined Triceps. Like, what else did you have planned for Mother’s Day? To watch The Voice? To eat a portobello mushroom and call it a “steak” because vegans can’t resist doing the most with the absolute least? Speaking of “doing the least,” my mom did not circle back to me about this invitaysh, so I had to hound my parents like a bill collector in order to get a yes, but not before they were dramatizing the specifics such as waking up early to head to the airport and dealing with a short layover. LORD! Why do people gotta act brand-new? None of us in the Robinson clan are above catching a connecting flight at O’Hare and dining on a Garrett popcorn tin to help pass the time, but sure, let’s all act like we’re Kardashians who are used to flying private.
Anyway, long story short, my parents had a blast. They met and took a photo with Miche (that’s Michelle’s nickname, btdubs). They stayed awake and had a great time watching Stephen Colbert interview her. And true to form, they were 1) predictably and laughably underwhelmed with the hotel accommodations even though I got them one of the nicest suites in the joint and 2) on the earliest flight out of Nashville the next day because they had no interest in sightseeing.
As much as I’ve inherited their penchant for being “over it” and wanting to stay home (when I’m out, I keep everyone abreast of the fact that I’m planning on leaving even though I just arrived, and I will definitely not say goodbye), I diverge from my parents on the topic of traveling. It always piqued my interest, despite my assuming that I must be unadventurous like my mom and dad. There was just one problem. For the majority of my adult life, I didn’t have the financial means to find out if this was true or not. While many of my college classmates studied abroad over the summer, I worked odd jobs in order to afford to live in New York. I got older and my social media was (and is) littered with friends taking vacations, going on international trips for work, having destination weddings, etc. Meanwhile, my continual financial struggles throughout my twenties and into my early thirties meant that traveling was, best-case scenario, a fantasy, and worst-case scenario, a fast way to accumulate even more debt. On the rare occasions I did leave town, I did so by maxing out credit cards, and then, understandably, I began associating traveling with shame, self-loathing, and something that left me in a worse financial position than I started out in. Even worse, I projected onto others. I alternated between viewing their escapades as frivolous and a sign they have too much money and not enough sense, or feeling jealous that having the means to travel was a nut I couldn’t quite crack. Still, money wasn’t the only thing that factored in my remaining homebound.
As we all know, it’s hard to envision something for yourself if you don’t see evidence out in the world often enough. Even though Black people (and all people of color) travel, we don’t often hear or see stories of any Black people, outside of the rich and famous ones, encountering different cultures, going on adventures, and having fun away from home; therefore, it was hard to imagine myself having worldly adventures. There are no seminal works such as the Eat Pray Love movie or the On the Road novel about Black people in the middle of an existential crisis or trying to find themselves against the backdrop of America. Rarely in the mainstream media is there the celebrated lore of travel informing Black people’s creative expression the way that David Bowie’s time in Germany led to the Berlin trilogy (Low, Heroes, Lodger) or how two drug-filled Las Vegas trips became the inspiration for Hunter S. Thompson’s most famous book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
If anything, media frequently portrays POC life as the following: 1) rife with adversity due to skin color and/or lack of wealth, 2) that we’re in homemade studios making mixtapes or playing sports, or 3) that white people invade our spaces in order to find themselves and learn to be grateful for their own lives because people of color make do with so little. If anything, the general perception of traveling for POC is getting out of poverty or the “bad” neighborhood they currently reside in. If we’re lucky enou
gh to do that, the reward is not a vacation or a chance to head to another country to have fun and fall in love / make life-changing friends, but to . . . land in a middle-class community, in which we’re one of a few, or the only one, of our “kind.” Supposedly, this new position as the neighborhood token is how us Black folk know we’ve done right in life. Assimilation in white-dominated spaces is the endgame, not our own individual happiness, which exists outside the purview of whiteness.
Y’all, I’m so starved for a Black-people-just-living-their-lives-and-traveling tale that I would settle for a short story about a Brooklyn-based AfroLatina using an E-ZPass to head into Jersey City for a Target run. My standards are that low! In all seriousness, we don’t get shown enough how freeing, enriching, fascinating, influential, and informative traveling can be because, according to society, we’re not supposed to explore or have full lives the way white people do. Instead, the most we should aspire to is middle-class suburbia, where we tolerate macro- and microaggressions that are the by-product of having “made it,” such as a passive-aggressive neighbor who notices your grass is a few inches higher than usual, so they put a pamphlet in your mailbox as a gentle reminder about the neighborhood rules on acceptable lawn height. Yes, this did happen to my brother, Phil, and yes, the neighbor who did this to him is white.
Noncontroversial statement of the day: Maybe, just maybe, some white people have a bit too much free time on their hands. I mean, I thought the purpose of training to compete at the CrossFit Games and apple picking at an orchard for leh-zur (that’s leisure for the unpretentious) was to eat up any and all spare time they had. Guess I was wrong because some white folks are committed to working an unpaid internship while studying at the University of Now Would Be a Good Time for Me to Mind My Own Business, But I’m Not Ready for That Conversation because keeping tabs on someone else’s grass is . . . ignorant.
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