The Scholarship Girl, The Diplomat, And The Woman I Am Now

Ten years after a summer in Oman on a scholarship, I am back in a crowded, hot airport cafe on a layover, making my way there once again with 3 drinks in front of me and a ghost in my carry on.

My chair is a hard, shiny wood that bites into the backs of my thighs. In front of me sits my usual trifecta: a watered down iced matcha, a tiny cup of something sweet (juice today, though I usually lean toward kombucha), and a big bottle of water. Caffeine, sugar, hydration. Armor against the five interrupted hours of sleep I got on my red eye.

One more short flight and I will land in Muscat. Just me, my credit card, and the stubborn decision I made a year ago. I am going to study Arabic again, for myself.

The last time I flew toward this city it was 2016, the now nostalgic year flooding our timelines with throwback posts. Us millennials had knees that did not ache yet, student loan debt we had not fully accepted the weight of, and a lot more hope.

That summer, I had a full scholarship to study Arabic in Oman.

Flights covered. Housing handled. Three meals a day. Excursions to beaches with water so clear they looked like postcards. Full time language instruction.

I met people that summer who are still my people, friends I still call when it all falls apart and would get on a plane for without thinking. We rode ATVs in the desert, in the rain. We piled into buses and drove past jagged cliffs on winding mountain roads.

And I felt safe.

As a Black woman who usually left her late night restaurant shifts in DC and made her way home solo in the dark, that kind of safety felt like fantasy. Despite the ever presence of racism, yes even in Oman, I wasn’t worried about street harassment, about crime, about my friends being shot in the street for being too Black.

Here I was, living another life. A girl on a sponsored, almost fairytale adventure, surrounded by turquoise water and sunshine.

Meanwhile, it was being televised to the world that my country was happy to kill people who looked like me. A country that was not exceptional in the ways so many Americans want to believe.

After my program ended, I went home and finished grad school. I did exactly what everyone said was the point of all that work.

I became a diplomat.

On paper, it was the dream. A Black girl who grew up hearing that education was the way out, now stepping into a career that proved it. I had the good job and the clear path.

My first tour sent me back to the region I love, this time Jordan. I used Arabic every day. I worked with students who reminded me of my younger self, wide eyed and hungry for something bigger.

But the job came with its own kind of leash.

There is a level of surveillance and control you give up when you work for the government. Travel had to be approved. Sometimes the answer was no. Even where I wanted to go on vacation had to fit someone else’s definition of acceptable and safe.

There is a particular dissonance in representing a government abroad that you know is dangerous to you at home. A government that could shoot you in the street and then debate on television whether you deserved it.

Then 2020 arrived and I just couldn’t anymore. It felt like I was watching America turn a blind eye to a cult we would never escape.

So I left.

I did not have a 5 year business plan. I thought I had been broke before, and if I was broke again I would figure it out.

Entrepreneurship meant late nights working myself to exhaustion and navigating a space I had no training for. A creative space that still does not have fully established norms.

I entered a new era with many of the same old tendencies.

The training of capitalism and respectability politics stayed lodged in my body. Work hard. Feel guilty for taking breaks. Always push to the next big thing. Orient my whole life around achievement.

It took a long time to start changing that. One morning, I had a small, petty realization. I am not a morning person, never have been. In fact, I hate mornings. As I forced myself yet again to wake up early to work, I thought, “Why the fuck am I working these morning hours when I am supposed to be making the rules?”

I am still unlearning.

Sitting with my own desire to be good at things and to scale, bumping up against the truth that I do not need to chase ever bigger launches, million dollar years, or an ever growing team.

That is where my selfish year comes in. It is my promise to prioritize my internal voice. To lean into side quests and special interests. A response to what it has taken to get here.

I kept thinking about that scholarship girl in 2016, how free and safe she felt. So I signed up for Arabic lessons again in Oman. Twenty five hours a week back in a classroom where I get to be a student without the pressure of grades, scholarship rules, or a militarized education system that taught me how to talk about the UN before it taught me how to ask for the bathroom.

I saved up. I booked the ticket.

Which is how I ended up in this airport, staring down my three drinks with a severe sense of deja vu, yet again crying over America. Because my country was built on violence and seems to revel in it, even as it destroys us.

I want Unfiltered & Fed to be a place for collective care, not just my yapping. A place where we can feel free to name what we need, share what we can, and remember we don’t have to do everything alone.

If you’re navigating something right now and want to share it here, you’re welcome to. And if you have capacity to offer ideas, resources, or connections that could be a resource, pleas share them too.

For example, I know folks in this space are dealing with layoffs, so if you’re looking for job leads let us know!

I just finished reading Careless People: A Cautionary Tale of Power, Greed, and Lost Idealism (that’s an affiliate link) and I can’t recommend it enough. If you want clear examples, in a narrative that’s easy to understand and quite interesting, of how social media companies engage in censorship, spreading misinformation, and fuel conflict (often in collaboration with governments and people in power), read this.

I firmly believe that action is one of the most effective ways to battle anxiety. So if you’re feeling it as I am right now, please don’t freeze. Practice self care so that you can also show up for others not just now, but forever. Call your reps. Nap. Find a local mutual aid org you can join. Talk a walk and see the sun. Sit down with your mom who’s being taken in by conspiracy theories on Facebook and talk to her rather than ignore it. Masturbate and read for pleasure.

I’m lucky right now to have downtime in Oman to write, to process, to feel the sun on my face, and to take a breather. But I’m also using that space to take action. I hope you’re doing the same on both counts.