Buzz
The author speaking at a political rally.
At 4 a.m. on November 6, as my wife and I sat in our Seattle home watching the election results unfold, something solidified in our exchanged look. We had been quietly planning our exit for months, understanding the trajectory America was heading towards. The significance of that moment—the culmination of years of personal experience and observation—hit us hard in that bedroom. This wasn’t merely a hypothetical escape; it was the final nudge we needed to turn words into action.
Growing up in Richmond, Texas, I quickly learned the nuances of being what my grandfather called a “peculiar Negro.” I was the kid reading X-Men comics, dating outside my race, and speaking “too proper,” all of which got me branded a “sellout” by the time I was 15. Those early experiences of navigating between worlds—being too Black for some spaces, not Black enough for others—prepared me for a life spent managing complex racial dynamics, a skill that would later help me transition from a small Texas town to my current role as a diversity officer at a major research university in Seattle.
The decision to leave America doesn’t stem from a single event but is the result of a lifetime’s worth of experiences. As a former infantry soldier who once believed deeply in the Army’s values—loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage—I’ve witnessed our nation’s repeated failure to live up to these ideals. A memory still lingers in my mind of a drill sergeant at Fort Benning, Georgia, leading racist chants during physical training runs.
Only last year, while checking into a hotel in downtown Portland, a homeless person’s swift shift from asking for money to hurling racial slurs reminded me that no amount of education or professional success can shield us from America’s deep-rooted racism. It was a sobering reminder that, to some, I will always be nothing more than a “nigger” in America.
The author during his childhood years.
By mid-November, my wife and I had secured our positions in U.K. academic programs. Despite most universities having closed their admissions, my Ph.D. in industrial-organizational psychology and my wife’s Health and Care Professions Council credentials opened doors. We opted for the student visa pathway, recognizing its flexibility in establishing our new foundation.
The logistics proved complex, particularly arranging international transport for our Scottish terrier, Rosco. As we navigate the Seattle housing market and liquidate assets, we’re fortunate that current property values have provided sufficient resources to ensure our transition remains permanent. This capacity to choose our destiny reflects undeniable privilege ― options my grandfather could never have imagined when he first called me “peculiar.” We went from zero to London in less than two months.
The mounting opposition to diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives in American academia has been particularly telling, but equally concerning is the fundamental lack of infrastructure supporting this work. While my own department has been exceptionally supportive, the broader landscape of academic DEI reveals a troubling pattern. Unlike established academic disciplines that have clear theoretical foundations, dedicated journals and institutional homes, DEI work often exists in a precarious space ― valued in rhetoric but undernourished in practice.
My success in this field came from deliberately bridging industrial/organizational psychology with DEI principles, creating measurable outcomes and data-driven approaches to inclusion. This marriage of methodological rigor with equity work shouldn’t be novel ― it should be standard practice. Yet across academia, DEI initiatives often lack this sort of foundation, leading to well-intentioned but ineffective programs that fail to create lasting change. You can see that in just how easily they were dismantled at George Mason University, Virginia Commonwealth University, the University of Wyoming and so on. Like so much trash, they were easily tossed aside.
As someone who has dedicated years to advancing diversity in higher education, I’ve watched with growing alarm as equity work faces systematic dismantling. The combination of external political pressure and internal institutional failures creates a perfect storm. When lawmakers craft policies designed to undermine civil rights protections and weaken anti-discrimination laws through initiatives like Project 2025, the writing on the wall becomes impossible to ignore: It’s time to bounce.
The Pacific Northwest, despite its natural beauty and proclaimed progressiveness, has shown me the limitations of American liberalism. As a Black person in Seattle, I rarely see others who look like me in certain spaces, creating a peculiar kind of isolation. This hypervisibility in professional settings ― being simultaneously the most noticeable person in the room and the most overlooked ― creates a unique psychological burden that requires constant navigation of others’ perceptions while maintaining one’s sense of self.
This isn’t about abandoning the struggle for racial justice. It’s about recognizing that sometimes, survival requires finding new ground from which to stand and breathe. The legacy of slavery and its modern manifestations have created an America where even the air feels heavy with history’s unresolved debts. Recent studies show that college graduates who are Black have lower wealth levels than high school dropouts who are white. The life expectancy for Black Americans is six years less than for their white counterparts. It all paints a clear picture of systemic inequities that no amount of individual achievement can overcome.
We’re looking ahead to our departure date with both anticipation and solemnity. I’ll be celebrating my birthday the following day in London, which symbolizes more than personal significance; it represents a conscious choice to define our future on different terms. We’re not running away; we’re running toward something better. The U.K. presents its own challenges with racism and inequality, but there’s a fundamental distinction between choosing one’s battles and inheriting them.
For those contemplating similar decisions: This process demands substantial financial resources, emotional resilience and psychological preparation. The practical challenges are considerable, from securing international positions to navigating visa requirements and managing the logistics of an overseas move. Yet for some of us, the cost of remaining has become untenable.
As a Black academic who has extensively studied systemic racism and trauma, I’ve concluded that self-preservation sometimes manifests as the conscious choice to flourish elsewhere. The psychological toll of navigating American racism ― the constant hypervigilance, the burden of representation, the exhausting dance between visibility and invisibility ― exacts a price too high to ignore.
Living in America as a Black person requires a peculiar kind of consciousness, one that my grandfather recognized in me long ago. Perhaps being a “peculiar Negro” also means having the courage to seek prosperity and peace beyond America’s shores, carrying with us the wisdom of our ancestors while charting new paths forward. We’re preparing for this next chapter with the understanding that sometimes, the most powerful form of resistance is the refusal to remain in spaces that demand our diminishment.
Our story is not unique, but it is personal. It’s a testament to both the persistent challenges facing Black professionals in America and the possibility of choosing a different path. As we pack our lives into shipping containers and prepare for our new beginning, we carry with us the complex legacy of our American experience ― the pain, the resilience, and the hope that somewhere else, we might find not just survival, but a chance to genuinely flourish.
This article originally appeared on HuffPost.
