At 4 a.m. on Nov. 6, as my wife and I sat in our Seattle home watching election results roll in, something crystallized in our shared glance. We’d already been methodically planning our departure for months, recognizing America’s trajectory. The weight of that moment ― the culmination of years of systematic observation and personal experience ― settled heavily in our bedroom. This wasn’t just another exercise in hypothetical escape; this was the final push we needed to transform rhetoric into reality.
Growing up across the tracks in Richmond, Texas, I learned early about the complexities of being what my grandfather called a “peculiar Negro.” I was that kid who read “X-Men” comics, dated outside my race and spoke “too proper,” choices that got me labeled a “sellout” by age 15. Those early experiences of existing between worlds ― not Black enough for some spaces, too Black for others ― prepared me for a life of navigating complex racial dynamics, a skill that proved invaluable in my journey from a small Texas town to my current position as a diversity officer at a major research university in Seattle.
The decision to leave America isn’t born from a single moment but from a lifetime of accumulated experiences. As a former infantry soldier who once believed wholeheartedly in the Army values of loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity and personal courage, I’ve watched our nation repeatedly fail to live up to these ideals. A memory still echoes in my mind of a drill sergeant at Fort Benning, Georgia, singing racist cadences during PT runs.
Just last year, while checking into a hotel in downtown Portland, an unhoused person’s quick transition from asking for money to hurling racial slurs reminded me that no amount of education or professional achievement can fully shield us from America’s deeply ingrained racism. It was a stark reminder that to some, I would always be, first and foremost, a “nigger” in America.
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.
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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.
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