The rain and fog were unexpected. They snatched us into their capricious reality. In a boat of cold shivering bodies, engulfed by the fog, we sat and waited for our arrival. We could not see beyond ten feet in front of our boat’s bow. We were no longer in the familiar, but continuously wiping our eyes as if we were mourning the loss of a mother. The fog and rain created a barrier, a mysterious secret passage, keeping us in the dark of our journey. Quickly, prayers were said. I too had an anxiety that inched forward in a crowd as we approached Corn Island. I’d spent eleven weeks traveling through the lands of Nicaragua's Atlantic coast . However, most of my time was spent in Managua. My face was always the brownest in neighborhoods of blue and red colored doors; my hair the kinkiest on streets whose corners were occupied by food vendors and ambitious gold-tooth women. I was Morena in their eyes. My coworkers danced while suggesting that I visit the Pacific coast, a land of mystery even to them; a land and people whose culture they had viewed from a small screen. I knew they only suggested it because the dancers on the screen looked like me. I intrinsically questioned their infectious curiosity. Yet, there I was, clinging to my life vest. The rain continued to fall. Wiping my eyes, I thought about Chino. Well that wasn’t his real name. He was given that name by others in the community because he looked Filipino. One evening Chino drove my friends and I home from work. Bridging his story to ours, he asked, “What are you?” We spoke from left to right, “Mexicana”, “Polaca and Mexicana”, “Colombiana” and “Afroamericana”. The last response elicited a direct stare through his rearview mirror. I finally got to see his brown eyes. He stated, “Si, pero what African Country?” I stared back, unable to answer the question. I wanted to express my longing for the answer to that same question. His eyes refocused on the road. This was my third time explaining American Slavery. Upon our arrival, the sun came out. Back in Managua, someone told me you could walk around the entire island by taking one path. I decided to walk down this apparent path. However, the street turned into a sidewalk that continued into neighborhoods, branching off into other sidewalks leading down other smaller paths. The laughter of children and clucks of chickens claimed the space and sharply sent vibrations. The aroma of ripe pineapples battled the sweet rotting mangoes at the base of trees. I followed the smell of pineapples, which led me into a dark wooden structure with a tin roof. In the middle of the room, a suspended lightbulb swung and reflected off a worn machete. A man was using it to husk a coconut. He invited me into his dwelling. Soon smiles and friendly gestures were exchanged. After breaking bread with pineapple, I asked about the history of the people of Corn Island. He continued to share what he could, a story. Like the childhood moments spent on my great uncle’s porch and the adulthood moments spent on couches of those who’ve come before me, he began telling his story and others’ story of migration. He proclaimed, “We come from Caribbean islands. That's why we speak English and Spanish”. I heard pride in his tone. I appreciated his historical account because I assumed, they were descendants of enslaved Afro- Nicaraguans. But, their story was like my family and others who participated in the Great Migration back home. Four generations ago my maternal and paternal family left America’s deep south and migrated to the north. Going beyond our diasporic roots, our families' migration brought us here. Through the power of choice, his people are on chosen land and through that same sovereignty my greats’ bold movements created new waves and expanded networks on their chosen land, Detroit. I understood his pride and felt my own sense of it too. There is pride in choosing where you want to be. Despite not being able to answer Chino’s question, there is comfort in knowing how I got here.