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As a girl, I wanted to believe that the world had more to offer me. The poverty, the drugs, the violence, the overall chaos that was on full display in my life was familiar. I would love to say that my journey to exploring the world was one that came quickly. It would be years later, with a child that led to single motherhood, and three stints in college before I would be introduced to a world outside of my own. While in undergrad, I came across an opportunity to travel abroad studying the Black presence in Mexico. One of our first stops was a museum keeping some of the original Olmec heads. Walking into the museum I was able to gaze upon smaller sculptures highlighting how Olmec society viewed people. Sometimes we see people with physical and mental health challenges as nonvaluable. Within the Olmec society, these people would be considered valuable and deified. This is reflected in the statues through the care and consideration that went into each detail. Within the clef lip of the child, you can still see a smile. The Olmec heads themselves were different, yet their size and the stories of cranes breaking to bring them in the museum allow details on them to stand out more. While no one head looks the same, there is a familiarity that I felt as I stared back at them. I am not sure if it is the hairstyles (from cornrows to Bantu knots) or the fullness carved in their lips. I am reminded of the times I was teased for my African features. While those memories flood my mind, I still felt good. Knowing that people who looked like me had created that which withstood the test of time filled me with pride I had ever felt. Our next stop, an old castle that was used to hold enslaved Africans captive. Before I could enter, I had to take deep breaths. I closed my eyes and thought about that which my ancestors endured. I crouched down to enter into the dark dungeon walkway. The smell struck me before the light did. It was an odd odor. It was old and smelled of blood and ocean. But there was a pain in the smell, there was hurt that lingered in the air. The salt from my tears began to mix with the smell and yet there was that pride as I listened to the stories of how the Spanish kidnapped Africans and forced them to dive for coral. Once their task was complete, they were back in the dungeons and tied to thick 6inch posts that protruded various spots on the wall. The most exciting moment of the trip was a visit to the town of Yanga, of which I had never heard. Stepping off the bus into the 110° weather, I gasped slightly. Either from shock or because of the heat. All of what I had been told about Mexico became untrue at this moment. I stood in a village where the people all looked like some variation of me. Mexican people, but with a variety of African hair, skin, and body shapes all moving around in preparation for their upcoming festival. They were celebrating their founder, Gaspar Yanga. He was one of the only men able to defeat and outwit Hernan Cortez, a ruthless Spanish colonizer. An agreement was made allowing any enslaved Africans that escaped and made it to the town to be guaranteed their freedom. In the middle of the village stood a huge statue. The color was silver, but over the years the sun had caused it to shift to a deep and dark grey. His broken chains hanging from his wrist in the same hand that holds a spear sends a powerful message. I never went to Mexico and expected to find myself. It was the start of a new journey for me. I knew that what I longed for as a little girl was not simply to see what the world had to offer me, but I was supposed to see myself in the world. I was supposed to tell the stories of Black people throughout The Diaspora.