So much of the living abroad conversation centers the decision to leave: the urgency, the relief, the life rebuilt somewhere more survivable. Rarely does it follow a mother into what comes next. When the child she moved to protect grows up and decides he wants to go back.
This piece, written by Ayoka B., begins with a departure from the United States that felt like survival and ends somewhere far more complicated: a mother watching her son, who thrived abroad in ways she never could have engineered at home, prepare to return to the very conditions she left.
Ayoka is a writer, poet, and a guest on Flourish in the Foreign, Season 7, Episode 6.
The Dilemma
Written By: Ayoka B.
When we left America, it was urgent. My milestones had been met: my daughter graduated from college, and I was fully vested at my former place of employment. The border of our new home country was open, and I wasn’t going to get caught on the wrong side again. I was finally lifting from a depression that I can only name in hindsight. I had been functioning, but the sadness was heavy and consuming. Overwhelmed by the violence, the quarantine, the cumulative impact of being undervalued; my creativity fled, and the gift of stillness I’d learned from my yoga practice, out of reach. We sold, gave away, or donated everything: furniture, coats, and shoes. I gave away handbags and stylish boots to gleeful friends. I owned an antique set of four, cherrywood chairs; the matching dining table with the extra leaf was long gone. I’d purchased the set almost 30 years ago from an elder. The seats and backs of the chairs were embroidered fabric. I’d lovingly refurbished the chairs, enlisting David and Diallo to sand and paint them the perfect shade of a creamy matte. I replaced the batting and fabric with a modern print of colorful abstract leaves that I’d searched for, but I left the chair backs open. Those chairs? Donated. They didn’t fit my minimalist vision for the future. We packed momentos, art, clothing, kitchen stuff, and one piece of furniture: a mango wood cabinet. And two bikes. COVID was still rampant, but not at its height. It snowed eight inches the week we left. The house sold on a Friday, my son and I flew to San Jose, Costa Rica, on Monday. I felt like I was fleeing for my life because I was.
My partner, David, arrived the next month, and our half container of belongings the following month. I found my tribe in a writing group, and my son took boxing lessons twice a week. We navigated the Mepe bus route and meandered through neighboring towns. Because David and I had visited for a few years before moving, we knew our way around a bit. We had a handful of friends. They kept us company as David began the back and forth of employment in the States. I continued homeschooling my thirteen-year-old for another few months until neither of us could take it any longer. After learning at home for two years, he was over it. I couldn’t blame him. It had lost its excitement, and I was tired of yelling because he would no longer finish assignments. I’d been reluctant to enroll him in school as soon as we moved because I thought it was too much change at once: new country, new culture, new life. So, after I gave him a “summer break,” I enrolled him in a neighborhood school. For the final three months of the local school year, he was a “listening student.” Think of a listening student as a college student who audits a class. He wasn’t required to complete assignments or take exams, but simply attend classes. To my son’s credit, he opted to fully participate. “I wanna see where I am compared to the class.”
My son, who had been fluent in Spanish as a child, was rusty, so I thought this would ease him in. It was a smooth transition, actually. Excited to be in a classroom with students, he took to the new school like a duck to water! He rode his bike to school, an 11-minute ride. He’d become a strong bike rider from his exploring since we’d arrived (something I’d never have allowed in DC). His daily alarm went off at 6 am. He was up and out without prompting and in his classroom seat by 7. Earning As and Bs, by the time those months were finished, his Spanish was at about 92 percent, and he’d made great friends. My son was happy and thriving! On the weekends and after school, he and his friends played basketball, hung out at the beach, or played pool. No more were the marathon video tournaments with his friends online. He reveled in the freedom that I allowed and was safe. I could breathe. My son could move around alone and with his friends, unbothered.
After another year at the local school, my son and his friend-turned-girlfriend decided they wanted to change schools. They would graduate the next year, and they wanted a different experience. So the four of us - me, Diallo, his girlfriend, and her father - began visiting schools in Limón. Limón is a port city up the coast from us, about 40 minutes away. It is the city to our jungle and densely populated with people and businesses. And it is an AfroTico town. Diallo wanted a larger class size. Their current class consisted of nine kids. And it was international. He wanted to go to school with Ticos, local students. Her father wanted a stricter environment. I wanted better communication with parents. So we began our treks for visits, applications, and later, tours.
We collectively chose a school, and that was that. Somehow, I hadn’t factored in the transportation, but we made it work. Diallo caught a shuttle. He had to be at the stop at 6:18 am. But, somewhere towards the middle of that year, there was a shift with him. He wasn’t getting up on time, he was complaining about classes, and his attitude was not good. “Diallo, you wanted this. You need to buckle down and do the work,” I sighed. “You can’t get frustrated because something becomes difficult or you’ll never learn!” There was a period when the mixture of teen hormones, my impatience, and his lackadaisical performance reached a tipping point. David had to step in to diffuse the situation. Diallo eventually focused and ended the year strong, thanks to initial strong trimesters and high exam scores. Later, Diallo confided that he was fearful of the next steps. He would graduate the next year, and he had no idea what he wanted to do. First, he went down the rabbit hole of college, signing up to be on every list. The number of shiny, colorful brochures arriving in my mother’s mailbox was astounding. Once he learned that I was not requiring him to follow in my or his sister’s footsteps, he switched gears.
He talked to David about trade school. David is a commercial electrician and a master barber. I thought it was a good idea for a seventeen-year-old to consider. He could earn the certification, then move on to something else if he wanted. In the meantime, maybe he’d discover his passion… because that’s what I want for him. “Forget money. Consider it, but don’t let it make your decisions,” I advised. “Find what excites you! What would you do every day for free?” “I don’t know,” he moaned. And as his final year progressed, I’d ask friends and family not to question him about his plans. He was stressed out. Of course, some didn’t listen, which raised my ire, something nobody wanted. Everyone had an opinion about what my son should do. Nobody knows him anymore, especially stateside! And this is where the problem began. Someone suggested that he return to the States after he graduates.
Diallo is an old soul who has deep conversations with elders. He has a magnetism that people are drawn to. If you’re having an event, you want him out front managing the crowd. His interpersonal skills are enormous, just like his sunny smile, which he shares easily. And his Spanish is flawless. His new schoolmates said the only way they knew he wasn’t local was because of his basketball shoes. He’s a bit of a sneakerhead, encouraged by David, who complains, but buys him new ones whenever he asks. He is open and trusting, easy-going and laid back. His middle childhood years were spent in a protective bubble with me. Adolescence was enjoyed carefree in a beautiful place within a caring culture. Diallo was allowed to earn accolades, care, and respect based upon what he contributed.
Now, he wants to return to the United States, against my wishes, at the worst possible time. Never mind the ICE raids, ballooning unemployment, pending wars, and police violence. And the fact that my son is from DC but not of DC. He doesn’t know how to move in DC and I fear that his disposition will make him a mark. I told him that he needed a plan to go and that he should reconsider the timing. He has no real plan, and he’ll be staying on my mother’s couch. My son, who has always had his own room, will be sharing a house with four people and sleeping on the couch. Diallo thinks that I am being dramatic, but he didn’t grow up the way that I did… in a dangerous DC. I lost so many friends to gun violence that I can’t count. “There is a big difference between visiting DC and living there,” I warned. “You have no idea.”
I’ve talked to him about knowing what people are into before you spend time together. He has a handful of friends that he’s kept in touch with, but he doesn’t know who they hang with. As a young, Black man, you need to know. And even if everybody is straight, just hanging out as a group causes unwanted attention: from other young Black men, from police, from ICE.
I am terrified. I’m not as emotional as before, but I’m not okay. The last conversation David and I had about Diallo was him suggesting that we tell him he couldn’t go because he wasn’t ready. David made that suggestion. Then, when the three of us talked, David said, “Some things you can’t know until you actually try.” I tearfully shouted my protests: about my concern for Diallo’s safety, about the housing arrangement, about his lack of a plan. I left the room feeling discounted and in utter disbelief. '
He flies to DC on May 28. His first tasks are to secure a learner’s permit or a nondriver’s ID. Then, he plans to apply for a six-month, unpaid HVAC program, of which he is unaware of the start date and location. David must be planning to continue funding him.
I am currently submitting paperwork for our citizenship. Hopeful that securing more options for him here will lure him back. In the meantime, I will be in my mother’s ear and request that she give him a deadline, which she will be hesitant to do. Otherwise, I am unsure what else to do… but pray.
Ayoka B. tells the untold stories of mothers, sisters, daughters, and wives. Through her unique lens, she explores these voices through poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
Her debut novel, Love At Second Sight, was published in 2024. Works in progress include a spin-off of her debut, a collection of humorous vignettes for women, two poetry collections, and a YA paranormal novel. She is also co-host of a new podcast, Writing While Black.
Substack: https://substack.com/@muleoftheworld
Wow. Very similar stories. We left when my son was 12 and he’s 20 now. Just finishing up at Arizona State University while I’m still in England. Still, it’s gratifying knowing we did our best and gave them freedom to grow.