I don't recall ever spending time studying the people and cultures of the South Pacific prior to preparing for a missions trip to Fiji. I obviously recognized Fijians as people of color, but did I feel the same connection for these beautiful people that I felt when I met other blacks who lived overseas? No. Because they aren't black. At least, that's how I saw it.
Before I got there, I was so focused on serving with Homes of Hope, a nonprofit that rescues victims of child sex trafficking and other sexual abuses, that this was one of the rare instances in the last couple of years where I wasn't giving a lot of thought to race.
So I was not prepared for the stares when I arrived in Nadi as the only black person in a group of 17 missionaries. I wasn't uncomfortable. At worst, the glances came with welcoming smiles. But they also reflected curiosity. At the airport, Fijians approached me, speaking to me in their native language—which honestly surprised me. I'm darker than most Fijians, so I figured that the Fijians would assume that I was not one of them. Others would approach me, only to be caught off guard by my American accent shaped by stints in D.C., the South, the Midwest and now the Southwest. Others immediately pegged me as an outsider, someone who clearly couldn't claim one of Fiji's 300-plus islands as home—but they still couldn't figure out what country I did call home. When I told them that I was American, surprise played across their faces. Then came the questions. Lots of questions. Often about Obama.
I was first, shocked by their interest, and then, humbled. These people, whose lives I wanted to know so much about, were taking a sincere interest in mine. Too often, missionaries, despite all attempts to do things differently, travel abroad with the goal of touching—not necessarily with the expectation of being touched.
When we finally arrived on the campus of Homes of Hope, the first mother I met, Salote, greeted me with a smile and wide eyes. ''Hello,'' I told her. She responded in kind—I think—but what I remember most clearly was her saying, ''I've never met a black American before. We have always wondered why black Americans never come over here to serve.''
Awkward.
I assured her that many black Americans were concerned with the plight of oppressed people internationally—particularly blacks and other people of color—and that my being in Fiji confirmed that, as many of the people sponsoring my trip are black Americans. But I'm not sure that really answered the question she was really asking about black American Christians. So I told them this: Yes, the black churches I'd been affiliated with are certainly missions oriented—and had even partaken in ministry opportunities overseas—but their primary outreach is local. In other words, ''We should help our next door neighbor in need before going anywhere else.''
Her response? ''Oh.'' The kind of ''oh'' that says, ''I guess'' before shrugging.
One day, after a cyclone hit our island, I was nailing screens to the windows of Shalom's bure. To keep myself entertained while working, I peeked through the window to watch Rize, a documentary about krumping that Shalom was also viewing. I was certainly familiar with the dance style and had heard about the documentary, but I'd never bothered to watch it. I found it ironic that I live a one-hour plane ride from Los Angeles, but learned most of what I know about krumping in a small house in the Fijian jungle.
In time, I came to understand why many of the locals felt such a connection to me and black America. During dinner at the home of my new friend, Joape, his mother broke it down for me further: Native Fijians, Mrs. Varawa said, were descendants of people who had migrated from Africa to Asia before settling in the South Pacific. This belief went so deep that her family and many residents in their neighborhood—which they have nicknamed ''Kenya''—spent months raising money to support missionaries in Nigeria. The Varawa family's church supports more than 300 missionaries around the world, many of them in Africa and some in America.
Obviously, I'm familiar with the theory shared by Mrs. Varawa. But I guess I hadn't thought about that while preparing for my trip, because for every person I met who shared Mrs. Varawa's belief, I feel like I'd read something else that suggested that many descendants of ancient migrants from Africa—particularly those living in Asian countries—didn't feel the same connection with black people and/or Africa. So repeatedly hearing a message that basically said, ''We may look like we have similar roots, but we don't'' pretty much stuck with me. And honestly, I was fine with that. Because I've come to conclude that a kinship based on skin color alone can only go but so deep. But it seemed like with each day, that kinship was deepening.
The Varawas along with Simoni's family took me from the Homes of Hope campus to see life in their native villages and to expose their families to me—first to a family member's funeral and second, to a daylong church event.
While listening to a church choir sing an a capella version of the hymn ''It Is Well'' in their native language at the funeral, I was reminded that the Baptist church staple was sung at my grandmother's funeral in North Carolina just a few months earlier. As I walked past a smoke pit where a hog was roasting in preparation for the funeral repast, I was reminded of the barbecue I devoured at a festival in Kansas City's 18th and Vine Historic District. And after heading to Joape's house after we consumed what seemed like a never-ending fried chicken dinner, we watched the game—rugby—before passing out to go to an all-day fundraiser supporting churches in Nigeria the next day.
So when my team was preparing to leave Fiji, the look I saw on the faces of the residents looked different. Or maybe I was just different. Their faces, still inviting, seemed to this time say ''We're different, but more similar than you know.'' And I hope the face I gave back said, ''Yep, I know.'' Because, now, I do.
Eugene Scott is a journalist based in Phoenix.
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