Growing up in Brazil, I remember my father, a thick-glass-wearing-highly-educated-meteorogist-Afro-Brazilian-man, constantly telling me to move out of our house. He used to say: “Move as far as you can from us and make a life for yourself elsewhere.” I remember my clenched teeth and how my veins grew hot. I thought: “How outrageous! I am only a teenager! Where would I go anyhow?” But my father was used to moving. He was in the military, working as an air-traffic controller for the Brazilian Air Force. That meant we were somewhat part of the lower middle class. Although, everywhere we moved, to the apartment in Barra Beach in Salvador, the several homes in suburbia Rio de Janeiro or in Belo Horizonte, we were the only Black family around.