A Cultural Report Essay
By Lisa N. Alexander
🔹 This is Part Two of The Last Great Migration—a deep exploration of the paths we walk when the American dream no longer holds, and the ties that bind us, no matter how far we travel.
🔹 While millions of Black Americans fled the South during the Great Migration, the tide began to shift in the 1990s. A steady return migration has been unfolding ever since—some drawn back by choice, others by circumstance, but all moving within a story much larger than themselves.
🔹 Spreading Our Roots, Finding Our Place unpacks the journeys of those who left, those who stayed, and those now finding themselves pulled back—or planting themselves in new soil. Some return home, others build home elsewhere, but wherever we go, we extend our reach, carrying history with us. Through my own migration story and the history braided into my family’s past, I explore the tension between escape and return, displacement and belonging, loss and legacy.
🔹 This marks the final written installment of The Last Great Migration series. But the conversation doesn’t end here. Next, we take this discussion further—through a series of podcast interviews and a virtual event, where we’ll continue unpacking the movement, the stories, and the futures we are building beyond the borders of the United States. Stay tuned.
“The ache for home lives in all of us.”
—Maya Angelou
The Sparkle and the Struggle in South Los Angeles
A Community That Shined
I grew up in South Los Angeles, just seven miles from Central and Western Avenue—the heart of the community where Black families migrating out of the South settled during the second wave of the Great Migration in the 1940s.
The sidewalks on Western Avenue and Crenshaw Boulevard sparkled under the hot Southern California sun. The sidewalks were often lined with trash, blackened spewed gum, and aged, weathered buildings. The sparkle and decay stood in stark contrast, a contradiction impossible to ignore. The small pieces of mica mixed into the concrete were part of a beautification project in historic Black areas after a period of steady economic decline and disinvestment in the post-Civil Rights era.
Both sets of my grandparents migrated here; before any such beautification projects. They were part of a growing community of Black folks in what would soon become an overcrowded community. Black families were confined to predefined areas, and as more Southerners arrived, housing became increasingly scarce.
One set of grandparents settled around 89th Street & Compton, the others along the Central Boulevard corridor. They had babies and their babies had babies and I am the second generation to be born far from the horrors and brutality of a Jim Crow South.
Growing Up With Southern Roots in LA
With Southern grandparents, our table was always filled with collard and mustard greens, fried chicken, smothered pork chops, cornbread, mac and cheese, sweet potato pies, and Nana’s 7Up cake.
Some of my grandmother’s favorite delicacies like hog head cheese and chitlins were met with my swift disapproval.
Loud music blared at family gatherings. Bid whist was played and ‘bones’ slapped down hard on the table.
There was always church on Sundays. Always.
There were also drive-by shootings, a crack epidemic, the murder of Latasha Harlins by a Korean shop owner, the video-tapped beating of Rodney King, the civil unrest that followed and forced us to seek shelter at a friend’s house who lived far from the fray.
There were also beautiful drives up Pacific Coast Highway and quiet afternoons spent at Kenneth Hahn Park.
For better, or worse…this was life growing up somewhat southern on California’s West Coast.
It was my home.
The Great Migration Reversed
Leaving Los Angeles Without Knowing We Were Part of History
Fast forward to the mid-1990s and my husband Elgin, our two-year-old daughter and I are caravanning through the southwest desert on our own migration journey back to the South.
We had no idea that we were part of history.
The Great Migration, which saw millions of African Americans move from the South to the North and West between 1910 and 1970, began to reverse in the 1990s.
Why Black Families Started Returning to the South
With the decline of manufacturing jobs in the North, gentrification, and rising home prices in my native Los Angeles the growth of the “New South” economy, particularly in urban areas, attracted Black migrants.
Southern cities like Atlanta, Charlotte, and Houston saw significant increases in their Black populations.
After decades of being a major destination for Black migrants, California experienced a net loss of Black residents in the late 1990s. Our small family was part of that net loss and Houston would be the place we called home.
Back then I didn’t understand the significance of moving back to the place where my grandparents’ migration journey began.
Tracing My Family’s Journey Through History
Discovering My Roots in Red River Parish
My grandfather was born and raised in Marshall, Texas, while both grandmothers and paternal grandfather hailed from northern Louisiana.
Curious, I began to research my family tree. My research led me to Red River Parish, Louisiana—the same region where the 1874 Coushatta Massacre terrorized Black communities, my ancestors mostly likely among them.
Thomas Floyd, an African-American farmer, was murdered in Brownsville by the White League, a paramilitary group devoted to restoring white supremacy. The League arrested several White Republicans and twenty freedmen, accusing them of plotting a “Negro rebellion.” The massacre unleashed a wave of terror and bloodshed throughout Louisiana, spreading like wildfire to nearby Black communities—including, undoubtedly, to my family living in the area.
I don’t know if my ancestors were directly involved, but I am certain they heard about it—news spread quickly, as it was meant to, instilling fear in Black communities. I’m certain it became one of those things that was never mentioned, and if it was, only in hushed voices and knowing glances.
While tracking my family’s migration journey, I discovered that my maternal grandparents were already married when my grandfather enlisted in the Navy to serve in the Second World War. I know he left Marshall, Texas, and moved to Louisiana to be with my grandmother. But what I couldn’t find was their marriage license—I never knew when they got married.
So I called my grandmother’s sole surviving sibling, Momma Lee. At 98, her memory wasn’t very good. When I asked if she remembered my grandmother’s wedding, she apologized for not knowing. But she did recall that my grandmother left for Los Angeles first, followed by her and another sister. Then I asked about living in Louisiana during Jim Crow.
The call went silent.
She changed the subject.
Then abruptly ended the call.
She may not have remembered her sister’s wedding, but the horrors of Jim Crow were etched into her memory—too painful to speak, even decades later.
For so many Black families, leaving wasn’t just about seeking opportunity—it was about escaping violence. It was about survival. After all these years, my aunt couldn’t bring herself to utter what she had witnessed. Fear still renders her silent.
When Is Enough, Enough?
The Weight of Raising a Black Son in America
You would have thought I’d known Trayvon Martin personally the way I wept for him when he was murdered in 2012 by a self-proclaimed neighborhood watch volunteer.
May karma do what the courts refused to. Amen.
In Trayvon, I saw my son and my nephews. They were all close in age. Trayvon’s murder reminded me of the violence that Black boys face simply for existing.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second child, we were thrilled. When the ultrasound technician announced, ‘It’s a boy,’ I smiled—but then reality hit me hard. I wasn’t just bringing a son into the world—I was bringing a Black boy into a society that would fear him before it ever knew him. The realization was a weight I would carry forever.
Black Women Are Not Safe Either
This violence isn’t solely regulated against Black boys and men—Black women, including Black trans women, are in no way immune.
Sandra Bland’s death shook me—because it happened close to home. Too close. The idea that a routine traffic stop could end in a Black woman’s death, not far from where I work and exist, scared me. Without fail, I always signal because of what happened to her. A white colleague commented on my social media post that she often changes lanes and turns without signaling and has never been pulled over. Me? I never risk it.
The Rising Tide of Anti-Black Violence
Hate crimes against Black people increased year over year during the 45th president’s term. The FBI reported that from 2016 to 2020, anti-Black hate crimes made up the majority of race-based incidents.
Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Jordan Edwards, Antwon Rose Jr., Atatiana Jefferson, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd are the people whose lives were taken by police officers. These are the names and cases that made the national news—many others didn’t.
Like our grandparents who bore witness to lynchings, we watch modern-day atrocities unfold on our cell phones—sometimes in real-time. The final moments of Black lives looped endlessly on social media and the evening news, fuel conversations and even global protests.
Black people still weren’t safe, no matter where they called home—New York, Los Angeles, the Deep South, or the frigid North. The realization weighed on me: If safety couldn’t be found in America, was it time to look elsewhere?
Redefining Home
The Search for a Place Where We Could Be Safe
Like my grandparents, I started to wonder—was there somewhere else I could go? Was there a place where I could find both safety and economic security?
Weary after a four-year term filled with hate and millions of deaths, the YouTube algorithm gods sent me Stephanie Perry. My ‘Black women travel’ search term introduced me to Black women who had packed up and left the U.S.
The thought intrigued me.
I watched Stephanie and her Exodus Summit co-founder Roshida Dowe for hours—the pair admonishing us, showing us that we had options our grandparents did not.
Watching her videos led me to other Black women living abroad—Mexico, Portugal, Belize, the Philippines, Ghana, and Bali. Because for these women, home was now a place where they felt genuinely safe, indulged in rest, and “live their best lives.”
If America, bloated by its glorified ‘American Dream,’ is a size 26—stitched together with enslaved labor and an insatiable hunger for power—then justice, equality, and even basic dignity for Black people are a size 2, an afterthought in a system that can never be tailored enough through legislation and policies for an accurate fit.
A Return to the Land
I never expected that, as the granddaughter of Southern migrants from Texas and Louisiana, the land would feel like home—familiar and, in some ways, comforting. My husband, with his love of the Southern California coast and deep Mississippi roots, didn’t feel the same connection.”
I can be in my grandmother’s hometown of Belcher, Louisiana in less than four hours and walk the same fields where she picked cotton and pay my respects to generations of my family at St. Paul’s CME church where Nana and Momma are interred. Even though Nana migrated from her home and moved west, she reluctantly moved back to Texas so Momma could care for her. She was adamant about one thing—we were not to place any Texas dirt on top of her. We were to carry her back home—to that final resting place with the rest of our family.
The Growing Exodus
The Black Expats Finding New Homes Abroad
A beautiful young woman I went to church with back in Los Angeles moved to China on a whim. Her partner had just been hired as a percussionist and on an over-the-phone interview she was hired as the lead vocalist. The couple moved to Shanghai and stayed for 10 years. She loved her life there and told me China was nothing like it had been portrayed in Western media.
An acquaintance’s daughter moved to Taiwan years ago. Every so often, she returns—says hello to family, kisses her momma, and then boards a plane back home.
Not Every Expat Story Ends in Success
Not every journey abroad ends in success. Some return home due to financial struggles, mental health challenges, or the pull of family.
In July 2023, I interviewed makeup artist Nykema Brown. She quietly sold her things, packed a few bags, and started a new life in Puerto Vallarta. Pure exhaustion from living life as a constant caregiver to her family, being a single mom, and working for a company that reduced her existence to an ID badge and a paycheck were her reasons for seeking out a new place to call home.
She and her pre-teen daughter had numerous discussions about the move, and at first, all seemed well. They planned to leave for Mexico together before the new school year, but as the departure date neared, her daughter admitted she didn’t want to go. The thought of starting over in a new place without friends and family was too much. With plans already in motion, Nykema made the tough decision to leave her daughter with family and go alone. A year later, she returned and put life in Mexico on the back burner.
Still, what was true for Nykema is true for many Black expats living life abroad—the immediate decrease in stress and improved health. The physical toll of chronic stress in the United States is evident in its rising obesity rates, even among its youngest citizens. Hypertension and diabetes cozy up like old family friends generation after generation.
Part of what’s contributing to better health abroad is higher-quality food. A 2023 study found that American food regulators allow chemicals banned in over 30 countries—including those linked to cancer, infertility, and metabolic disease—to contaminate our food. This manipulation of our food is another kind of violence inflicted not only on Black people but on poor people—all in the name of convenience.
With untainted food readily available, Black bodies living abroad have the chance to heal. Without the constant threat of violence, nervous systems reset, and the fight-or-flight response shifts into rest and digest.
Bree Brown chronicles such a transition on social media. I remember seeing her story for the first time and was immediately captivated—a chance encounter with an Uber driver turned love story, the birth of two beautiful boys, and a move from their beloved Washington, D.C., to Belize.
Life in Belize meant less struggle and less fear, and things were going well until old, buried issues resurfaced. At first, she thought it strange—why would this be coming up now? She and her husband were safe. They were happy. But when your fight-or-flight response is turned off, the things that need to be resolved make themselves known.
You can focus on deep healing when you’re not struggling to survive.
I never forgot her story.
A Place Where We Can Finally Breathe
Carrying My People With Me
Black expats teach us that there is no Black utopia. Still, the systemic racism here is uniquely insidious. What we’re witnessing is that hate and ignorance cannot be legislated away.
It’s always there. It was always there.
Ever since the Civil War, through Reconstruction, and into the Jim Crow era, systemic racism has been evident in segregation, policing, and the redlining of Black communities.
Our grandparents and great-grandparents migrated North and West, chasing better lives. Some found them; many did not.
Then came the return migration to the South.
And now? Their grandchildren are uprooting again—this time beyond U.S. borders, with no regrets.
The thought of leaving this place feels heavy. This is the land where my ancestors were unloaded from ships, sold off to plantation owners, and forced to build a nation that never truly claimed them.
Yet, in this moment, leaving a place that never loved me or my people feels like an act of reclamation—a chance to thrive and receive what they should have. I would do this in their stead, as their proxy.
This is our collective Sankofa moment.
But leaving doesn’t mean forgetting. I would carry the lessons, the stories, and the memories with me—to a new place where I could finally thrive.
I wouldn’t be leaving them behind, but bringing them forward—honoring them in a land where we could finally breathe.
Not today, though.
But one day.
Lisa N. Alexander is the author and founder of This Woman Knows and What Million-Dollar Brands Know. She is an award-winning filmmaker, director, producer, and writer and is the owner of PrettyWork Creative.
