An African perspective on being Black in America
The time capsule is a collection of articles that were originally published at various times in the past, providing social commentary on a wide range of issues. The stories are prefaced by the author’s reflections drawing parallels to present day trends and developments.
Author’s note: When I wrote this piece almost six years ago, America was in the middle of yet another predictable news cycle following the shooting of an unarmed Black person by the police. Unfortunately the same pattern that we still see repeatedly today where the victim is vilified and there are rarely any consequences for the police, was playing out yet again. Fast forward to today and the lack of progress is quite demoralizing. Though the names are different, the patterns of systematic brutality against Black people haven’t changed much, if at all.
As I mention in this story, these tragic incidents always forced me to reflect on my own experiences with racism and particularly the American brand of racism. This is yet another area that hasn’t seen much progress, thanks in large part to Trump’s effective emboldening of formerly closeted racists all across the country and world.
However, not all the developments are negative. The Black Lives Matter movement shone a light into the darkness that is the persistent scourge of racism, forcing societies across the nation to look themselves in the mirror and decide how the history books will remember them - as true allies, bystanders to injustice, or perpetrators of it. The solidarity that I was attempting to highlight and capture when I wrote this piece all those years ago is personified in the essence of the BLM movement and offers a glimmer of hope that progress, while slow, is definitely possible and absolutely necessary.
Photo: Unsplash
I am an African through and through; nine years in this country has not changed that. Although I’ve become savvy in and adopted some of the cultural nuances, I still remain firmly grounded in my African mindset. I am instinctively respectful to my elders, laugh loud and often, feel guilty when I don’t finish my food, and remain unimpressed by the fruit selection in this place. None of that really matters though because to the naked eye, I am Black.
The first few years that I lived in this country I was attending college in a small town in North Iowa and for the first time in my life I was a minority. Having gone to an international school back home that had predominantly white expatriates’ kids, I wasn’t unaware of what it was like to be among the few. But I had hardly noticed it in my mind because many of my “foreign” classmates were arguably just as African as me in spirit, and outside the confines of our school I was definitely surrounded by faces that looked just like mine.
Iowa was an interesting immersion into the world of the minority for me. I have to preface my insights by saying that for the most part people were incredibly kind and respectful to me. I made lifelong friends during my time there and was welcomed with open arms into many a family home. I was however, also followed in stores as if I was going to steal something and stared at for noticeably annoying periods of time on many occasions. The incident that sticks out most in my mind is when I arrived a little late for church one Sunday and slid into one of the back pews next to an elderly couple. The woman gave me what I can only describe as a disgusted look, nudged her husband, and they quickly moved to another pew.
Now I am obviously aware that in times when Black people are being murdered in the streets on an all too regular basis, these incidents are tame. But all the same they made me begin to think about race in a way that I had never really done before. I am not implying that racism doesn’t exist in Africa. Ask any South African, it certainly does. For instance if you are Black in Africa, white people may assume that you don’t speak English or aren’t well educated. You will probably be paid significantly less money for doing the same job as a white person. Your fellow Africans might assume that you aren’t as well off as your white counterpart and you might not get the same service or attention they get (I know this isn’t strictly racism, but I classify it as black-on-black racism anyway!) These occurrences are incredibly annoying, but hardly life threatening.
In America though in true go-big-or-go-home fashion, racism is supersized. The rhetoric that has followed the tragedies of the past few months including multiple police shooting incidents and of course the heartbreaking Charleston shooting has been disappointing, infuriating, and discouraging.
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Of course this did not materialize from nowhere. The current temperature surrounding the dialogue of race in America comes on the heels of a painful history of slavery and brutality that will likely not dissipate for generations to come. Growing up I was always aware of this history (we had Roots on VHS!), but I never really understood how deep those wounds ran until I moved to America. In conversations with African-American friends, it became apparent that in America your race was a badge that you were forced to wear whether you wanted to or not. And regardless of your class, social status, or the balance in your bank account, the Black badge didn’t have the same perks as the white one.
When Obama became president in 2008 I cheered alongside my African-American friends. I was proud of him and believed in him not only because he was genuine and intelligent, but also because as a Black man with African roots he represented us all. It was obvious to me though that my pride paled in comparison to the pride that I could literally feel emanating from my African-American friends. The most powerful man in the world looked like them. It meant something incredible to them that as someone who didn’t grow up in this country I could never fully understand. It was beautiful to witness.
I will always feel like an outsider in this country simply because it will never truly feel like home. But I love it nonetheless. My boyfriend and many of my closest friends are Black, and it is obvious to me that even though I identify as African rather than African-American, it makes no difference. I am Black. We are Black. We wear the same Black badge, and our Blackness means that our reality is a different one than that of those around us with paler skin.
Despite this, there are encouraging moments that serve as a reminder to me that the hate pouring out of so many is miniscule in comparison to the compassion and understanding of most others. When I attended a vigil for the victims of the Garissa attacks in Kenya not long ago, I was unsurprised to find allies of all different races in attendance. One of those present who was championing the #BlackLivesMatter campaign spoke of the solidarity he and other African-Americans felt with us Africans. I believed it then, and I reciprocate it now.
I am Black. We are Black. We wear the same Black badge.
The original post was published on https://christinekwrites.com .
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