From Me to You: Tangents of Thought
Written: 06/13/2018
At this point, I might finally be getting the hang of journaling, because a thought just crossed my mind a few seconds ago and my first instinct was to write about it. Don't know what's changed in the last 40 hours or so but [I guess] I'm here for it?
Anyway, the thought was about how strange of an experience it is to look African - as apparently I somehow do; the furthest roots I know about are in Arkansas, though - but be American in these two countries I've visited. I only remember it happening once or twice when I was in South Africa five years ago, but on my last trip to Ghana and in this past week I've been made so aware of my Americanism as well as the depth of what it means to not know my ancestry.
The "it" I am referring to is the phenomenon of being asked where I'm from, responding, and then being asked if my parents are from here because I can't possibly just be "black American" (based on my looks). It got to the point in Nigeria where my friend and I joked that I really should just make up a story and tribal name since everyone thinks I'm natively from here; it would be believable. I guess I am, in a way, as SOMEONE in my lineage must have been from this side of the continent, but my Americanism is ingrained in and the most immediate generations of my family. So at my core, I am "just" black American.
There's something wildly interesting to me about the adjective "just" in front of my descriptor; it implies that I might be lacking some part of my blackness, like I can't fully be considered black here. It's awkward, yes, but doesn't hurt my feelings. . . I love that I am in a place where true blackness isn't just a visible thing or how I'm viewed in my society, but that it also consists of an understanding of one's more immediate roots and the complexities within the many different cultures and tribes and ethnicities and identities that exist in each country of this continent. Being "just" black American, in a way, is to lack something here, because beyond my physicality and my bond with the history, roots, and culture that have been created by black people in America for the last 400 years - which are rich in their own rights, but in a different way - I have no immediate knowledge about ties to my ethnicity or of traditions that exist for my people within the more local communities I operate in. I lack something because it was taken from my ancestors, and by default it was taken from me.
I've heard musings just like my own on many occasions, but to experience this lack firsthand as I am - and at the age of 20 rather than at 17, as I did before - has more resounding power than I currently know how to express. My biggest regret is not doing an ancestry profile of myself before coming back. Then, at least I'd have an answer to where my ancestors are from, not only for the inquiring parties, but for myself. Guess it's time to start saving. . .
At this point, I might finally be getting the hang of journaling, because a thought just crossed my mind a few seconds ago and my first instinct was to write about it. Don't know what's changed in the last 40 hours or so but [I guess] I'm here for it?
Anyway, the thought was about how strange of an experience it is to look African - as apparently I somehow do; the furthest roots I know about are in Arkansas, though - but be American in these two countries I've visited. I only remember it happening once or twice when I was in South Africa five years ago, but on my last trip to Ghana and in this past week I've been made so aware of my Americanism as well as the depth of what it means to not know my ancestry.
The "it" I am referring to is the phenomenon of being asked where I'm from, responding, and then being asked if my parents are from here because I can't possibly just be "black American" (based on my looks). It got to the point in Nigeria where my friend and I joked that I really should just make up a story and tribal name since everyone thinks I'm natively from here; it would be believable. I guess I am, in a way, as SOMEONE in my lineage must have been from this side of the continent, but my Americanism is ingrained in and the most immediate generations of my family. So at my core, I am "just" black American.
There's something wildly interesting to me about the adjective "just" in front of my descriptor; it implies that I might be lacking some part of my blackness, like I can't fully be considered black here. It's awkward, yes, but doesn't hurt my feelings. . . I love that I am in a place where true blackness isn't just a visible thing or how I'm viewed in my society, but that it also consists of an understanding of one's more immediate roots and the complexities within the many different cultures and tribes and ethnicities and identities that exist in each country of this continent. Being "just" black American, in a way, is to lack something here, because beyond my physicality and my bond with the history, roots, and culture that have been created by black people in America for the last 400 years - which are rich in their own rights, but in a different way - I have no immediate knowledge about ties to my ethnicity or of traditions that exist for my people within the more local communities I operate in. I lack something because it was taken from my ancestors, and by default it was taken from me.
I've heard musings just like my own on many occasions, but to experience this lack firsthand as I am - and at the age of 20 rather than at 17, as I did before - has more resounding power than I currently know how to express. My biggest regret is not doing an ancestry profile of myself before coming back. Then, at least I'd have an answer to where my ancestors are from, not only for the inquiring parties, but for myself. Guess it's time to start saving. . .
From Me to You,
Syd
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