I Am…

For most of my life, I have struggled with the concept of identity.

Growing up in the United States, I externally presented as a Black, American kid. Actually, I was often told growing up in New York City that I looked like “a Boricua morena” or a “Dominicana morena” which loosely translates to a brown-skinned Puerto Rican or Dominican girl. There were evidently not a lot of Ethiopians in NYC.

If you’ve read Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria by the brilliant Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum, you’ll know that because of my appearance –and perhaps because I stemmed from an immigrant household– it was easiest to fit into the Afro-Latinx lunch table in middle school. So, as a pre-teen, eager to fit in with my Manhattan public middle school friends, I learned Spanish —yes, I’m still pretty fluent— and I donned my name plate and my prude little hooped earrings. (No, really, they were small and prude, because my mother would not allow me to wear the real-deal, Mary J. door-knockers. During NYC’s era of ‘Jenny From the Block’ and Bad Boy Entertainment, my look was aiming for FUBU but mostly gave off Chico vibes).

My goal vs. the reality

I’m not an African immigrant like my parents. Growing up, the quintessential African dad’s story of walking 20 thousand miles by foot to get to school was a foreign concept to me. I couldn’t help but think “Jeez, somebody couldn’t get my mans and his friends a cheese bus?”

Raising my kids, I knew my stories of childhood would be wildly different from those of my parents. They’d have to sit through my chronicles of NYC public schools, metal barricaded windows reminiscent of jail buildings, often feeling like a loner in AP-classes filled with the school’s entire White and Asian population, and nasty-ass cafeteria lunches that just made no sense. One note on those cafeteria lunches: whoever came up with the unthinkable pairing of chocolate milk & that thick, unchewable, sorry excuse for pizza should be tried in a public court filled with NYC public school students. 

I’m not African-American in the traditional sense. When one of my college girlfriends was pledging to become an AKA, I learned about Black sororities for the first time and was fascinated. I wanted in, too! I later asked my mom if she’d be willing to loan me the money needed to pledge. After I explained my rather limited understanding of what pledging and sororities were, my mom laughed in my face. For a really long time. She then proceeded to explain what she understood to my auntie and they both laughed in my face again. The concept of sororities and fraternities was absolutely foreign to my African immigrant family and the conversation finished with, “money is used to buy groceries and material items, not friendships.” And while a largely foreign concept to me at the time as well, I knew that there was so much more to the lifelong sisterhood bond that came with pledging than “buying friendships.” Alas, I admired from afar.

I’m not Ethiopian in the traditional sense. After moving to Addis six months ago, I celebrated Timket, one of the largest national holidays with my family. As I was walking in the Timket parade with my family and friends, a guy pointed to us, smirked, and loudly said, “well, well: look at the American diasporas.” Shit! How the hell did he know?! I mean, we were dressed in Ethiopian clothes, we were speaking Amharic, and damn-it: we looked Ethiopian. I was dying to know, so I turned to him and asked (in Amharic), “Can you please tell me how you know we’re not from here?” He casually pointed to my toddler’s UppaBaby Vista stroller and said, “Who rides around in a Cadillac stroller like that in Africa besides an American?” *Bloop!*

I’m not a ‘celebrate-July-4th’ kind of American. The only reason I celebrate the 4th of July is because it happens to be my husband’s birthday, and because I love me a day off. Also, professional fireworks are quite beautiful. And no, I’m not talking about your teenage son and co.’s annoying, loud ass sparklers that keep me, my babies, and all of the neighborhood’s stray dogs up at night. If anyone can point me to the Congressman who’s working on making that illegal, I will gladly contribute funds (and a vote!)

But yeah, July 4th is not my steez. You wanna know who my founding fathers are? My founding fathers are: Malcolm X, Haile Selassie, Marcus Garvey, Jomo Kenyatta, Nelson Mandela, Toussaint Louverture, …shall I continue? Let’s not even get started on my founding mothers cause we’ll be here all day (but just so you get a taste: bell hooks, Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde…ok, I’ll stop). I’ll say this much: I certainly don’t consider Thomas Jefferson my founding father. Ever heard of Sally Hemmings? Mmm, no thanks. I’m good on him.

I AM…

So… who am I, and why have I decided to gift you with my writing at this particular time? 

I AM… fascinated by the complexity and richness of what it means to be Black. After hearing “you’re not Black” once or twice in my life and not knowing what to make of that, I AM fiercely protective of the notion of Blackness. Blackness is a uniting kryptonite –it is vibranium– and packaging it into a small, tiny Godiva box only serves to limit and weaken its power.

I AM… a social-philosopher at heart, and a person who loves studying people and history. Ultimately, after exploring my own identities, I am secure and feel happiest in my Blackness. A close relative recently said, “Nobody is purely Black or White. It’s all a social construct, and I refuse to be confined.” So much to unpack in that statement with which I both agree and disagree simultaneously. I hate the limitations and confines placed upon the descendants of 54-incredibly diverse nations on the second largest continent on the planet. And yet, if I were born again, I would choose to be nothing other than Black because I thrive in a world where Blackness –in all its forms– is celebrated. I am happiest around Black people, Black literature, Black music, Black art, and Black stories from across the African diaspora and the Americas. I admire and celebrate contemporary Black artists, writers, thinkers, and social activists from Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, to Luvvie Ajayi Jones, Issa Rae to Lee Daniels, Josie Duffy Rice to Clint Smith, Ta-Nehisi Coates to James McBride, and so many more. Speaking of Issa, as she so eloquently summed up what I’m saying here in one sentence, “I am rooting for everybody Black.” And to be clear, I am not rooting against anyone who isn’t Black. If you’re doing your damn thing and you’re a dope human being, I’m rooting for you, too. I just hope the world, which has often misconstrued Black people, can go on a journey with me to discover just how diverse and fantastical Blackness—in its countless forms— truly is.

Consequently, my writings are an unapologetic collection of Black stories and everyday phenomenon as witnessed through my everyday, Black-ass lens.