Before we get into this post, I plead for people to understand that there are many experiences that Black Americans and Africans share in the U.S. The one identity that sets us apart, however, is immigrant status. Many Black Americans hold an internal struggle with the inability to trace their roots. For me and my family, our immigrant status is one system of oppression in addition to the others that black bodies carry, from sexuality to gender to class to disability status and more. We came to this land voluntarily, and we’re constantly reminded why we should’ve stayed home. My mission isn’t to prove that one struggle is worse than the other, it’s to share my lived experience from the struggle I’m familiar with.
Here’s a collection of the past, present, and future thoughts I deal with in the limbo of being a child of African immigrants born on American soil.
Past- Being bullied by black kids about my heritage, being ashamed, adjusting myself to be more “black“
Growing up, I tried to distance myself from my African heritage as much as I could. I remember being on the phone with my friends in elementary school when they would hear my mom in the background asking if I “wanted to eat fufu and soup”, and they would clown me indefinitely. The only black teacher I ever had, Mrs. Locke, taught us about the continent of Africa in third grade. She started the unit by asking the class what we already knew about Africa. My classmates raised their hands and said “they don’t have internet or cell phones!” “they have lions for pets!” “I heard they’re cannibals and eat each other!” You can imagine 9 year-old me crying my eyes out after hearing those responses. Most of my clothes were thrifted because my parents weren’t hip to American fashion, so I definitely got clowned for that too.
I got called “monkey” once I started showing pride in my origins at school…by the Black kids. In fact, the only kids that bullied me growing up 1) bullied me explicitly because I was African and 2) were Black Americans. Once I got into middle school, I started speaking ebonics, begging my parents to make more American foods at home, watched 106 & Park on BET, whatever I could do to assimilate myself into Black American culture. I was desperate to be a Black American to fit in.
Present- Being able to fit into both spaces comfortably but people are hopping on African trends now
Today, I’m still walking on a tightrope of being Black in some spaces and African in others. I shouldn’t have to switch personalities, but it’s become as necessary for survival as it is to code-switch in the workplace. I think it’s because of the ignorance that both parties still have about each other. I’m trying to get rid of the forced “y’all”s from my vocabulary and speak the way I used to when people told me I “talk white”. I still get criticized on my language because of my complex word choices. It’s really weird that being foreign is trendy now. People asked me to get them authentic dashikis on my last Cameroon visit. Afrobeats come on the radio when I’m in the car with my mom, and we both look at each other with confusion. Everyone wants to try jollof rice now. I went from being a ‘monkey’ to be ‘exotic and cultured’. Everyone wants to be rooted in African culture now, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s good that people want to know where they come from, but the timing (for example, taking the recent release of Black Panther into consideration) makes me a little skeptical. My only concern is when we are not trendy anymore, will we be kicked back to the curb and disrespected like we used to be? Or will we be expected to share our culture with the world until it no longer belongs to us?
Future- How do I preserve my heritage for the next generation?
One of my biggest concerns for the future is preserving my Cameroonian culture. I’m honestly hoping to marry a West African man with a last name that’s just as foreign as mine (because imagine: Manyi-Eyong Johnson? Manyi-Eyong Smith??) but even if I do, how will I keep the traditions alive another generation? My parents preserved the culture by basically making our home a mini Cameroon and forbid all ‘American’ activities like sleepovers, going swimming, and visiting friends. If I did go to a friends house, it was after their parents met mine. My parents were able to do this because their homeland culture is the only culture they’ve ever known. I’d love to take my children to Cameroon to see our origins, but if I looked like a foreigner on my own land during my visit, how the hell could my kids feel like they belong when they’re the second generation to be born in the States? My mom never taught me how to cook traditional foods because every time I tried to learn, she’d tell me to sit down. I think the kitchen was a very personal space to her, and she didn’t want to share it subconsciously. If you ask her, she’ll just say I’m lazy. How many generations does it take to turn from an immigrant to an American? How long before my grandkids refer to themselves as Black Americans and our Cameroonian bloodline turns to dust?
I normally try to find resolutions to the issues I bring to this blog, but not every issue has an answer. Some things just require discussion for the time being, so we’ll leave it at that. There’s a lot of pressure on first and second-generation immigrant children, and we often do not have a space to unpack our thoughts. If you are also African or an immigrant from any land, I hope some you can relate to some of these sentiments. Regardless where you are from, thank you for allowing me to share this and please allow yourself to unpack the thoughts you have about your own upbringing. Maybe it’ll help you understand why you are who you are now.
Carpe Diem – Seize the Day!
Manyi.