Yes, I am African. No, I do not know your friend from Zimbabwe

Picture this: I am waiting for my flight to Baltimore. It is a really late flight because I am cheap, but I also hate long journeys- I don’t know how I got through those 13+ hours trips to Liberia! I checked in my bag with all my things so I only have one carry-on item- my favorite bag from Mali (similar to the one pictured above). It is a wonderful work of art woven to perfection by hand. I love it because it is fashionable, but also easy to carry. I’m not a big handbag person because I hate looking for things in them. I always feel like I need a search team just to get my lipgloss from my bag. Back to the story about my trip to Baltimore to visit my friend. As I sat in the uncomfortable airport seat, I kept getting stares from a man sitting across from me. I tried to avoid eye contact because 9/10 times it only leads to conversations I regret having. Don’t get me wrong, I love talking to random people when I travel, but when my headphones are on, I am in no mood to chit chat! Also, when people stare at me too long, it makes me feel like something is stuck between my teeth or my forehead is shining from my makeup. I do not take kindly to long stares. The man starring at me finally muscle the courage to come up to me right as began boarding. He was a tall White man wearing jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt and glasses. I remember looking away from his gaze right before we stood up to get in line with my boarding group. Standing close to me in line, the man asked if I was East African. I told me no and smiled politely before saying, "but you got the right continent. I am from west Africa. Now, I know I shouldn’t be this vague when identifying myself, but he started the whole East and West thing so I played along. I thought my vague answer and polite smile was enough to make him go away, but this was only the beginning. The tall stranger told me he asked because my bag looked like something he saw in Kenya. He told me he was into coffee and worked in Kenya and Rwanda. He shared his love for his time there and thought my bag was a nice reminder. I stood and listened as this is something like a broken record now. This story was like every single story I’ve heard from people (White and every other Westerner) making connections to my African identity and their experience somewhere on the continent. People love to tell you about their mission trips to a random part of Africa. Most times I stand there and listen with the urge to say, Do you also know my friend from Colorada since you are from Florida? I fight off the urge just as I did that day. I told the stranger that I am Liberian and had gotten my bag from there even though the vendor got it from Mali. There was a nice awkward silence before he went on and on how beautiful Kigali, the capital of Rwanda is. Again, I was back to hearing about a place in Africa I have yet to visit.  This is the routine. if you meet an African, tell them about your time in Africa. It never gets old. It is always the same people doing the same things, but yet I am shocked every single time that in this day and age, we are still looking at Africa like it was a little town where everyone is somehow cut from the same cloth.  Just as a reference....  

We (living in the West) have got to find other things to talk to Africans about.

Back Home: Identity in everyday conversations

People always remind me that I have an accent. The thing about accents is, oddly enough, we all have them. Somehow, only a few of us are constantly reminded that we have them. Whether I am on the busy streets on Monrovia or the small township of Christiansburg, everyday conversations somehow start off with “You have an accent. Where are you from?” Welcome to my life. I am an immigrant living in America with strong connections to my birth country. When I am in America, I talk about “back home” as the Liberia I grew up in before the civil war forced me out. When I am in Liberia, I also refer to America as home because this is home and has been for over 15 years now. Interestingly, it doesn’t matter where I call home, people are quick to remind me I do not belong because of how I sound. I was away from Liberia for way too long so I’ve lost the authentic Liberian accent. Conversely, I do no roll my Rs good enough to fit in as an American so, somewhere in the middle of both countries, I find myself answering questions about where I am from. I have been treated both like an American tourist in Liberia and like an international student in America. I cannot blend into everyday Liberian happenings neither can I pass for an American even with my best Boston accent. I went to school, live and work in Boston for almost 10 years, yet in the middle of a Red Sox game someone will pick up my accent and ask “where are you from?” I must say while dealing with this question and the microaggression in the undertone of not belonging, I can’t help but wonder about the meaning of home.  While working in Corporate America, I would tell people I was Liberian whenever they asked about my accent. I felt connected to my culture in so many ways. I was born and raised in Liberia. I spent the first 14 years of my life in Liberia occasionally leaving to seek refuge in neighboring countries due to the civil war. I ate Liberian food, spoke like Liberians and could check off any box that would make me Liberian. Nevertheless, Liberia was not home. Following my migration to the United States, I was told I had to check a box to identify who I was for demography purposes. I had to assume the identity of African American/Black. I started to fit my way of life into those characteristics to blend into my new identity. After 15 years, I still have parts of Liberia in me that make me stick out to other Americans. I find myself talking about where I am from to strangers in grocery stores, bill collectors on my phone as well as classmates or colleagues. America again is not home. Last year while living in Liberia, I was told I am not “really Liberian” because I failed in my attempts to speak in my best Koloqua*. I was told that my best sounded like  "Ceerees".* People would usually just laugh at my effort to fit into my Liberian identity and say "you geh, dah series too mehn -Slow down small yah". It doesn’t matter how much I would intentionally not enunciate my words, parts of America still stuck with me. When I was leaving Liberia to attend school this Fall, people reminded me that it was time to go home. I looked forward to getting back and handing my passport to the TSA agent at JFK airport and hearing “welcome home mam’. But, it doesn’t matter how many times I hear this, as soon as I left the airport I heard “where are you from” in the Uber on my way home. I can stay in America another decade and every agent in TSA can say welcome home and I will still be considered “other” just from my accent. The same applies to Liberia because I left during the war and somehow that means I forfeited my right to be “really Liberian”. In my everyday conversations, I find myself calling both Liberia and America home. While in the states, I make reference to Liberia as "back home" and when I get to Liberia I crave Chick-fil-A and cant wait to get "back home" to have some. The frustration of not belonging has now evolved into questions and confusion about identity. If America is not home and I have been away too long to still call Liberia home, how do I answer questions about my identity? Identity is never just a box that we check.  It is more than just documents on a piece of paper that legitimizes your identity. How do we identify ourselves and what measures should we use? Is it language, food, people, traditions, documents, citizenship test? etc? I cannot answer that, but I do know who we should not depend on how we sound. Some of us have multiple layers that define us. The questions about accent reaffirm not belonging. It is not only wrong, but it forces identity into little boxes that are far less complicated than they actually are. So the next time you meet someone who sounds different than what you think Americans should sound like, talk about something else. People have so much more to offer and identity goes deeper than the boxes we check. Also, when in doubt, talk about the weather!

  Note:

*Koloqua =Liberian English

*Ceerees = Liberians way of referring to American accent

"you geh, dah ceerees too mehn -Slow down small yah" = You girl, the american accent to a bit too much, can you slow down a bit?

My Best Friends

It took me a very long time to realize I have two best friends in my mother and sister. I had to go through several no good friendships that woke me up from my slumber of everyone is my best friend. Through the years, my mother and sister went from raising me to holding my hands and now laughing with me as I figure out life on my own. I love you, mama and Dr. K. Thank you for every step of the way