On Being Black in America: A First-Generation Perspective
I do not like the term "African-American." Or at least, I do not like it when it is used to refer to my demographic or ethnic background.
Yes, I am African. My parents are Nigerians, and I am the first in my family to be born in America. But the term African-American comes with a lot of historical and cultural connotations that I do not share or carry as part of my identity, and it feels wrong to claim something that I am not.
Let me backtrack...
On Thursday, I was volunteering at a conference when my friend Latasha Morrison asked me to be a part of a racial reconciliation panel. I felt woefully unprepared and under-qualified, but I sent a quick prayer up that whatever I said would be meaningful and chose to just speak from the heart. For the most part there were a lot of high-level questions I wasn't sure I could speak to.
How can we (read: white people) invest time and resources into low-income and minority neighborhoods without causing gentrification? Should majority culture (read: white/Western) Christians plant churches in minority neighborhoods?How can I start the conversation about race with my children?
All questions that I do have thoughts on, but felt the other panelist were must more qualified to speak on and/or were actively doing the work in those areas already. And then came this question: Is there a different way to approach cultural bridge-building when it involves first generation people from other countries, as well as long-time residents of color and white?
My answer: YES! But...
As I said earlier, I am a first-generation American. And when I am asked to identify myself, I will say that I am a Nigerian before I say anything else. I am often prodded into reclassifying myself when people as about why I don't have a strong accent, or when I first came to America, etc. But regardless of how other people see me, my identify is strongly linked to my parents' culture. I was raised in a Nigerian household, went to a Nigerian church, was surrounded by a large Nigerian community in the Dallas/Fort-Worth area, and eventually lived in Nigeria for six years of my life. It is a huge part of who I am.
Because I am a first-generation American, there is a huge difference between me and African-Americans: we share a very different historical and cultural context in which we see our place in the world. My family does not have any history of slavery in our past, nor did any of my family experience the Civil Rights Movement (they were experiencing the end of colonization and the beginning of Independence). My parents came to this country strongly believing in the American Dream and having no doubt that it was theirs and mine to achieve. When I speak to many of my Black American friends, their parents raised them with the understanding that they would have to work twice as hard, that the American Dream wasn't really meant for them, but rather something they would have to fight for to get.
I grew up not even really thinking about myself as black (especially when I lived in Nigeria, where pretty much everyone is black). I saw myself as Nigerian, as a Yoruba girl. I know exactly what town my ancestors are from, and can even go visit our ancestral home. The majority of Black Americans do not know what country their ancestors were taken from, do not know what ethnic group or language was their cultural beginnings. It was stripped from them, while mine was passed down to me.
I struggle with being called an African-American, because that term carries with it the history of slavery and emancipation and the fight for civil rights and the long-standing racial injustice that have faced blacks in America. And those are all things I cannot claim. They are not part of my cultural identity.
I am the girl who can't remember anyone ever calling me the n-word. Who can't think of any major specific racial encounters that have scarred me (although if you want to get me started on micro-aggressions...).
However, even though I do not identify directly with the African-American community, it doesn't mean that their struggle is not mine.
I first met Tasha when we traveled to Rwanda together in 2015. On one of our last days there, we ended up having a discussion about race with the other women on the trip. They were all white, we were the only two black sisters. Tasha shared a lot about her heart behind racial reconciliation and shared historical accounts that shape the black experience. And I shared much of what I just typed above.
Also in those last few days, Sandra Bland was arrested and then died in prison.
I can home from Rwanda, and then had to drive 12 hours to Atlanta. I was supposed to travel with a friend, but in the end made the trip solo.
I can't think of a time in my adult life that I have been more terrified.
I prayed every time I drove through any small towns that I assumed would be mostly white. I prayed whenever I saw a cop car on the side of the road. I had friends who called and texted along the way, many of them insisting that if I got stopped for any reason (even a flat tire, or to get more gas) that I keep them on the line for my safety.
There was the acute realization that while I may identify as a Nigerian, while I cannot fully identify with the Black American experience, at the end of the day I. AM. BLACK.
And being Black in America is hard. When people look at me, they see black. They don't see Nigerian. Not until they ask my name, or get to know more about me. And that means that even though I do not share the historical context as Black Americans, I am subjected to the same injustices that continue to face the black community.
So yes, please recognize that bridge building will look differently with first-generation people. There is so much historically that we are not aware of, we have not been taught or directly experienced. Our "baggage" and pain looks different. We may share a skin color, but we do not share the same stories. But also keep in mind that once in America, first-generation people are expected to fit into the systems and structures that already exist here. And those systems and structures are full of injustices that hurt all minorities--long-time residents and us first-gen people, too.
Yes, I am African. My parents are Nigerians, and I am the first in my family to be born in America. But the term African-American comes with a lot of historical and cultural connotations that I do not share or carry as part of my identity, and it feels wrong to claim something that I am not.
Let me backtrack...
On Thursday, I was volunteering at a conference when my friend Latasha Morrison asked me to be a part of a racial reconciliation panel. I felt woefully unprepared and under-qualified, but I sent a quick prayer up that whatever I said would be meaningful and chose to just speak from the heart. For the most part there were a lot of high-level questions I wasn't sure I could speak to.
How can we (read: white people) invest time and resources into low-income and minority neighborhoods without causing gentrification? Should majority culture (read: white/Western) Christians plant churches in minority neighborhoods?How can I start the conversation about race with my children?
All questions that I do have thoughts on, but felt the other panelist were must more qualified to speak on and/or were actively doing the work in those areas already. And then came this question: Is there a different way to approach cultural bridge-building when it involves first generation people from other countries, as well as long-time residents of color and white?
My answer: YES! But...
As I said earlier, I am a first-generation American. And when I am asked to identify myself, I will say that I am a Nigerian before I say anything else. I am often prodded into reclassifying myself when people as about why I don't have a strong accent, or when I first came to America, etc. But regardless of how other people see me, my identify is strongly linked to my parents' culture. I was raised in a Nigerian household, went to a Nigerian church, was surrounded by a large Nigerian community in the Dallas/Fort-Worth area, and eventually lived in Nigeria for six years of my life. It is a huge part of who I am.
Because I am a first-generation American, there is a huge difference between me and African-Americans: we share a very different historical and cultural context in which we see our place in the world. My family does not have any history of slavery in our past, nor did any of my family experience the Civil Rights Movement (they were experiencing the end of colonization and the beginning of Independence). My parents came to this country strongly believing in the American Dream and having no doubt that it was theirs and mine to achieve. When I speak to many of my Black American friends, their parents raised them with the understanding that they would have to work twice as hard, that the American Dream wasn't really meant for them, but rather something they would have to fight for to get.
I grew up not even really thinking about myself as black (especially when I lived in Nigeria, where pretty much everyone is black). I saw myself as Nigerian, as a Yoruba girl. I know exactly what town my ancestors are from, and can even go visit our ancestral home. The majority of Black Americans do not know what country their ancestors were taken from, do not know what ethnic group or language was their cultural beginnings. It was stripped from them, while mine was passed down to me.
I struggle with being called an African-American, because that term carries with it the history of slavery and emancipation and the fight for civil rights and the long-standing racial injustice that have faced blacks in America. And those are all things I cannot claim. They are not part of my cultural identity.
I am the girl who can't remember anyone ever calling me the n-word. Who can't think of any major specific racial encounters that have scarred me (although if you want to get me started on micro-aggressions...).
However, even though I do not identify directly with the African-American community, it doesn't mean that their struggle is not mine.
I first met Tasha when we traveled to Rwanda together in 2015. On one of our last days there, we ended up having a discussion about race with the other women on the trip. They were all white, we were the only two black sisters. Tasha shared a lot about her heart behind racial reconciliation and shared historical accounts that shape the black experience. And I shared much of what I just typed above.
Also in those last few days, Sandra Bland was arrested and then died in prison.
I can home from Rwanda, and then had to drive 12 hours to Atlanta. I was supposed to travel with a friend, but in the end made the trip solo.
I can't think of a time in my adult life that I have been more terrified.
I prayed every time I drove through any small towns that I assumed would be mostly white. I prayed whenever I saw a cop car on the side of the road. I had friends who called and texted along the way, many of them insisting that if I got stopped for any reason (even a flat tire, or to get more gas) that I keep them on the line for my safety.
There was the acute realization that while I may identify as a Nigerian, while I cannot fully identify with the Black American experience, at the end of the day I. AM. BLACK.
And being Black in America is hard. When people look at me, they see black. They don't see Nigerian. Not until they ask my name, or get to know more about me. And that means that even though I do not share the historical context as Black Americans, I am subjected to the same injustices that continue to face the black community.
So yes, please recognize that bridge building will look differently with first-generation people. There is so much historically that we are not aware of, we have not been taught or directly experienced. Our "baggage" and pain looks different. We may share a skin color, but we do not share the same stories. But also keep in mind that once in America, first-generation people are expected to fit into the systems and structures that already exist here. And those systems and structures are full of injustices that hurt all minorities--long-time residents and us first-gen people, too.
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