“The African-American experience” has been a hot topic in the media for the last year. With Barack Obama running for president (and incidentally being elected), black hope, deliverance, equality has been all over the print, TV, radio and online media. Some feel a black President signals the day African-Americans have become fully equal. Others consider it to be a stepping stone but not the finale. Either way, being Black has been discussed but not really examined.
What does it mean to be black/African-American? It’s really a personal definition. There are some common traits/histories that the group shares but YOUR experiences are the most important definers. Rather than speak for a rather large group, I’ll just try to explain my feelings about it.
For most people that I know (that aren’t black), being “something”, whatever it is, is defined by a history, what your particular group has “gone through.” While you may be American, you’re also Greek, Spanish, German, Italian, Panamanian, Indian, Canadian, Nigerian, Irish, Brazilian, etc. Just being able to claim a country and culture outside of the U.S. seems to empower people to be something extra, justifying failed attempts to learn a second language, perfecting one “authentic” dish or a trip you can’t afford to the land of your forefathers. I’ve realized that over the years, I’ve grown almost bitter about this lack of extended identity. Yes, African-American culture is rich and thick. But it’s short. What’s 300 years in the grand scheme of things?
Let’s say a generation is 25 years long. 300 years is roughly 12 generations. Growing up, I was blessed to spend time with great-grandmothers, grandmothers and my parents. We represented 4 generations, a third of African-American history. That kind of realization helps put the reasons I feel the way I do into perspective.
The roots of “my people” were ripped up and displaced. Sure, I could “go back to Africa” to visit the land of my forefathers but the continent’s just a little big and somewhat diverse. True, most slaves brought to the Americas were from West Africa but that only narrows it down to a minimum of 5 currently sovereign nations. That’s like saying I could be German, Swedish, Turkish, Italian or Austrian. Just a little different, right?
Like my family, the vast majority of African-Americans have family members of different, usually European, connections. The only part of my family that I can trace back more than 5 generations is Irish. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s kind of cool. But for some reason, I don’t feel a strong connection to Dublin, U2 or redheads. I giggle when I say it out loud, especially around St. Patrick’s Day. I’m African-American. Our family also has Cherokee roots. Unfortunately, I know very little about Cherokee history or culture. It feels almost wrong to claim it. Everyone from the South, seems to have a Cherokee great-grandmother somewhere in their family tree. So I go back to being just black. What is that?
In college, I had several conversations with African immigrant students about identification while in the US. Their ethnicities covered every major region of the continent, different languages, religions, cultures, histories. But one thing most of the students I spoke with agreed on was the fact that they didn’t want to be considered black or African-American while in the States. At first, I thought it was because they’d like to be identified with/by their home country. And while that’s true, several people explained to me that it was equally important for them not to be tied to the sordid, unfavorable image of African-Americans here. How could people who ARE the African part of my African-American identity be SO against being what I am? What’s wrong with it? Unfortunately, many of the stereotypes we peddle here are bought around the world. But there’s enough to say about that for a separate post. Suffice it to say, I was surprised, hurt and later educated about how we’re seen by our theoretical brothers and sisters and fully get where they may be coming from.
There’s nothing I can do about having a limited history. And I’m not ashamed of any aspect of the history I can claim now. It’s just that I sometimes wish I had more I could claim, hope to embrace, love enough to teach. African-American history is completely American history. While parts are often (intentionally or not) left out of our traditional K-12 history books, African-American history is nothing but American history. There is no and never was an Africa-America. Our history is just red (blood, sweat and tears), white (captors to coworkers) and blue(s). Every now and again, I kinda wish “we” could share the same kind of specialness other cultures do, being able to claim (if only partially) somewhere/something else. Not complaints, just thoughts.
Singing “Follow the Drinking Gourd”,
Jo’van
The Truth: According to Jo'van 