This blog post comes a day or two late as I was struggling with what to tackle in this week’s post. I’ve created a list of topics that I would like to touch on, but none of them stood out to me this week.
I’m not sure whether to be grateful for or frightened by the instagram algorithm. I say this because while scrolling through the app the other day, I was recommended Up/Root the Podcast. It’s hosted by an Ethiopian woman who now lives in Nairobi. I was instantly hooked on the episode “Where are you from?” as it brought together a group of well travelled Diasporans who carry many identities due to their experiences living around the world. The podcast episode also came at a great time as I had recently watched a Ted Talk by Taiye Selasie in my immersion class titled, “Don’t Ask Me Where I’m From, Ask Me Where I’m Local.”
Both the podcast and Ted Talk have been helping me work through some identity challenges I have experienced whilst being in Nairobi. During our orientation week, our program director made it known that many, if not all, of the black students on the program would most likely be considered Kenyan. Of course, I was not surprised with his statement, so I didn’t ponder on it too long.
Well, I’ve been pondering.
Although I am flattered to be considered Kenyan (shoot, I wish I was), I have found myself getting rather exhausted with having to explain that I’m not. Every time I am spoken to in Kiswahili (or what I assume is Kiswahili but is instead just a “Kenyan accent” masking English words), I must quickly respond with sielewi kiswahili: I don’t understand Kiswahili. Of course, it is usually a shock to Kenyans. This past weekend whilst attending a musical festival in Hell’s Gate National Park, one woman even said “you look sooo Swahili!”
And it’s not even that this frequent situation is so incredibly frustrating that I’m ready to pack up and head back to the States, it just has me thinking a lot about identity (what else is new).
For starters, I feel as if I’m disappointing Kenyans when they realize I am not their kin. There is something in me that instantly wishes I was fluent in Kiswahili so that I’d be able to engage with them in their amazing lingua franca. I always wonder into what rigid identity category I am placed into. Do they consider me a mzungu, as I am non-Kenyan? But mzungu in what sense? A Westerner, African-American, etc? These are the questions that I ask when I don’t receive any follow up questions about where I’m actually from.
In the event that I am asked that very cringy, loaded question, I am burdened with another task, explaining my life story in less than 10 words.
Them: So where are you from?
Me: Ooh my life story! So it goes a bit like this. I was born in America to Gambian parents who immigrated in the early 90s you know, the whole “pursuit of a better opportunity, American Dream narrative.” I consider myself Gambian-American as I am of Gambian heritage but very much American, you know, cultural imperialism, assimilation, all those exciting buzz words. I’m not African-American though because I’m not a descendent of enslaved Africans and cannot identify with that experience. I’ve lived in the states practically my whole life minus small trips to Gambia here and there. I have yet to spend a formative amount of time in Gambia and plan to do that in the coming years to re-engage with my culture because man oh man does being a second-generation African lead to a severe identity crisis!
I mean, that’s a lot to put on a stranger who simply wants to know whether you’re Kenyan or not, right?
Usually I’ll just say I’m American and West African, hoping that the latter will wipe away some of the mzungu I may outwardly present. But then again, being from the Gambia, a country I’m still surprised many even know exists, doesn’t necessarily help. To the Kenyans I have expressed this little tidbit to, they don’t respond with too much excitement.
And then somewhere along this long exchange about where I’m from I start to envy Kenyans who just assume every black person is their kin. Explaining the immigrant experience to people who still live in their mother country has been interesting. I always think to myself, they’re sort of blessed that they can live in a nation where everyone looks like them and there’s no need to assume that any black person is an other. Although things are not perfect in Kenya and many likely haven’t had the privilege to immigrate to the West, they’re privileged in the sense that they don’t have to experience the baggage of assimilation, culture shock, choosing which language to prioritize in the home, etc. But then again, I’m sure certain groups do?
Very complicated indeed.
But then I start to think about this whole idea of Pan-Africanism and the African personality. Although Africa is various at all levels, I doubt I’d be 100% able to differentiate African nationalities based on appearance. Sometimes you really cannot tell whether people are Kenyan or Gambian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, etc. I wonder how individuals coming from Uganda, DRC, Zimbabwe, etc. navigate being mistaken for Kenyan, if at all. Do they get called mzungus?
So as stated, I think both the podcast episode and the Ted Talk really help me to find clarity with such a complicated background. Being multicultural with a hyphenated identity is more a strength than a weakness as I have access to two special but very different cultures. It’s also allowed me to connect with places based on my experiences. Yes, I am American. But do I know anything about being American in the Dakotas? Not at all. My DMV experience has further shaped my identity than being from the whole United States. Despite not being Senegalese, a lot of growth occurred for me in Senegal and thus Dakar is now apart of me as well. I could say the same about Michigan (shocking, I know), and now Nairobi. Although my classmates and I snickered at Selasie’s “don’t ask me where I’m from, ask me where I’m local” quote (we thought it was corny), there’s a lot of truth to it.
A lot of us pride ourselves on these national identities but how much do they really say about us? Especially for the countries that were defined by outsiders looking in? It’s tough though. As much as these national identity markers don’t matter, they do at the same time.
On the “Up/Root the Podcast” episode, in response to the question “where are you from,” one of the guests always responds “where do you need me to be from?”
I may have to follow suit.
the final sixteen 