How Different Are we Really?

I remember reading an article in Essence years ago about the different faces we wear on a daily basis. At home we act a certain way; laid-back and carefree. We may even talk differently. On the drive to work the transformation begins – our conservative selves emerge in order to fit in with our workplace. The reason is clear – we feel more comfortable around our ‘people’. Some friends and I talked about the article in depth and agreed that if we acted the same at home and at work, we’d be unemployed. The article focused on home and work.

I find myself wearing different faces when it comes to my race. With my African-American friends I am the sista-girl talking about issues in the news, deconstructing television shows, and feigning for some good spoken word. Things get uncomfortable when talk turns to African men and why they continually pick white women over sistas. With my African friends I am the woman reminiscing about home, sharing a new African find, and speaking of corrupt politicians back home. Things get uncomfortable when talk turns to how loud and domineering African-Americans are. I choose to NOT stick with only group.

I am Zambian but both Elaine Brown and Winnie Mandela make my shero list. I have lived in Lexington, Kentucky for twelve years now. My teenage years were spent in Zambia and my young adult years in the United States. It is only right that the woman I am draws from both rich cultures equally. Many people I know don’t agree. They choose to stick with one group and shut the other out. I often feel as though I am walking a tight rope between these two groups.

My freshman year at Jewel Hall on the University of Kentucky was a confusing time for me. The African-American students on campus avoided me and when they did speak they mostly asked me why I was so proper. The general consensus was that I was stuck up because I dressed and talked differently.  Half the time, I was terrified of pronouncing something TOO properly so I kept quiet. What kept me sane was the sista-girl Resident Advisor named Cheryl who saw, felt, and knew me from the moment we said hello.  

I remember the collective groups gasp when it was announced that O.J. Simpson had been accused of killing his ex wife and I innocently asked who O.J. Simpson was. I was definitely not the black girl they had grown accustomed to. My white room mate hailed from Winchester and after a few months of getting as acquainted as we could she announced that I was ‘different’ and therefore worthy of her company. I had noticed her interaction with other black people in our floor and it was nowhere close to pleasant.  What her simple three word statement ‘You are different’ said to me was ‘even though when I look at you, I see someone black, where you’re from makes you not so black.’ My nineteen year old self refused to acknowledge her ignorance but so many Africans choose to believe the hype.

There were other instances of Professors and Bosses treating me differently. And then of course there are those others who see Black even before you speak and act accordingly. I thank these people because this is reality. Did the officers that fired forty-one shots into Amadou Diallo stop to think that he was different? All they saw was a black man. I cannot remember one incident of direct racism when I was growing up in Zambia.  I often tell people that white people were in the minority so they didn’t have any power to make our lives miserable.  I see now that there were cases my young eyes could not see.  In talking with my mother now she recalls a school play where all the black kids always had background insignificant parts and the few white kids always had the leads.  I attended a copper mine run school that could be considered a private school and most of the teachers and headmasters/headmistresses were white.

My first head on collision with racism came at the boarding school I attended in the 12th grade.  A girl named Danielle who was the most popular girl in the whole school sought me out and became my room mate.  She had been kicked out of the school before I ever got there and the day she returned it was like a pop star had come to visit.  It started with whispers all over the hallways that ‘Danielle was back’.  Everyone said Danielle looked like Madonna and well, Danielle believed them and acted accordingly.  As soon as she saw me she announced that I was her new best friend and pulled some strings and became my room mate.  I later found out that Danielle enjoyed dating black boys back in her home town and her parents had sent her to this boarding school to ‘cure’ her ways.  Little did her parents know that many black boys were sent to this very school.  Eventually I let my guard down and I got close to Danielle.  Parents Day approached and Danielle politely asked me, the lone black girl in our 4 person room to kindly move out just for the day so her mother would not know that she had a black room mate.  I was so hurt and our friendship was never the same after that.

That same year the Public Speaking and Quick Recall team traveled to Louisville to attend the Kentucky United Nations Assembly.  I was handing out flyers and one white boy in particular refused to take one.  Now many people didn’t take the flyer or if they did, they immediately threw it away but it was the disgusted glare in this boy’s eyes that let me know that I was black and he didn’t want anything to do with what I had.

More recently the question of Black/African versus African-American has risen again with the remarks made by Alan Keyes, the black Republican challenger for the Senate seat in Illinois who questioned whether Barack Obama, the black man he is running against should claim an African-American identity. “Barack Obama and I have the same race—that is physical characteristics. We are not from the same heritage. My ancestors toiled in slavery in this country. My consciousness, who I am as a person, has been shaped by my struggle, deeply emotional and deeply painful, with the reality of that heritage.”  Barack Obama was born to a Kenyan father and an American mother. My beef with Mr.Keyes’ comments are that he disregards Barack’s blackness because he is African and because he is of biracial heritage. Does the ‘one drop of black blood makes you black’ argument magically disappear in this case? Do things change when the drop is of African decent?

Regarding Barack’s father, does his African-ness make him exempt from feelings of struggle and pain? Have we forgotten that colonialism existed? Have we forgotten that many Africans lost their lives in the struggle to rule their own countries from their colonialists? My sons are born to an African mother and an American father who happens to black – does this not make them American enough? If they choose to run for office years from now, will this same issue come up? Will they be discounted because only one half of their ancestors toiled in slavery?

At first glance we are all black but we choose to believe that we are so very different than we are.  All of us have encountered racism in some capacity.  As different as we like to think we are, we’re very much the same. We discipline our children in the same way, we enjoy the same foods, the same music, dance the same, and mostly laugh at the same jokes. Our accents may be a little different but when it comes down to it, it is about time that we embraced the few differences we have and learn from each other.  

Jokes have been made that Africans didn’t come and get their relatives that were stolen away and brought to America and bring them back home.  It is a joke but I truly think it is a basis of much of the animosity between us.  One group feels like they have been failed while the other feels betrayed that not enough is done for the African continent.  We are all in this together.  Africans embrace your African-American brothers and sisters and African-Americans make friends with Africans.  We are not only here to braid your hair and sell you bootleg CDs – we have so much more to offer you.