The year was 1988. Ronald Reagan was still President. The World Wrestling Federation was in its prime. And my father (PapaDoc) was immigrating from Nigeria to New York City, for an Internal Medicine residency at Columbia University. I would be born in Harlem, just 4 years later. In fact, of my 4 siblings, I would be the only one born in the United States. That would, perhaps, give me somewhat of a unique experience, although my story certainly has overarching similarities with my other siblings, too.
By 1996, my mom and dad relocated down south, where my dad would practice medicine. But we didn’t relocate to a southern metropolis, like Houston or Dallas or Atlanta, etc. Instead, we relocated to a small town in southwest Georgia. Like many immigrants, I, along with my siblings, faced some key decisions to make in social settings, including school. We could,
- Offer Americans an abridged version of our actual name, to increase the likelihood of it being pronounced correctly, and, in some ways, better assimilate into American culture (people usually realize you’re not American when your name has 11 letters).
- Use our full name, knowing that it would be pronounced incorrectly, virtually, 80% of the time (I’m not kidding; we don’t have American names, so if you pronounce our names with American phonetics, you have almost no hope of ever pronouncing them correctly).
In most cases, we elected the former, but even that had its shortcomings. After all, even with 6 letters and 2 syllables, it’s still generally easy to tell whether or not a name is American (Ashley, Jamaal, Jessie, Nnamdi???). There were other things, too. For starters, my family immigrated here. I have a different way of life and value system, even if I live in the same country as the kids I go to school with. Secondly, we’re not “from” the South. Certainly not the rural south. I didn’t talk like any of the other kids at school. None of us did, really… and my classmates didn’t fail to remind me of that. At present, I can say I’m well-traveled (almost 15 countries, plus the domestic trips, too). In general, the consensus from people I’ve talked to in The States is that I DO NOT have an accent. Either way, I certainly didn’t have a Southern accent, which turned out to be a source of ridicule. But by and large, what I remember about grade school more than anything else was roll call.
I hated roll call. My name would always be mispronounced, and it would be to the great amusement of the entire class. Even people I was friends with would laugh at me. It was a constant reminder: “YOU are not one of US.” Because of my great disdain for roll call, I always hated when we would have a substitute teacher, because they always do roll call. I would also dread the first day of school: that basically means roll call 6 to 8 times. It just wasn’t fun. To be fair, lots of Americans grow up with ‘unconventional’ names, but as an immigrant, it’s just a little different, because you’re an outsider. Between the comments growing up about my name, how I talked, various forms of mockery of Nigerian languages (people would sometimes click their tongues at me to talk to me) and absurd questions about life in Africa for the 1 billion people that call it home (ie. “Nnamdi, do your family members live in huts?” **cue laughter**), I was socialized at a very young age that my African roots were something to hide and be ashamed of. Thinking back, getting crap in school about my clothes or shoes would have been much, much easier. Getting crap in school about your very identity, as an immigrant, or as an African… that does something to you on a whole different level. It’s much, much worse, I think.
From 4 to 17. 12 years. I grew up hating my heritage. I grew up hating my culture. I grew up hating being African. I grew up resenting how proud my parents were of something I was so ashamed of. It wasn’t something to celebrate. It wasn’t something to be proud of. It was one of my greatest embarrassments. I even hated my names. It’s a shame, really. My first name means ‘God has done great things’. My middle name means ‘Praise God’. Nnamdi actually means ‘my Father is alive’. Beautiful, thoughtful names. Couldn’t stand them. My parents should have named me Jamal instead. Anytime my dad would write something for me to take to school, he would write out my full name, with such pride. And I always hated it. My poor parents… they tried to share the culture with me, but I just wasn’t having it. I wanted nothing to do with it. It wasn’t until I got to college and found myself among a more diverse group of peers that I realized that my heritage and culture are beautiful, and people not only want to know about it, but they want to celebrate it with me. So many wasted years. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Resentful. And I’ll never get those 12 years back. I don’t hold that against the peers I grew up with… I never hated them. Quite the contrary: I wanted to be just like them. But alas, I was Nigerian instead. Looking back, it’s easy to see they didn’t know any better. It was a pretty homogenous town, all things considered. They didn’t interact with too many different kinds of people. If I was Korean or Mexican, they probably would have done the same thing, albeit I think the jokes would be different. Those 12 years largely shaped how I view the world, even to this day. THAT is the reason why I travel, and will continue to do so, God willing. The real embarrassment, I think, would be to live in AMERICA, and somehow choose to miss out on all this great diversity. It’s a privilege.
I took all of this to the movie theatre with me when I went to see Black Panther… yes, I know, I’m not allowed to say anything bad about Black Panther. Let me start by saying the film was exceptional. I enjoyed it greatly. I don’t have anything bad to say about Black Panther. True story. I will say, however, the hype before, during, and after the movie, for me at least, gets the side eye. Sure, being African is cool… now. Having an accent is cool… now. Wearing a dashiki is cool… now. Man, this is the same stuff that got me roasted when I was in grade school. Get the heck out of here with that stuff, man. I was African BEFORE it was cool. And I’ll still be African when it’s not cool anymore. The irony is I got the worst crap in school from black people. I got crap from white people, too, but the crap I got from black people was much, much worse. Ironically, they’re the main people hyping this movie. **Sideeye**
Let me be clear, I don’t want to generalize: there are millions of black people across the country; some (not all) make a mockery of African culture. Obviously, plenty do not. Still though, you have to admit, it’s a bit amusing how things have come full circle. I understand the people roasting me were just kids, but this is more about how America responds to diversity than it is about getting teased in grade school. There are plenty of ADULTS that make fun of the Indian guy at the gas station, or the Chinese woman serving them the general tso chicken, or the Muslim man or woman wearing the hijab. Heck, I can’t imagine being Muslim or Middle Eastern in the US, post September 11th. So, what’s the excuse for all of these adults? Answer: none. Adults can be mad ignorant, too, so don’t hit me with that, “Nnamdi, they were just kids,” stuff. Nah, American ADULTS give immigrants a hard time, too. Again, you have to admit, it’s a bit amusing how things have come full circle. We went from calling people African booty scratcher to #WakandaForever. Heck yeah you get the sideeye. Sure, you can say this film will produce a deeper pride in the black community and inspire many to learn about African heritage, culture, etc. I don’t disagree with you. Indeed, we’ll never truly know what would have become of Africa in the absence of colonial rule. With its rich endowment of natural resources, the possibilities were endless (Nigeria ranks top 10 for oil reserves, btw). And I’m sure some will be inspired to learn about the wonder of Africa. But personally, I think for many, this will be hype. A great film for the culture. That’s it. I take no delight in saying that, either.
To me, the reception is noteworthy. Again, at the risk of being character assassinated by someone who reads the blog, let me say, again, I very much enjoyed the film from start to finish. It’s the reception that I’m more interested in. We cheer on my man T’Challa on the big screen, and then when we have immigrants from Africa, we give them a hard time. People talking about naming their first son T’Challa or naming their first daughter Wakandria (they’re kidding, of course,), and then you got people from Ethiopia, Uganda, and Kenya, and you heckle them about their name and accent. People talking about Wakanda forever, and then we behave and conduct ourselves in ways that make people embarrassed and ashamed of their culture and where they come from. YES, I have an issue with that. That’s a huge problem… MONUMENTAL. If T’Challa grew up in the Georgia school system, he probably would have gotten crapped on. It makes me wonder if America treats immigrants from Europe better than they treat immigrants from Africa, Asia, or Latin America. It would seem the president has made his beliefs apparent already: He thinks I’m from a crap-hole country. I’m sure he’s not alone in thinking that, either. That wouldn’t surprise me. But it does make me wonder if even the black community has bought into that notion. Do black people perceive the British immigrant differently than the Nigerian one? Is the French immigrant perceived differently than the Senegalese one? Is the Portuguese immigrant perceived differently than the man or woman from Mozambique? Who would have the tougher time in the Georgia public school system? Maybe I’m salty… maybe I’m on to something. **Shrugs**
But there’s another part of this, too. Maybe this goes without saying, but even though I was born here, I’ve never quite felt American (To be fair, being American is a very fluid concept these days). I don’t think people understand that just because we share the same language and we share the same country doesn’t mean we share the same domestic experience. That is, I grew up in a Nigerian household, in America. You can take the boy out of Nigeria but you can’t take Nigeria out the boy. When I was growing up, my parents had only been in the US for a few years (4). They didn’t prescribe to American ideals; they were still Nigerian through and through. THAT is how I grew up. I didn’t grow up going to family reunions, because all of my family is in Nigeria. I’ve never had a pork chop in my life; we NEVER ate pork in my house. Goat? Sure. Deer? Absolutely. Chicken? You bet. Pork? Get the heck out of here with that pork, man. I don’t think I even had bacon until I got to college, and I still didn’t get the hype. To this day, I don’t like gravy, mashed potatoes, chitlins, and other staples of the black diet (forgive me if I’m generalizing in an unflattering way). I had apple pie for the first time at my sisters wedding (2015). 2016 was a year for the history books: Donald Trump was elected President, and I had candied yams for the first time. Big salute to my black friends, particularly in Philly, for putting me on black Thanksgiving food.
I didn’t grow up watching the Cosby’s, or the Jamie Foxx show, or the Wayne Brothers, or Martin, or other iconic black television from the 80’s/90’s (I did watch the Fresh Prince… he’s my dude). From a historical perspective, these were all iconic media for the black community. Black people on television! And they’re not in handcuffs! Entertainment for black people! It was a GROUNDBREAKING concept. It just wasn’t a part of my Nigerian upbringing. To this day, all those references will still go over my head (I picked up Martin, in 2016). I didn’t grow up with Lionnel Richie, Whitney Houston, Prince, Stevie Wonder, Luther Vandross, and the like. Aside from Nigerian music, the artists we listened to were artists who performed and/or sold music in Nigeria. If anything, since Nigeria was a former British colony, there’s a strong English influence. Your taste in music doesn’t just up and change because you immigrate, you know. Elton John is a bad man. He’s British though. Celine Dion showed up in my house, but she’s Canadian. Madonna made it in the house, too, but very few artists achieve the international acclaim, across different age groups, that she had (mind you this is the 80’s and 90’s… the music climate today is different with YouTube, Spotify, etc.). Michael Jackson is a given. He’s dope.
I had to put myself on rap and R&B. Suffice to say rap wasn’t particularly well received in my household… black culture is very foreign to Nigerian culture: let my parents catch me bumping TI. Get the heck out of here with that gangsta rap, man. I JUST discovered Lauryn Hill. Yo, she’s nice. But I didn’t grow up on that. A lot of references go over my head. I’m probably not all that great at being American, all things considered.
I’m probably not that great at being Nigerian either though. Remember, I grew up for most of my life, 12 years (most of my working memory, basically) hating my heritage and culture. Heck, so much so, I don’t even know my own language, Igbo. Suffice to say I’m not Nigerian enough in a lot of Nigerian circles. When I tell some Nigerians that I don’t speak Igbo, I get the sideeye. I can feel the judgement already. I got the same growing up. Friends would come to visit my dad, and when they spoke to me in Igbo, I would just stare them down, like, “We’re in America, fam!” **Cue the disappointed faces**. Time and time again. 20+ years later, it’s the same thing. I didn’t grow up in Nigeria. The United States is the closest thing to a home I’ve ever known. There are still many, many Nigerian cultural references that I’ll miss. Couple that with the fact that I won’t learn about Nigerian history (or even black history, broadly speaking) in the American school system. Everything I’ve learned about African history and Nigerian history I’ve had to learn on my own. And even with that, there’s still so much to learn about. The British invented Nigeria essentially… what the heck does that even mean? I still know very little about Nigeria’s civil war, even though my uncle died in that war. Technically, I’m from Biafra, which succeeded from Nigeria for 3 years, until they surrendered at the end of the war, in 1970… and don’t get me started on Nigerian politics. So much to learn about.
To close, W.E.B. Du Bois notes a similar idea to the one I’ve been alluding to with a term he coined in the early 20th century: Double Consciousness. While he introduced it more in the context of race relations, simply put, double consciousness is the hyperawareness of having multiple identities. As I’m sure you would imagine, in the early 1900’s, his concept was highly relevant to how blacks viewed themselves vs. how whites viewed blacks, creating what he called double consciousness. On any given day, I’m very much aware of a dual identity, neither of which I seem to fit perfectly. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s not anything. It just… is. A statement. An observation. A phenomenon. That’s all. No more, no less. But to be true to Du Bois, I feel his term, as he defined it, was more representative of my experience growing up. At home, hearing my culture and heritage is beautiful and to be celebrated and basically experiencing the exact opposite when I walked out the doors of my home, particularly at school. So, what do I do? Do I hide it or do I celebrate it? Is it hot or is it not? Do I assimilate and renounce my culture or do I stay true to my Nigerian roots, to my own ridicule? Tough decisions for an adolescent to mull over.
I want to be clear; this experience isn’t unique, at all. Chinese Americans. Indian Americans. Vietnamese Americans. Mexican Americans. Many of my immigrant friends have shared very similar experiences, at least as it pertains to double consciousness and/or feeling they don’t fit in with either culture. But, this seemed the opportune time to share, on the tail end of Black History Month and with the release of Black Panther. I’d love to hear your thoughts though.
Nnamdi