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Done

by Margaret Nkechi Onwuka
February 2006


"You are not one of them." Those were the words spoken to me by my father the first and last time to his knowledge that I said the word ain?t. "You are not one of them." The "them" were the students at the predominantly African-American elementary school that I attended in Inglewood, California. It was the first time that I became aware that, although I looked like everyone else at school, I was different. I knew that my last name was different. I knew that my parents had accents. And I knew that my mother served fufu at least once a week. I also knew that I dressed like everyone else, my speech was a mixture of valley girl and slang, and that I loved McDonald?s. All I wanted to do in the first grade was play jumprope and tag, not contemplate my identity. It was at that moment when I heard my father?s harsh words that I began to question who I was.

Over the years I struggled trying to blend my Nigerian identity with the Black American culture that I knew far too well. In junior high, all of the kids said that I dressed to cool be an African. I would lie and tell them that only my father was from Africa. In high school, I became a "Nigerian Malcolm X" of sorts. I wore my lappas with pride during Black History Month and let everyone know that I was Nigerian. It was not until college, where I no longer was the only person representing the continent, that I found a balance.

I am proud to say that I am a Nigerian-American. I wear my Nigerian lappas with American tank tops. I LOVE Nigerian food, but I find a way to balance it with my vegetarian diet. I?ll get down to highlife and soukous, but I like to mellow out to jazz and R&B. I date Nigerian, Nigerian-American, and Black American men. My Nigerian and American identities no longer tetter totter in my life. I embrace both identities warmly. I?m Nigerian. I?m American. I?m Black. And I ain?t changing my self-identification for anyone.