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[ Dedication ] [ Table of Contents ]
[ Acknowledgements ] [ Foreword ] [ Prologue ] [ Opening Poem: The Greatest Human Right ] [ Introduction, Part 1 ] [ Introduction, Part 2 ] [ Introduction, Part 3 ] [ Introduction, Part 4 ]
Where
Am I From?
s
I began searching the roots of my African American family tree,
I expected to find enslaved Africans from the west coast of
Africa
, south of the Saharan border. They were brought here by way of
the Middle Passage and forced into a lifetime of slavery on
plantations in the Old South. The end. At least, that is what we
were taught in school. Alex Haley’s Roots told a
similar story of his African ancestor, Kunta Kinte, a Muslim
youth who was kidnapped from his native homeland in
Gambia
while searching for a log to build a drum. Shortly after
surviving the horror of the Middle Passage and arriving to these
shores, young Kunta was sold into slavery to the highest bidder,
a Mr. Reynolds of
Spotsylvania
,
Virginia
. I, too, had always hoped to find my family’s Kunta Kinte.
Like so many other people of African descent, I was never
satisfied with merely knowing that my ancestors came from
somewhere in
West Africa
prior to being enslaved in this country. I wanted to know as
many of the details as possible, like from where in
West Africa
they came and more importantly, which tribe or ethnic group. By
knowing the answers to these questions, I felt that then and
only then could I honestly claim to know my roots. I could in
turn give a more definitive answer whenever people were to ask
me where I am from. Because of my physical features, people have
always asked me this question in one way or another, but they
usually want to know which country I come from, not which state.
Although I have had no problem answering this question, some
people have had problems accepting my answer. Instead, my answer
only brought about more questions, which always added to the air
of mystery surrounding my ethnic origins. As the questions grew,
they eventually sparked a flicker of curiosity in me that grew
into a burning flame. Where am I from?
Figure
1
- My Parents
I was
born in Washington, D. C. in 1965, a Freedman’s (Hospital)
baby, and one of the first of my generation to be born “up
North.” My parents are from
North Carolina
, as were their parents, and their parents’ parents before
them, generations back into the dark annals of American
history. This makes me American, right? You would think so,
yet some people find it hard to believe, all because of what
they describe as my strong African features. “What part of
Africa
do you come from?” so many people have asked me. Others have
absolutely insisted, “There is no way that you can be
American!” “You are Nigerian, aren’t you?” or,
“African” or “Zingy?”
While traveling abroad, I have had to pull out my
U. S.
passport on more than one occasion just to prove to others
that “I, too, sing
America
.” One time, however, someone had the audacity to ask me how
I had managed to obtain my “recent” American citizenship
so that he, too, might apply as I had done. He just could not
imagine for one minute that I was actually “made in
America
,” all because of my looks. In his eyes I was simply
African, no doubt about it. So to him, the only way that I
could be American would be by having recently immigrated to
this country.
These
assumptions have been made within the African American
community as well. If only I had a dollar for every time
another person of African American descent has asked me where
in
Africa
I am from. Over the years, I have heard polite and sometimes
not so polite whispers, “Is he African?” Someone once even
told me, “You look like you just got off of the boat my
brother,” which I would like to think was a backhanded
compliment. What is so remarkable concerning these comments is
that they have even been made by my own family members. All of
my siblings look like your average African Americans, from the
darkest to the lightest of them. I am not so different from
many of them with regards to color, but my features set me
apart right away. Some years ago, for example, I
was paying a visit to one of my sisters who lived in
Washington
,
D.C.
I did not own a car at the time so I had to use public
transportation then walk a few blocks to her house. That day
my sister was sitting on her porch as I walked up from a
distance. After I had arrived and greeted her, she jokingly
commented to me, “I was just thinking to myself as you were
walking up, ‘Who is this African man walking up to my house?
I do not know any African men.’ Then as you got closer I
realized, ‘Oh it’s my brother.’”
My wife
also got a firsthand opportunity to witness for herself some
of what I experience on a regular basis. Once when I was
driving her to work, I ended up in a small clash of words with
another driver for failing to signal my intent to turn. The
driver of the other vehicle was a young African American woman
with a young, African American male on the passenger’s side.
After our brief tête-à-tête, the young woman got back into
her car and angrily yelled over to me, “Go back to
Africa!” to which I quickly replied, “But I’m not from
Africa
, I’m from D. C.” The sudden look of shock, confusion then
embarrassment that came over her face as she drove off—with
her mouth gaping wide open—was a true Kodak moment indeed.
Over time though, I became well acquainted with that same look
of surprise after having encountered it from so many people,
people who automatically assumed that I was straight “Out of
Africa.” So now when asked about where in
Africa
I come from, I sometimes like to jokingly reply, “The
northwest DC side,” just to see people’s reaction.
Not
everyone who has inquired into my ethnic origins has placed me
in
Africa
one hundred percent of the time. Some people for one reason or
another have asked if I was Jamaican or even Geechee. Still
others have placed me much further East due to what they
describe as my Asian or “Oriental” features. Being told
that I look African is quite understandable and easy enough
for me to accept, but being told that I look Asian came as
quite an unexpected surprise, which caught me completely off
guard. In fact, it did not make much sense to me at first. I
remember thinking, “Neither of my parents is Asian. How
could I possibly look Asian?” I guess I should have known
long ago, back when I first met the little Black Chinaman.
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