Stuff African People Hate

Before the Spanish, British, French, or America had anything to do with Africa, it was a place of great kingdoms and community reign.  Though wars and conflicts between ethnic groups existed, what was commonplace to the continent were spiritual, communal, and festive ways of life in lands overflowing with the most valuable resources in the world.

During those times what people were called was based on everything from the time and place in which they were born, to their ancestral names, to a physical characteristic.  A name could mean instant  power and prestige or be the mark of an adage curse and defeat.

Fast-forward a thousand years or so, and colonialism and supremacy and Western sovereignty have completely disarrayed entire kingdoms, leaving their mark on our most prized and useful possessions; our names.

During graduation season I attended an MBA ceremony at an HBCU, where most of the candidates were Nigerians with names of various beginnings and endings of the vowels O and U, and middles of K, C, H and L.  When reading the names they did not seem simple or “normal”, by Western standards, but if you took the time to sound them out, you would find that you are not that far off from the proper pronounciation.  The announcer astounded me.  While reading the names of the African MBAs, though a black woman herself, she consciously ended the pronounciations with reflections, making their names sound more like questions.  She even laughed through several, in which the audience joined her sporatically.  I was sitting with some friends of mine, which happened to be African-American. 

“Damn,” one of them said after hearing one of the names.

Behind me was a family dressed in traditional Nigerian garb that were hissing their teeth at what was becoming quite an uncomfortable and condescending situation.

“If that were a white person down there saying Juanita or DaShauna or Fredricka and laughing, black people would walk out in offense,” said one Nigerian woman behind me.

“Well, maybe he should have used an American name,” said another.

Pause.

I had to Zack Morris (step outside of) the situation and analyze what was happening. 

An “American Name” is something that some immigrants adopt when they come here to ease their assimilation.  If you have African friends, you may find that some may go by a different name at home than they do at school.  For instance, I had a Nigerian friend that called herself Nancy, who was Ikechu at home.  I had several Asian friends also, who followed the trend of adopting American names because they claimed it “helped with the teasing”.  My Korean friend was Danny at school, and Dong Jin at home.  Usually, by the time the kid goes to college where he has more opportunities to express himself and find pride in his heritage, he drops the “American Name” nonsense.  (I was never so lucky.  My father was too proud to allow us to go by anything other than what were on our birth certificates.  “They will learn,” he would say.)

The thing is that those names mean something; something original and beautiful to the mother and father that bore the child.  To assume a smoother assimilation by adopting a name that is easier to say, is almost robbing yourself of the exquisite tradition that was passed down from old Africa. 

Also, regardless of the fact that the Nigerian woman behind me was pissed, (and right about the assessment that it would’ve NEVER been a white man up there announcing contemporary Black names and laughing), her comment in response to the situation was just as racist.  Although I have known all a Juanita, Dashauna, and Fredricka, her reference to those names while mentioning African-Americans had the same intentions as the announcer.

The truth is that even though Black people are now straying from naming their children what contemporary-America (people that name their children things like Apple and Bud-Light) has labeled “ghetto”, the naming (most of them) also came from something special and powerful, something beautiful between a parent and a child.  As a black person, to judge those names and assume that Bob or Ray are more fitting because of the country in which we live in is almost shameful. 

So what next?

Should everyone have a different name for each different social context?  After all, don’t we all have different ways of speaking and interacting as our social groups change?  Should everyone in America have an easy, pronouncable, standard American name? I mean, isn’t globalization leading us toward a one-world, homogenous, easy, pronouncable and standard world, where we can all communicate with each other because we look the same, sound the same, wear the same things, and act the same? 

I say no.

Although as a child I hated explaining the meaning and intention behind my name to people that audaciously asked things like “What were your parents thinking?”, I wouldn’t change it for anything in this world.  I have an American (actually Irish) last name since my family is from an African country that was settled by Americans, so there’s nothing that I can really do about it.  (X is drastic.  My dad would flip.)  The damage has been done, so move on.  Refuse conforming to standards that are not natural to you.  Sure, if Doug is something as a Black person that you’ve always wanted to name your child, or like the sound of it against having to repeat your name ten times when meeting people, then by all means go ahead.  But don’t change your name to something like Doug (please), or plan to name your child that just because it is what we’ve been taught is normal. 

What I have been given, what we’ve all been given, regardless of the ships that disrupted our civilizations, the chains that disjointed our kingdoms around the world, is something beautiful.

Own it.   

Mother: I will call you Malachi (It means ‘my angel’).                                                                                                                                    Child: Dang straight you will.