The Name Debacle

Posted July 2, 2008 by stuffafricanshate
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags:

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.

Comments: 3 Comments

The Look

Posted July 1, 2008 by stuffafricanshate
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags:

The greatest love stories always have irreparable conflict; grand obstacles that were never triumphed because of the time that the stories took place.  Romeo & Juliet both committed suicide, Solomon was not monogamous in his relationship with Shulamite, Jesus was crucified for the church, and the list goes on and on.

I suppose that concepts of attraction and the truth about love are far from what we’ve been taught to believe, far less idealistic than what we see in fairy tales.  Love is complicated; attraction is fickle; and fairy tales lie. 

I open with this point because I wonder how pure love really is, when we allow ourselves to be programmed as to who we can love based on social norms and acceptability.

There was a guy named Osi; nice looking guy, pretty tall, very well built (a bit stocky), with straight and almost blinding white teeth.  He approaches a girl that he thinks is pretty, disregards any social or cultural duty, any expectation of him, and walks straight up to her.  He speaks and she responds.  They both laugh, sifting through the BS of first acquaintances to find if there is anything substantial enough to carry home on a thin white sheet of paper or a palm.  She tells him her name, and finally asks his name as she extends her hand.

“Osi,” he answers.

Then she gives the look.  She is classy, so isn’t blatantly condescending with the way she re-arranges her face, and has been raised better than to tell someone “I’m sorry, I don’t date Africans,” when the tone of her skin shows that Africa runs deep in her familial tree.  She just gives a look; a look that says “sorry”, or “oh”, or “why can’t I get a good black man? Black like me?”, or “I don’t want to go there,” or “I can’t go there.”  Osi is smart enough to dissect the look into meaning that sometimes things aren’t as simple as approaching someone that you think is pretty.  Sometimes there is more to the equation.

There was a guy named Ray.  Ray came from a middle-class family in Colorado and went to an Ivy league where he met a girl who he felt wrote the script on beauty.  It was beyond the physical–her mind, her actions, the way she laughed, her history–everything about her made him want to pour into her, and to be filled in return.  They began to date and eventually became an item, despite themselves, despite all of the warning signs around them.  Before the holiday vacation, Ray asked her about going home with her since his parents were flying out of the country to London and he hadn’t gotten his passport in time.  Then unexpectedly, as if his words were weights to eyes, she gave him the look. 

“My mom doesn’t know I’m dating an African-American,” she said to him.  Ray wasn’t sure how to respond.  He all at once grew angry, betrayed; then he remembered that he hadn’t told his parents about the fact that she was Trinidadian.  The look then became contagious, and her words became weights to his eyes, the silence a hard re-entry into reality.

There was this girl named Famatta.  She was born in Liberia but was raised in the US and hadn’t associated with any other Africans until she went to college.  There she met a Nigerian boy that made her forget of her difference; made the teasing from her past fade to a glorious pride in her heritage that he helped her to realize.  Excited by her liberation, she gave herself to him and became pregnant during their senior year.  Though afraid, she was willing to marry him and grew anxious to tell him of the possiblity of a family and life together.

“My mother wants me to marry a Yoruba girl,” he told her.  The look could not escape her.  The harsh realization of first-too-African-and-now-not-African-enough.  And he looked at her like “sorry” or “oh” or “I don’t want to go there” or “I can’t go there”.

I couldn’t help but to give you these examples as an illustration of the world in which we live; where attraction and love have lost their purity and possibility to the lense of supremacy, cultural discrimination, and black divisive agendas. 

I have nothing against preferences.  It is our (healthy) right to know what we want and prefer.  However, when that preference stems from a rule of hatred and ignorance, then there is a problem.  As the next generation of black people, we have to make oaths to train our children differently than what/how we were raised.  Of course keep in the respect, honesty, loyalty, spirituality, and all the other basic integrities that the diaspora breeds their children in.  But we have to release the rule of exclusivity if we will ever get anywhere as a people.  We are the only ones who see ourselves in the ways that we do.  The outside world sees us as black.  Just….black. 

I am African and my significant other is African-American.  Although our families get along and we’ve never had problems with the slight cultural difference, I can’t help but to think of what kind of environment our kids would grow up in if we ever decide to take the next step.  At the rate that we are going, our kids would be raised with somewhat of a “mixed” mentality, where they are on the margin of two cultures and have to search and define their identity for themselves.  Black people in the world (ALL OF US) are so unfortunately disjointed from one another that we are losing the possibility of ever unifying to form the powerful people that we were intended, we were created, to be. 

Comments: 12 Comments

Being Called One of These Dudes

Posted June 29, 2008 by stuffafricanshate
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

Along with the advance of technology has come a disinterest in books and reading. I understand that to be the reason why our generation has lost most of their creativity and imagination.

As an African growing up in America, you’ve undoubtedly been called one of the following:

Alex Haley’s Roots was once the bane of my existence. The movie is great and the story is timeless, but for some reason kids liked referencing this dude (Kunte Kinte) as soon as they hear the word “Africa”. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against Toby. It’s just that around the end of middle school or so I began to get stressed about going to school the following Monday that it reran on TBS’s cultural movie Saturdays.

“Give us free” or “Give-is-Us-s-Free” was another infamous quote to taunt Africans and the children of African immigrants in America. In this Spielberg pic (Amistad), Djimon Hounsou played the role of Joseph Cinque and the quote were his first words (in the film) that were spoken in English. Notice that the two most widely-used reproaches while teasing about Africa are related to slavery. They (we) are educated to be ashamed, and so we defend ourselves by separating ourselves.

The movie was a classic. Nobody in their creative mind can refute that. However, it manifested a still very Hollywood and unrealistic view of Africa. It was like you either came here poor or as a slave, or you were once a prince that had a zoo in your back yard and utopia-like, melodramatically submissive brides to choose from. And even though he was a prince, he was still unhappy with the custom and tradition of Africa and had to come to America to find true love.

Note from Hollywood to viewers: Even the wealthiest in Africa are unhappy there! Feel better about what we did to your ancestors!!!

Note to self: Wait, are they serious?

I understand that there are barely any African men in contemporary mainstream media. Boris Kodjoe doesn’t really rep his Ghanaian heritage, and Barack Obama has had to hide any reference to Kenya for his campaign. Akon, though an alright singer, is not an accurate description of every African man. He is not an accurate description of every Senegalese man. He is not an accurate description of every African-American man (yep, he’s American too). He is an accurate description of Akon. I guess it happens across the board though within the contemporary black community, since women that grow their natural hair tend to get called India Arie (whether or not they look like her), and etc. We also get trained to expect and accept one representation for every and all of our “categories”. When there is a talented black female singer with European features, I suspect people to say that she is “trying to be the next Beyonce”. Why we can’t have more than one talented black female singer with European features, I don’t know.

Words can’t describe my disdain for this dude. The BET comedian, who calls himself Michael Blackson is capitalizing on the new era of minstrelsy with bizarre, embarrassing, exaggerated, and annoying interpretations of life as an African man. “Mudda Sucka” is his token phrase, and he harps on most stereotypes of Africans; from making fun of his skin complexion and embellishing his accent (he’s been here a while, so I know it isn’t what he makes it out to be), to referencing spears and voodoo. Minstrelsy should be outlawed, but I’ll expound later.

Comments: 12 Comments

The Assumption that Africans don’t like Black Americans

Posted June 27, 2008 by stuffafricanshate
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: ,

This was going to be my first post, but I decided that I hated Western Union more.

Most Black Americans assume that Africans do not like them or think negatively of them. The funny thing is that Africans have the same assumptions of African-Americans. So where did it all begin?

Nas’ latest album included a song titled “Be a Nigger Too”. About halfway into the first verse, the lyrics state Not mad cuz Eminem said nigger
cuz he’s my nigger, wigger, cracker friend
We all black within, okay
we all african, okay
Some africans don’t like us no way
While the implications of the lyrics weren’t anything significant enough to set riots off against the two groups, they remained in my head even after turning the song off.

In my experience in grade school, African-American kids were by no means the ones getting picked on. In fact, I know that I, and plenty of little African kids (even now), still tried as hard as they could to assimilate into African-American culture because they were made to feel bad for being African. The name calling was ridiculous…African-booty-scratcher, Jungle Monkey, Matumbo, the list goes on. It was always unfortunate that the African kids at school who had just come over could never find friends in African-Americans.

I was discreet. My name didn’t give me away too much, I knew the latest fashions, and I knew just as much (if not more) about black history than my counterparts. Some other kids weren’t so lucky. They got beat up, told to go back to Africa by black kids, made fun of endlessly, to a point that they began trying to lose their accents, changed the way they dressed, the music they listened to, everything and anything to fit in.

The white kids probably wanted to take the same approach to Africans with their curiousity, but people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson put the fear of God in them to never say anything in public imploring any person with black skin to go back to Africa. They generally just bombarded you with idiotic questions like

Asinine Question: Do you have cars in Africa?

(Since the Firestone tire plantation is based in Liberia, I’m gonna say yes.)

Asinine Question: Did you have clothes in Africa?

(What do you think, dumb-ass?)

Asinine Question: Did you have lions as pets and stuff?

(Would you?)

It wasn’t until I moved to the east coast from the South that I heard Black people say that they felt Africans didn’t like them. Some folks will even go as far as saying they hate Africans because of their arrogance. The only logical explanation that I could come up with is that the arrogance has to be a defense mechanism for getting their asses and egos beat on a daily basis. In the Western Union post, I mentioned what most Africans think of America. Most come here with the fantasy in tote that America will solve all of their problems. Imagine attending school for the first time in America with that sort of ideal and getting sucker punched by someone that looks just like you (only maybe a little more color coordinated….with a fresh hair cut). After a while you wouldn’t like them either. What African-Americans would say and express about Africa seemed ignorant to most Africans, since African-Americans are direct decendents of Africans. All of a sudden the grand idea of America begins to warp into anger, frustration, and an automatic defense that calls anyone that has a totally negative and media-like view of Africa ignorant. Unfortunately, most people with that view are our family, several hundred years removed. I blame the destructive public schooling system, which is as helpful to black love and education as Western Union is to sleep, but I digress. Sooner or later, word got out that Africans thought African-Americans were ignorant, and it all went south from there.

Of course I know it goes both ways. African-Americans aren’t the only ones doing the bullying. There are Africans whose nationalism translates to a disdain and condescension of anyone that wasn’t born within the divisive line that America or Europe drew on their land, but most of them remain in their countries. Most of the older Africans that I’ve met that have issues with African-Americans were once those little kids or international students that were teased, and have a natural defense when they interact with one. This is also why some don’t want their kids dating African-Americans, for fear that their children will face rejection, humiliation, and will eventually hate themselves and the fact that they are African.

There are too many black folks in this world to be as stagnant as we are economically, emotionally, and mentally. It all boils down to education. We have to find a way to educate each other about ourselves; a way to lift the veil.

Comments: 17 Comments

Western Union

Posted June 27, 2008 by stuffafricanshate
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

When I was eight-years-old I went to school with bags under my eyes every day from lack of sleep. Why? Because the pillow over my ears was never thick enough to drown out my mother’s deafening voice at 4 AM as she promised yet another relative that she would send them a Western Union money transfer the following day.

This was despite the fact that she still hadn’t taken me to Chuck E. Cheese as she’d been promising for three weeks because it was ‘rough’, but I digress.

Most African countries are six hours or more away, so when Africans are out and about in the blistering sun, making phone calls to relatives in America on public phones with horrible reception, infomercials still haven’t gone off in the states. Usually the phone rings around 3 AM, never 2 or 1 or 12 because God-forbid they wake up early to make a phone call.

So just as the sleep gets good and my leg begins to twitch a transition into a second dream, the house phone (the most obnoxious phone in the house) rings like 30 times. 30, because that’s how long it takes for my parents to realize that it must be a relative, since they keep calling. By the time the phone stops ringing, I try to go back to sleep. I have exactly two minutes to count enough sheep to return me to my dream; a two minute window between the last earsplitting ring and the second the reception craps up and my mother begins using her 20 foot voice over the phone so Aunty (insert your middle name) can hear what she has to say.

The lucky ones (mutants) maximize the opportunity of the two-minute window. They still go to school with bags under their eyes, but most of the time the bags are gone by recess. Others, like myself, need more than 120 seconds to fall asleep. We’re the damned. Because not only do we have to sit through the loud conversation of out-of-this-world-worse-than-tmobile-at-5-pm-reception, but just as she promises to send money the VERY next day, you begin to think of the broken promise of Chuck E. Cheese, and now have to deal with the slight possibility that maybe it isn’t ‘rough’ at all. Maybe your mom just doesn’t like you.

Come to think about it, they know the exact day that you get paid, and may even call you a few moments after the direct deposit posts to your account. In most of these countries (by most I mean the West), the view of America far exceeds the reality of what it really is. When visiting back home, little cousins speak of America as though it’s where Jesus lives or something, lined with streets of gold and honey fountains that sit beneath trees that produce money. Dreams of America have been crammed so far down their throats that the disillusion that most feel when they come here shifts into a depression, almost emasculating the first time a pay-check that would make them pretty well off back home, can barely pay their rent.

On a lighter note, at least by then the phone rings less. And that’s only because they probably live with you.

Comments: 2 Comments

Next Entries »