My Father was a diplomat. I had the pleasure growing up mainly overseas. The first six years of my life were in Africa. I was born in Nairobi although my parents were stationed in Burundi. From what I understand the hospital in Bujumbura was infested with rats. Being a new Mother myself I can understand why my Mother moved to Nairobi the last 2 weeks of her pregnancy. The Dr. did not make it to my delivery, so I was delivered by two Kikuyu nurses who had no problems with, literally, tossing me around the room as if I were a football. My Father watched in horror and tried to say something but was quickly interrupted by one of the nurses, who sharply gave her opinion of men in the labor room who were not in the medical profession. It was something like "new Father's should be seen but not heard".
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When I was 3 and 1/2 we moved to Algeria. We lived in a beautiful house in the center of Algeirs. My brother and I were not allowed to wander the streets, it was far too dangerous. Thankfully, I did have a friend who used to come over and play frequently. Her Father was a diplomat too, he was a Kenyan diplomat. One day I looked at my Mother and said "Hudja was born in Nairobi and I was born in Nairobi, so why is she black and I'm not?".
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We moved back to the U.S. when I was almost 7 years old. We moved to a small town about an hour away from Washington D.C. This was my first experience with culture shock. My parents put me in the second grade in the American public school system. Boy, did I NOT fit in. I remember trying to make friends with one of the girls in my class. She reminded me of Hudja whom I missed. I quickly realized during the first week of school, she was not in anyway like my Kenyan friend Hudja. I'll never forget the day she called me an "African dog". And that was supposed to be an insult? I didn't get it, I still don't.
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Years later, I moved back to the US, this time from Paris, France. I was 19 years old and a little savvier than when I was 7. I moved back to the same town. Although I did not experience culture shock to the same intensity as the first move back to the US, it was still quit an adjustment. I felt a little like Rip van Winkle. I missed out on popular television series', there was a bit of a language barrier as well. I asked someone to pass me the hoe and couldn't understand why she started laughing. I was simply asking for a garden tool. She was nice enough to explain that there is a slang term
ho, that is used for a loose woman. Oh! now I saw the humor...sort of.
While I was attending a local Community College I had a revelation. I was sitting at a table in the student lounge studying with an African American friend named Paul. I looked at him straight in the eyes and said, "I'm more African American than you are". He looked at me like I was nuts and said "What?". I repeated my statement and then said "I was born in Africa". I went back to studying while Paul was trying to regroup from his laughing fit.
During the same time frame my Father was sent to the Congo. He called one late November night, to simply say hello. It dawned on me that my Father was going to be all alone for the Holidays. So I made him a deal. I told him if he paid for the trip, I'd go. Less than a month later I was on a plane headed for the heart of Africa. The trip was fabulous, I will blog more stories at another time. The one aspect about being back in Africa was that I was made very aware that I was not black (although I was born in Nairobi). I was confined to the house or the pool at a local hotel. I was desparate to walk the streets, take in the culture but it simply was not safe. There had been some fighting, as it turns out I was there for the beginning of their civil war. Knowing I was bored, my Father told me that there was a man at the Embassy who's daughter was also visiting and would I like to meet her? I jumped at the opportunity. We went to lunch one day. She was attending a University near Washington D.C., she was my age and we found a lot of things to talk about. She asked me what I had seen or done while in Brazzaville. I told her I had not done much, I was not allowed to go outside by myself, that I was told it was not safe. It turned out that she had been all over the city and BY HERSELF! How could this be? Why was she allowed and I was not? Then it hit me, I looked at her again to confirm and realized she looked a lot like Hudja and that is why she was able to wonder the streets of Brazzaville.
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So, I'm not black but I am African American, so to speak. Not much offends me but I do realize that words can hurt. Would a certain someone still have all his sponsers if he had used the words, "diaper* headed garden tool"?
*nappy being a British term for diaper
Third trimester
Third trimester
