For many years I have elected to refer to myself as Black, with a capital B. I was at various times colored, negro, Afro and African American. However, I have long been, am and suspect will always remain Black. It is how I define myself . A woman does not let anyone else define her by name rank or social security number. I am now more myself than ever before. The other terms, while not inaccurate, certainly within historical context, are simply too exclusive. Most assuredly, I am an American. It’s where the boat stopped so many generations ago. And I have definite and obvious overt roots in
And then I came to
Africa .
I was forewarned
by the Peace Corps that Black Americans faced unique challenges in Botswana , as do
others that do not fit what is seen as the ‘typical’ embodiment of an American,
read that to mean white, male and Christian.
Two of the categories where I diverge are unmistakable (at least I hope
the male part is). I am neither white
nor male. The latter is not so readily
apparent. You cannot just look at me and
know that I am a non-theist. But evident
or not, I am not what the rest of the world, including Botswana, expect when
they hear ‘American’ (I have a feeling, a hope, though, that the election of
Barack Obama has done much to alter that perception).
I have traveled to
places where I was a true minority, like Dublin ,
Ireland , and to
where Black people are the majority, i.e.
Jamaica . But nothing, nowhere like the scale I saw
when I stepped unto the African continent. My initial response in landing in Jo
Berg was “I am home.” I was waved
through the International Gate while everyone else in our group of 35were
stopped, passports checked, including the other Black volunteers. I grinned like the jet lagged, giddy needy
nerd I am.
However, it was in
Botswana
where I was strikingly reminded of a routine by the late and incomparable
Richard Pryor. I saw Black people, my
people, everywhere, in every capacity. I
saw my Aunt Evelyn! I am living with my
Aunt Juanita! My niece Bridgette lives
down the road! My Uncle Fred drives a taxi. When I reached Kanye, where I spent the next eight weeks
in training, I wascalled ‘ an African woman’ and told on more than one
occasion that I am home. My blackness
connects me here in ways that transcend nationality and experience. But, don’t get me wrong, this is a double
edged sword. The expectations, the responses are different for me and I am
still most assuredly an American. But
now one with roots, real roots that stretch beyond borders and time that did
not exist for me before. I am included,
not excluded, by virtue of my blackness.
It is what we have in common and in common with all those that remained
and all those that didn’t have that choice, wherever the boats may have stopped. It is why I am not colored, negro, Afro or
African American.
I am Black and Black with a capital B.
BLACK…..
WHY DO THE INUIT HAVE SO MANY WORDS FOR SNOW?
Karla Henderson, BS/MA, is currently a Peace Corps Volunteer,
10 months into a two year assignment as a School and Community Liaison for Life
Skills in the HIV/AIDS Capacity Building Project in Botswana ,
Southern Africa . She is also a PhD Candidate in Education
Administration at Claremont Graduate University
in Claremont CA .
No comments:
Post a Comment