We struggle with labels and do our best to understand where we fit. It’s difficult to be alive without ‘knowing who you are’ so we create labels to explain to everyone. Perhaps we were born knowing who we are? Perhaps we were born knowing our purpose? The challenge is preserving our authenticity as the world tries to shape us. Socialized? Is who we are based on socialization? How about the struggle between what we know is real about ourselves and what we are told? Do we conform? Do we fight? Do we let go? Do we let go and become someone else? The struggle with identity is endless. Until we realize that identity is never absolute we will always struggle.
From a very early age, I had always known myself as ‘Eritrean’. My family immigrated to the US in the early 90’s, as a result of the conflict between Eritrea and Ethiopia. And although I lived in Chicago since the age of two, my parents always made me aware of where I came from. Growing up in Uptown Chicago, I was surrounded by immigrants from Vietnam, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Ghana, Nigeria, Pakistan, India, Cambodia, and more. Besides the immigrants that resided in the neighborhood, Uptown Chicago was also home to a large population of Black Americans and a handful of Puerto-Ricans.
During childhood, I was aware I was of Eritrean origin but many still referred to my family as Ethiopians. For instance, there was a time in a grocery store, my father answered ‘Ethiopia’ when someone at the store asked him where we came from. I remember making my annoyance clear by quickly following up with ‘we are Eritrean’. Later, my father reassured me, that we were Eritreans but because the country was newly independent, people wouldn’t know it. I remember wondering why we didn’t just tell people about our newly independent country so they can learn about it, instead of telling them we were from Ethiopia? This was the beginning of my identity struggle and it only became tougher when I began to attend school.
In my elementary school, I shifted from being an ‘Eritrean’ girl to an ‘African’ girl. Although I wasn’t sure what being ‘African’ meant, I was given that label by my environment. Other students labeled as ‘African’ looked different and spoke differently from one another. Besides that we had melanin in our skin, it was hard for me to understand how we all acquired the ‘African’ label. Once, when I went to a Ghanaian friend’s house, the food that was served to me was foreign to me. I also noticed that the traditional dress of Nigerian and Ghanaian parents were not at all similar to the dress of Ethiopian and Eritrean parents but yet we all were ‘African’.
Many jokes were made about Africans by other students who didn’t acquire that label. I remember feeling appalled and ashamed when I heard insults such as ‘African booty scratcher’ and ‘Monkey eater’ thrown at fellow African students. There were also insults made about those whose skin were ‘too dark’. Furthermore, the notion of not being ‘black’ enough was brought to my attention by a neighbor of mine. As we walked home from our elementary school, my neighbor told me that I needed to ‘quit acting black’ because I was ‘African’. I was embarrassed because I had no idea what she meant and proceeded to defend myself. Despite me trying to convince her that I was ‘black’ because I truly believed it, she rejected my claim. After that day, I vowed to make my parents (specifically my mother) speak only English in public and to also cook ‘American food’. I wasn’t successful but I continued for a long time to adapt to the culture of my environment and convince those around me, including myself, that I was ‘black’ and that I was ‘American’.It wasn’t until my teenage years that I embraced my ‘Eritrean’ identity and later during my undergraduate studies, where I started to own my ‘African’ identity.
In 2008, I travelled to Eritrea for the first time and it was during that visit that I began to understand the yearning for knowing my ‘root’. All my life I grew up in Chicago but there was a familiarity about Eritrea, from the faces of the people, to the food, to the music, to the language, it naturally felt like home to me.
When I travelled to Egypt and Kenya in 2011, I remember how many locals confused me as a local and spoke to me in their languages. It was surprising to find myself in foreign lands but still feel very connected to the country and it was fascinating to be exposed to new cultures in Egypt and Kenya. Although the countries were both very different from one another and from Eritrea, all three played a vital part in shaping how I understand my own ‘African Identity’. The more I was exposed to new people and to new experiences, I understood that my identity was constantly evolving, and that it was strictly my own, and it was okay to see myself in different lights.
