The color of culture

Throughout elementary school, kids called me "African booty-scratcher" and "Dirty African." Though I knew they were mean and spiteful terms, I never really knew what they meant.

I was in high school before anyone questioned my African identity and culture. Kids, having learned that my parents are from Eritrea, would ask dim-witted questions like, "Do Africans run around naked in the jungle?" or my personal favorite, "What language do Africans speak?"

How shallow to think an entire continent speaks one language.

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I never did like World History class, especially when we reached the slavery unit. I would sit in class, the lone black girl, my head lowered in discomfort as we watched "Roots." The screen was illuminated by scantily-clad Bushmen waving spears, chanting in some indecipherable tongue.

Distant whispers and giggles would come from the dark corners of the room. A kid once shot me with an invisible dart, "HA! Gotcha, Mary." I sank lower in my seat, eager for my 30 minutes of shame to be over.

After the movie, my teacher proceeded with the lecture about slave reparation. Then, he singled me out: "So, Mary, what are your thoughts on slave reparation?" I was offended, shocked and angry that he expected me to speak on behalf of the black race. "What do you mean?" I stammered. "My ancestors weren't slaves!"

There was a deadly silence, all attention was directed toward me. I could feel the inconspicuous glares of my classmates. It was my time of judgment. He continued to interrogate me with questions, not once encouraging others in the class to speak up.

"My parents are recent African immigrants from East Africa; I'm not African American," I answered.

The bell rang, class ended, kids ushered out. "Hey, Mary, can I talk to you for a sec?" my teacher asked. "I apologize for putting you on the spot; I just wanted to hear your perspective. I'm interested in learning more about your culture. Maybe you can share this with the class one day."

I walked out of class, frustrated. I don't know if I was more offended that he assumed I was African American, or that he wanted me to be an ambassador for my race.

I hate being placed into a suffocating box. Growing up, I struggled with how to label myself: Black? African American? Eritrean American?

By just my physical appearance, manner of dress and perfect English, one would never guess I am African. But I don't know about "chitlings" or "grits." I don't listen to soul artists such as Marvin Gaye or Aretha Franklin. Nor do I go to church.

I realized these and more differences between black culture and my traditional Eritrean home growing up. Since I was born, I was taught to honor and respect my parents. There was no slamming doors or screaming, "I hate you, Mom!"

I grew up eating injera and listening to Tigrinya music. My parents maintained a strong cultural tie by passing on time-honored traditions. After school, I cook the traditional coffee, called boun, by hand for my mother. It is a tradition shared amongst mother and daughter.

Despite my culture, to many people, I am black. This is constituted by the color of my skin, not my culture.

I've tried to break myself free from the negative stigma associated with being black in America. I speak proper English to be taken seriously. Saying "yo" and "wazzup" won't gain me any respect in the white world, just as saying, "yes, ma'am" and "I'll be obliged" won't gain me respect from my black world.

To complicate the issue, if I don't maintain my Eritrean-ness, I am seen as turning my back on my culture.

I am Eritrean at home, American in my professional realm, and black the rest of the time.

It's difficult to juggle all these identities, but I am learning to adapt to my surroundings.

For a lot of black immigrants, adopting African-American culture is a step toward full integration into American culture. Much to their parents' dismay, adopting black culture is often seen as destroying the American dream they worked so hard to attain, largely because of the negative stereotypes of black Americans that still persist.

I want to be recognized by my Eritrean culture because I am proud of it. My skin color is not something I can escape from. I am still black in America's eyes, no matter what culture I identify with.

African immigrant or black American, we are still one people. Africa our motherland, but America our home.

Mary Andom will be a Western Washington University freshman. E-mail: NEXT@seattletimes.com