Bringing the World Together One Question at a Time

Celmali Jaime

On Being Black in Africa
And there I was, stepping off a plane and on my way to Morocco. Who would have ever thought that I and seven other young Americans would be traveling across the world, for the experience of a lifetime? Surely I did not think I would find myself in blazing hellish weather, fully covered in hijab under the beaming sun. We landed in Melilla, a small Spanish territory city on the edge of Morocco. The plan was to meet Melody, our underground host, and cross the border by foot. For fear of endangering the Moroccan Christians who were hosting us, she would do all of the talking. I stared at my feet, like we were instructed to do. From the side of my eye I saw a police beating a man on the ground. People casually walked by. I realized this was a typical everyday occurrence. I focused even harder on my feet.

The officers collected our passports. Then they checked our bags thoroughly. But it was taking longer than usual, Melody told us. I felt anxious, like if they figured out we were Christians, we would be next in line for a public beating. Is this how immigrants feel when trying to cross the American border? I thought. Is this what my parents had to endure? We waited for what seemed like centuries while they questioned Melody. And then the problem dawned on me. I was Black. “Is she a refugee?” “No.” “Are you sure she was born in New York?” “Yes.” He looked at my passport, and then glared at me. He glanced towards Melody. I continued to stare at my feet. My passport said American, but to him, my skin verified that I was a sly Sudanese attempting to slip through the border with well meaning Americans.

We finally made it past the border and endured ten hours of perilous cab driving. We stayed in Ismouren, in the home of a Christian Moroccan named Musa. His home was in close proximity to the mountains where the Rif Berber people lived. Because of the high gender role definitions in Morocco, I and the other females did not acquaint ourselves with Musa, but instead clung to his niece, Fatima. Fatima was different from other women because she knew Spanish. Being a Spanish speaker myself, I figured Fatima and I could help break the language barrier between the English speaking Americans, and the Rif Berber people.

The Rif Berber women were excited to see us. They touched Caitlyn’s hair, which was dyed California beach blond. They stared at Lauren’s eyes, which were bright blue. However I seemed to confuse them. Every American they had ever seen was White. I tried to explain that I was from New York. The first thing that came to mind was to explain that it was where 9/11 had happened. Unfortunately, neither Fatima, nor the Berber women understood me. Not only did they not know what 9/11 was, they did not understand the concept of a skyscraper, a city, or an airplane. This baffled me. We were from two different worlds. Even language could not bridge us together. They continued to examine us. The children pinched my skin. They have never seen a Black person before, I thought. The women continued to insist on knowing where I was from. Where did the Americans find me? I thought being Black in Africa would make me feel at home. But I thought wrong. So I just pointed to myself and said “America.” I would not even try to explain what Garifuna was.

About three days after I returned from Morocco, I began to pack my bags for a summer internship in Akron, Pennsylvania. Before leaving I stopped by a beauty supply store in my neighborhood for some last minute products. As I roamed through the aisles, I stopped in front of a mirror. I noticed the face of the Chinese storeowner behind me. I made my way into the next aisle, and turned around, only to see him again. This time he conjured a smile and walked by aimlessly. His attempt to inconspicuously follow me was failing terribly. I walked out of the store and decided to buy my products when I arrived in Akron. I thought being back in America would make me feel at home. I guess I thought wrong again.

In Akron, I was assigned to live in a house with international volunteers. There I met John, a nervous, heavily medicated Canadian who returned from India after developing insomnia. His mixed feelings about living in a house with a Black person from the Bronx were evident in his stuttering speech and jittery behavior. Normally, I would have been offended; but John was truly petrified and I pitied him. “John,” I said, “you don’t have to be afraid of me. Ask me any questions, and I’ll answer as best as I can.” He sat his small lanky frame down at the kitchen table as I made us some tea. “Do you own a gun?” he asked, with much concern for his physical safety. I laughed. It was going to be a long conversation.

The following weekend, I brought John with me to New York City for a visit. His heart nearly collapsed as we strolled through housing projects in Harlem. He almost wet his pants when a Black man approached us and reached out towards him. “John, meet my boyfriend, Ashley.” The look on John’s face was priceless. We showed John the city; the Empire State Building, Times Square, Ground Zero, Chinatown, and the Statue of Liberty. We even took him out for a taste of Black southern cooking. The next stop was the Bronx. “Do you have your bulletproof vest?” I asked. John studied my face, and cracked a smile. “You’re joking eh?”

The next morning I brought John to my church. He drowned under the hugs of the older women and learned how to greet the teens with “a pound.” He was captivated by the rhythms of Garifuna drums and unsuccessfully clapped to the beat. Never would John have thought that being in a room full of Black people would be like this. He was surrounded by Spanish speaking, tortilla-eating people. What had happened to the dangerous, drug-selling thugs?

My critical awareness occurred when I realized that in a span of three weeks, I had experienced a plethora of people experiencing me. In the eyes of some, I was a Sudanese refugee. In the eyes of others, I was an eccentric freak of nature from a faraway land. And yet still, to others I was a dangerous criminal. The true culture shock was in realizing that the meaning of dark skin is constantly changing, depending on who I was interacting with.
I am a walking, talking, and breathing, critical incident. I became aware that I can change someone’s perception of Black, simply because of the skin I wear. Till this day, seeing people experience me is a window into their cultural competence and worldview. It reminds me of Jesus, when he asked his disciples “But who do you say that I am?” While what they think of me does not define me, it reveals who they are, and challenges their cultural perception. My cultural competence is constantly redefined as I experience people experience me. And so, being a Black multicultural female has inevitably trapped me in a state of conscious cultural incompetence. I try to understand the cultural paradigms people attempt to fit me in, and in turn continue to learn that I do not fit.