African in America

Growing up and being an African in America wasn’t always easy. When I was younger, I was made fun of for being African, by descendants of Africa, which I never really understood. It wasn’t constant teasing but from time to time minimal ignorant comments. I was self-conscious about being Sierra Leonean, I propelled my culture, I refused to embrace it. Africans were and still are viewed as “poor” because of the empty-headed stereotypes that were created and America mostly conveying poor sides of Africa. It’s disappointing that I was brainwashed into thinking that Africa is a substandard place, which is why my puerile self never liked being African or wanted to go to Africa. As I grew older, I realized that America is a place that suppresses others in order to ascend themselves. It’s full of irrational judgment and no matter who you are, and how “perfect” you try to be, you will always be condemned and stripped away from your identity. Africa is one of a kind continent and in fact, is very rich. I began observing that there’s so much culture within Africa and there’s another country that I can proudly say I am apart of. There’s nothing that I should be ashamed of. The time that I began to value African culture was when I was around age 12, nearly 13. I was at my cousin’s wedding, I was a flower girl. I had on an extravagant African dress, which I had a distaste for at the time, but I received innumerable compliments on it. I went around greeting family members before I went to hug my grandma. “You look so beautiful in this dress.” She spoke to me in Krio. “Thank you, but I don’t like it, it’s ugly,” I said sitting next to her. “Don’t say that, why do you think it’s ugly?” She asked. “All my friends say African clothes are ugly.” I frowned. “They’re not your real friends, your real friends would accept you for who you are,” she said patting my leg. “Get up and come with me.” I got up and follow her as she leads me to the bathroom. In the bathroom, there was a full body mirror. “Stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself.” I was confused but did as I was told and didn’t reply. “You are a beautiful African girl. You have so much culture and family back home,” she said. “What culture do your American friends have?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing,” she replied. “This African dress is beautiful, our culture is beautiful, Africa is beautiful. You are who you are and you can’t change that. Accept yourself and accept our culture. It is one of a kind.” I smiled up at her and watched myself in the mirror. “Thank you, grandma,” I said as I hugged her. Every day I am growing to love who I am and where my parents came from and where my family members are. I know that I have another place in Sierra Leone that I could call home. I no longer care what others think of me.