My Identity

Introduction

My goal for this project was to communicate how important it is to have a connection with Sudan and my family through stories I felt the closest to my culture. I am proud of the way I wrapped up my points at the end. I clarified my points and drew a bigger conclusion. Some things I could’ve improved in my essay was the amount of description I gave. If there were more details it would be easier for the reader to imagine the scene in their minds.

“Sorry if I butcher this name…”

I already know that my name is about to be mispronounced. And since my last name starts with an A, it’s usually going to be a struggle within the first 5 seconds of taking attendance. I’ve heard it all, Imon, Amon, Imani… I-M-A-N, the Arabic word for faith and belief, that’s how you spell my name and it’s pronounced exactly how it’s spelled but it seems to always get people’s tongue-tied. Which I don’t get but everyone has different lenses they look through…right.

As a kid, I hated my name. It might have been because of the way it differentiates me from the other kids at school. Asking my parents for a Dora backpack and matching Dora shoes, I felt I had to find another way to connect with the kids at school.

I was 5 years old the first time I went to Sudan and I went with my dad. We stayed in my Aunt’s (my dad’s 1st cousin) house. She had the same name as me which I thought was cool because I barely knew anyone that shared a name with me. I walked into a house that didn’t resemble the houses in America. One house was the size of ¼ of a block in Philadelphia, the outside walls were mint green with a tall white door that didn’t have a door frame, just a door that was connected to the walls, above those walls were barbed wires just like the ones in jails but it was to keep any robbers from entering. She immediately hugged me after opening the door, she seemed so excited to see me even though I just met her. We all went inside and sat down on the perfectly laid sheets. There was this familiar smell that I smelt, it was the smell of burning scented wood hips that mom would burn every time guests were coming over. My grandma’s sister came and greeted my dad and I. I noticed this connection between them when they were talking, picking up where they left off when they last saw each other, laughing while they shared the memories they had together. I just stared at them, chuckling with them even though I didn’t understand most of the things they were saying. I felt the joy in their voices, the smile on their faces soothed my heart. When we were about to go to sleep, my aunt slept with me. She told me that when she heard my dad named me after her how happy she was. How she loudly started proudly cheering, then going around the neighborhood passing out cookies. Her dear friend and cousin moved to America but he never forgot about her. I soon realized that I wasn’t named Iman for no reason, but it was a way for my parents and me to still be connected to my family that lived halfway across the world. It was a way for my parents to remember all the people who they loved that they left behind.

As I grew up, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. Almost all 1st generation Americans go through a similar experience. There was this one time I connected with my Sudanese friends. We were all on Facetime having our usual conversations about news in our lives and sharing inside jokes. We were all on pause when I heard a laugh coming from my phone. I asked what happened and she told us to go look at what she sent us, I thought it was a regular funny meme she just sent. But when I saw the post was from an unfamiliar account. It was called “growingup.sudanese”. Underneath was a meme that read “When mama doesn’t agree with something and she makes it rhyme.” We all started laughing like crazy, talking about how our parents are so weird but funny at the same time. Then we continued to go through their page, connecting even more with every meme we read. I could feel this warm, comforting feeling that made me feel like I can finally relate to people and know exactly what it’s like. Our experiences created these strong bonds.

My name and experiences are apart of my identity. Behind those 4 letters held a history of culture and religion. My parents came to this country taking only what they could from their country, their traditions. It was important for them to share their culture and traditions with their child in this country in which culture can be easily diluted by the American culture. This was something many immigrants experience with their children and as of 1st generations, we have to adapt to where we live in while holding on to our story.