America's Daughter

As puzzled as I was by my classmates’ assumptions, their classification of me as a Black American nonetheless comforted me. Could it be that now, finally, I had my own group to belong to? Would Black Americans claim me just because the whites assigned me to them?

With tears of joy, I recalled Fat Mary’s role in my childhood. She had been my consoler and counselor since the day I understood I was alone in the world and had no one who loved me or wanted me. I had decided back then that I would love me, fat me, just as I was. Her role was also to safeguard the meaningful and happy moments of my childhood and bring them to me when I needed to remember life’s goodness.

When my depression turned to anger, I knew I was on the way to recovery.

In your heart, you will always be African, but in America you are a Black American. It is possible and desirable to be both.

On the plane leaving Africa, I had a vision of Mama Africa, a powerful and proud African woman carrying the abundant fruits of Africa in a basket. She accompanied me as I gazed down on the continent I was leaving. She would be with me in my new country, Mama Africa assured me, and I would forever be a child of Africa.

In their hearts, they know that we are all created equal in the eyes of God and the universe. Whoever thinks otherwise will never be happy.

It was Cathy who taught me the true meaning of the word “risk.” Whenever I see that word written or hear it spoken, I see her face. I see her faith. I see her love and her youth when she took on this challenge. She perceived a need and didn’t wait for everything to fall into place before doing something about it. She did not wait until someone wrote the manual on How to be a Mother to a 19-Year-Old African Orphan When You’re Only 23.

It is not about forgetting but about not letting the past define you. It is about learning from it and embracing its role as your lifetime teacher.

There is no such thing as immunity from the joy or pain of the past.

Haven’t I always said that no amount of beating, ridicule, or degradation could change your beauty, inside or out?

Discovering dance and its power to heal my soul played a key role in my survival.

To them I was first a Black, then a Black from another country, and then a person.

I worked hard at fitting in and becoming an American, but then I discovered that being an American was not enough. I had to be a Black American because that’s how Americans, especially whites, saw me.

I wanted to share with Black Americans the beautiful and empowering aspects of Africa.

What was wrong with these American students? Didn’t they know I was the teacher and they had to do as I said? I learned quickly that my authority meant little, if anything, to them. I was not the all-powerful and feared mwalimu (teacher) of Africa.

I was suffering from a profound disease called culture shock and a severe case of homesickness. My brain was exhausted trying to figure out a lifestyle and living standards that everyone took for granted and few bothered to explain.

Standing up for your human rights is what you must always do.