Jeramy On African Identity

Growing up I’ve always felt caught between two worlds. There was my African American side, forged by ancestors in the South and their lives and experiences, but there was also my deeply African roots. This included the music, the clothing, the sports, and the centuries of unique and abstract culture that came with being a Ghanaian. And though I did grow up in America, I was still swaddled in the Ghanaian community thanks to me nearly constant contact with my aunts, grandmother, and father. I was went to African parties, danced the dances, ate the food, the whole shebang. However, every weekday at 8:00 on the dot, as if Fairy Godmother waved their wand I became Jeramy. You see Jeramy, the name I write this essay in, was characterized by my experiences with my friends,

My primary reasoning behind the compartmentalization of my identity was simply to avoid being made fun of. Immediately, after my schoolmates found out of my West African heritage, they would associate all of their preconceived notion of the continent with me as individual. This usually manifested itself in the form of teasing, with my peers asking me seemingly demeaning questions like “do you speak African?” or “why is your name so funny?” or even “do you live in a hut with zebras?” The worst part was that even African American engaged in demeaning behavior. In my opinion, if anything they would at least know more about their own heritage than other, but sadly I was proven wrong. In turn absolutely hated this role and saw it as a complete burden, that I like forever situated as the translator or interpreter of the entire continent having never even been to a single one of the over fifty extremely diverse countries. This trend continued practically throughout my elementary, middle, and even high school experiences. Up until recently in fact, I hadn’t I truly reconciled myself as both an African and African