Guest Post by Kelechi Okwu
I was born the second of four children, to two Nigerian immigrants, who brought their own culture (even being from two different parts of the same tribe) to America. My parents planted themselves in a predominantly white church (when I say predominantly, I mean 99%, lol). When we were of school age, at some point, my parents decided to homeschool us. Homeschooling during the late 80’s and 90’s meant very limited social interaction. So, the covering church for the home-school was once again 99% white.
Who am I? Where do I fit in this world? These are the age-old questions that reverberate in the minds of millions of people across the world. Or maybe just me (haha). I think about the word “Identity” and it sounds so concrete and solid. It sounds like it must fit into this one space in our lives that reads: “I am _______.”
As I have journeyed through this life for over 30 years, many of my years have been spent in a sort of “identity crisis” rather than an “identity knowing.”
I was born, the second of four children, to two Nigerian immigrants, who brought their own culture (even being from two different parts of the same tribe) to America. My parents planted themselves in a predominantly white church (when I say predominantly, I mean 99%, lol). When we were of school age, at some point, my parents decided to homeschool us. Homeschooling during the late 80’s and 90’s meant very limited social interaction. So, the covering church for the homeschool was once again 99% white.
You might ask why this information is important. It’s necessary to paint a picture. A picture of a young girl, whose parents were Nigerian, and whose surroundings never looked like her. At a young age, my interactions where primarily with either kids born to Nigerian parents, just like me (who probably suffered the same crisis) OR white kids. I still struggle with the thought or idea of what beauty is…and in my head…. I see a white woman. I always knew that if I thought that a little white boy was cute, he would never look my way, because I was not white. Most of my social interactions were at church, where looking back, I sort of felt like an “other.” While I might have had a crush on boys here and there…. I trained myself to accept that they would never like me back, because I did not fit the definition of beautiful like my white friends.
In 8th grade, I transitioned from homeschool to public school. The middle school I attended was predominately white. Apart from the black kids who were generally from lower income areas. Here, there was a new dynamic. Many of the kids were from rich white families, and behaved as such, and then there were black Americans who were raised very differently from me, and even spoke differently…. yet I looked like them. I didn’t fit into either circle.
Fast forward to college. A much larger crowd of people. But still very divided. It was there that society screamed even louder to stay in my place, as a young black girl. I remember going to a home football game late, with my white, Jewish friend. The student section was full. She called her brother, who was in a fraternity. The fraternity/sorority section was where the white fraternities and sororities were designated to sit during games. It was unspoken that it was only for white fraternities and sororities. While on the call with her brother, I could tell he asked if she was alone or with someone, and then she says my name. He told her that she could come, but not with me. She didn’t have to explain…because I knew why he said that. She was visibly upset and screamed at him. I remember that day like it was yesterday. Because I wasn’t sure how to feel…. other than a sense of not belonging anywhere. I had to let it sink in. I couldn’t sit there because black people weren’t allowed.
I left college and began ‘adulting.’ As I look back, I realized I migrated towards black Americans more than white. I think subconsciously I thought that at least I fit more here, because, even though they might fun of me for possibly sounding ‘uppity’…I couldn’t be completely excluded from their circles.
I met the man that I would eventually share two kids with. He and his family were completely opposite of mine. He didn’t understand my upbringing, I don’t think he even understood me. He often told me that he thought I wanted to be white (in a hateful way). I never understood why he said that. Was it because I didn’t talk like him? Or maybe, deep down inside…. I really DID think that being white would make it all right in this messed up head of mine. Maybe if I was white, people would think I am pretty? Maybe I would get the good job? Maybe…….
I had two children. The daughter of Nigerian immigrants. The daughter of Christian Nigerian immigrants. I think the primary difference in the culture I was raised in, is that so much emphasis is placed on a person’s status in life. It is good to be a Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer, even a Nurse. I didn’t have a degree in any of those areas. It is also unacceptable to get pregnant outside of marriage. Now I really didn’t fit into the “I’m a child of a Nigerian immigrant” circle either. There were lines that children born into this culture knew better than to cross. I had reproduced with a man, who didn’t marry me….not once, but twice. In their eyes, I had done the unthinkable. I had shamed my family. I didn’t fit.
Present day. I am 36. Single. Black. Nigerian descent. Mother of two kids. A paralegal. A holder of two degrees. A former athlete. A Christ follower. Some of these titles I am very proud of…some not so much. My identity often is crammed into these roles.
But the truth remains. He defined me before I was even born. He knew me. He set me apart. He appointed me.
In 8th grade, I transitioned from home-school to public school. The middle school I attended was predominately white. Apart from the black kids who were generally from lower income areas. Here, there was a new dynamic. Many of the kids were from rich white families, and behaved as such, and then there were black Americans who were raised very differently from me, and even spoke differently…. yet I looked like them. I didn’t fit into either circle.
When I allow those words to soak in, I can push past the limiting titles that often try to define me. Who I am is larger than that. I am His beloved. His child.
No amount of rejection in this world will ever change that. When those words sink deep in my soul, I can catch brief vision of a glass ceiling over my life, shattered by His mighty hand. The questions in my mind that ask, ‘who am I?’ …’where do I fit?’…. are silenced. The answer becomes increasingly clear and simple. I am His. And I fit in the palm of His hand.
