"Native"......NOT!!

I thought I was being really clever and profound by naming my blog “Notes of a Native Daughter.” It riffs on one of my favorite books, “Native Son,” and it also alludes to the spiritual journey my trips to Africa has launched for me.



Granted, I’m officially a native American….AFRICAN American, that is. I’ve never had a problem embracing that term. But some black people believe adding the “African” separates us, calls too much attention to our different-ness, instead of blending us into the melting pot.


But here’s the thing. Italian Americans don’t seem to have a problem with that label. They have special societies, they laud their cuisine, they’re proud of it. (Except for the whole “Sopranos” connection, I reckon.) Most Asian Americans seem comfortable with the term. Ditto the Irish, and a host of other ethnic groups. So why do some people of African descent who were born in America think “African American” is almost a slur?

Let’s face it…..at least one of my ancestors, on both sides, was born in Africa. And for God’s sake, PLEASE don’t tell me that when you look at me, you don’t see color. Some white people actually think that’s a compliment, but I usually tell them they better run, not walk, to the nearest optometrist’s office, cuz they must have glaucoma or something. I am the color of a Hershey’s chocolate bar, richly, unmistakably, deeply brown.

Growing up in racially volatile Cairo, Illinois, I was familiar with the saying, “If you’re white, you’re alright. if you’re yellow, you’re mellow. If you’re brown, stick around. If you’re black, get back.” It’s the unspoken code in America’s turbulent racial history….skin color matters. I mean, I admire Vanessa Williams, and forgave her for the freaky photo shoots years ago. But when she won the Miss America title, black folks knew it was because she had green eyes and café-au-lait-colored skin.


She was “light, bright, and damned near white.” On the other hand, a guy I once dated told me he thought I was the whole package….smart, attractive, career oriented, funny. Then he said he wished he could take me home to meet his parents.


But he couldn’t, because I was too dark-skinned. Didn’t pass the “brown paper bag test.” (Legend has it that was the standard for some elite African American families post-slavery. Any skin tone darker than a brown paper bag was completely unacceptable for breeding purposes.) Now, I eventually got over that guy’s astounding insensitivity. In hindsight, he deserved props for being honest. His parents probably would have seen me as little more than a pickininny, and his mother would warn about the Brillo pad hair texture of any children I’d produce.


Even though I’ve had a several of those kinds of experiences, I am staunchly black and proud. And I think about these uniquely American racial psychoses a lot here in Gulu. I’ve considered my trips to Africa the perfect way for me to revel in the source of my blackness.


But that’s what’s so ironic. In Gulu, I’M light, bright, and damned near white. The average skin tone here is about 5 shades darker than my cocoa coloring. I’m talking as black as ink, as a piece of coal, as midnight. People look at me and instantly realize I’m not a native. I’m a "muzunga," or foreigner, and when I open my mouth, I seal my fate.


I’m an American muzunga, a descendent of lowly slaves. Stolen from my homeland, with no real family tree, no way to know which country or tribe I come from. The people of Gulu Town look at me with pity, while I want them to see me as a “sister.” But I know that for my entire 8 months here, they’ll always see a stranger.


It really sank in the other day, when I was trying to find some ham to cook with a big fat cabbage I’d bought at the market. I’d learned the Luo word for ham, gweno, and trekked to every reputable butcher in town. They all looked at me like I was crazy, so I figured my American accent was throwing them off. They were either yanking me around or they really didn’t understand what I was saying.


I’d intended to simmer that cabbage and ham and share it with my Ugandan co-workers, to cement our ancestral bond. I’d cook a Southern “soul food” dish to prove that even though I’m a muzunga, I can “handle my bizness” in the kitchen. I’d show them that African Americans have proud traditions, too, thus earning my cultural street cred.


I still haven’t found any ham. But I won’t stop looking. And if I stick around long enough, maybe the sun will move me a little bit away from Hershey-land toward true Mother Africa Black. As long as my sun-screen holds out, bring it on.