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Bridging the Gap between Ethiopia and American Diaspora Communities

 A writer recently accused African-Americans of
“appropriating” African culture. What are the factors that contribute to
the rift between Blacks in the African diaspora and what can we do to
close that gap?
Anya D. Byrd
Last year when 18-year-old Ghanaian-American Kwasi Enin gained acceptance to all eight Ivy League schools, USA Today
ran an article on his accomplishment. Quoting a college
admissions expert, the article read, in part, “He’s not a typical
African-American kid.”
Later, the newspaper cut that section of the quote
from the piece, but the implication remained clear: Because Enin is
African, his work ethic and interest in education must be stronger
than that of a Black American kid, hence, his attractiveness to
the nation’s top schools.
The debate that occurred on social media afterward
highlights the stereotypes and divisive opinions that tend to drive a
wedge between us all: African-Americans, Africans and
Caribbean-Americans. Just read this article accusing African-Americans of “appropriating” African culture.
Aiming to explore these tensions further, ESSENCE
hosted a discussion with six thought leaders, writers, journalists and
academics from a wide range of cultural backgrounds. Moderator and
ESSENCE.com entertainment editor Yolanda Sangweni
centered the conversation on this question: What are the factors that
contribute to the rift between Blacks in the African diaspora and what
can we do to close that gap?
WHAT DIVIDES US
Though sociologists have concluded it can take just
one generation for Black immigrants to identify culturally as American,
stark distinctions of “us” against “them” persist. ESSENCE began the
discussion by asking panelists if the separation between
African-Americans, Caribbean-Americans and Africans is something they
have encountered personally, and why they think such attitudes exist.
LUVVIE AJAYI:
I wrote a [popular] blog post about the relationship between Africans
and African-Americans, because someone on Twitter asked what I
felt about the word akata. It is a Nigerian word, although a lot of West
Africans use it to identify African-Americans. It’s so commonplace most
people don’t know akata means “wild animal”—most just think it’s a word
for African-American.
NATASHA LIGHTFOOT:
I’m West Indian, married to someone who’s half West Indian, half
African-American, and there’s a lot of that—acknowledging there are
differences within the broader Black community in the U.S. There’s also a
long history…of building networks together. It’s never hard and fast,
the lines of separation between what is African-American, African,
West Indian and Afro-Latin American.
SALAMISHAH TILLET:
I’m half Trinidadian, half African-American. The story in my family is
that my mother wasn’t as welcomed into my father’s family because she is
African-American. So I had that tension at the root of my biography.
But for me it’s been about finding points of connection politically,
intellectually and historically and trying to appreciate differences. So
when you think of someone like Audre Lorde, she is both Caribbean
and African-American. Or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, who’s Nigerian, but
moves in and out of these identity spaces. Or Edwidge Danticat, who is
Haitian-American. But I am also quite conscious of African-Americans who
have been here for multiple generations and had unique experiences and
struggles.
LIGHTFOOT: I think a lot of Black
immigrants arrive in the U.S. not fully aware of the kinds of struggles
that African-Americans, who have been here since the days of
enslavement, have had to endure. I firmly acknowledge that my ability to
be educated at an Ivy League school and now be an educator at an Ivy
League school is about the sorts of struggles that were won by people
who were here long before me. And when my parents arrived, they
arrived at the right time so those kinds of opportunities could be mine
to take on.
AJAYI: When I was 9 and showed up
in the U.S., I had no idea what slavery was. I wasn’t taught about the
Middle Passage in history class in Nigeria. My formative years, in terms
of learning about race wand forming my ideas about ethnicity, were in
college. If you come here when you’re 35, you don’t get to take 18
Afro classes to get the information you need to know. So you’re carrying
around the idea that if I get here and I was a doctor back home and I’m
a cabdriver here and I somehow sent my kids to school and they somehow
end up being Ph.D.’s, why couldn’t you, and you’ve been here this whole
time?
METANOYA Z. WEBB:
Coming from a West Indian and Jamaican household, there were these
[ideas about] the difference between Africans, African-Americans and
Caribbean children. If that’s constantly drilled into you, you have to
unlearn those things you were taught.
LOLA OGUNNAIKE:
There was an understanding in my house when I was growing up that you
weren’t supposed to fraternize with certain types of Black
Americans. That if you came home speaking too much slang, or if you
weren’t as focused on your studies as you had been before, there was a
fear that you were adopting Black American ways. And, if my parents had
their choice, all of my friends would have been Asian-American or
Indian-American students—other immigrant, model minorities.
WEBB: In Caribbean homes, as well. We’re taught you’re kind of better than certain people.
TILLET: This myth of Black
Americans not being academically competitive, or interested in
education, is so ridiculous. I mean, the long history of
African-Americans establishing schools, seeking education for their
kids, despite all intentions of the state and private groups
to disenfranchise children through lack of education—it’s just
frustrating to me. I know it’s long-standing, people believe it, and
Tiger Moms write books about it, but it’s bullsh-t.
NIKOLE HANNAH-JONES:
What often gets erased [in discussions about immigration] is that we
are literally one generation out of legal apartheid in this country. My
dad was born into Jim Crow. We don’t acknowledge that the gains
African-Americans have made since the end of legal apartheid, which was
1968, have been tremendous. Look at our graduation rates, our college
attendance rates, our foray into middle-class jobs. What’s said
is, “You’ve been here forever, and you guys got your freedom, and
why aren’t you doing anything with it?”
OGUNNAIKE: I’ve often found myself
in the position of having to defend Black Americans to my parents. A lot
of our debates centered around the lack of appreciation for the
struggle that actually gave them opportunity to come to this country and
be successful.
HANNAH-JONES: That
immigration policy was changed by the Civil Rights Movement. There was a
cap on [the number of people] who could come from Black countries until
the movement.
LIGHTFOOT: The cap was started in the 1920’s and didn’t end until 1965, right in the middle of [civil rights] legislation.
HANNAH-JONES: You have, on one hand,
people from the continent saying, “We’re not all in the middle of a
war, we’re not starving, we’re not all that, don’t judge us.” But then
they come to the United States and judge 40 million people as being one
way as well. So we’re both doing it, because we both don’t want to be on
the bottom.
WHAT BRINGS US TOGETHER
Of the 42 million people who checked “Black” on the
last census, a record 3.8 million are foreign-born. Studies predict that
by 2060, almost 17 percent of the U.S. Black population will be
immigrants (with the majority coming from Jamaica, Haiti, Nigeria and
Ethiopia). Our panelists were asked, “Should people of the
African diaspora harness their power in numbers and unify? Or is this
an unrealistic expectation?”
LIGHTFOOT: There are all
these different subgroups that we need to be acknowledging. Within the
Caribbean diaspora, there’s the whole “big island versus small island”
thing. So there might be Jamaicans, Guyanese and Trinidadians, sort of
as a large group of people who outnumber the smaller island folks. I’m
coming from a place like Antigua, and the Antiguan community in New
York City is small, but I tend to find community with some of the other
small islands like St. Kitts or Anguilla or Nevis.
TILLET: We may not always
appreciate it as such, but I do think Black people in the U.S., despite
all these differences, vote pretty consistently in the same way
[Democratic].
SANGWENI: It’s funny; I feel like I
became more African in America. I knew nothing about Black South African
history, because they didn’t teach it in school. And it was only in
coming here that I found out about Nigeria, I found out about
Jamaica. So there are times when we feel like we areseparated, but
there’s so much unity happening here.
LIGHTFOOT: If we think of the
history of Pan-Africanism, I would say some of its earliest iterations
happened with the Garvey movement here in the U.S. And that’s something
that brought together Africans, African-Americans and West Indians. And
all those folks had a language for the ways they could identify,
because the structures of colonialism and capitalism threw them into
places they normally wouldn’t be in together. It is not just about
[living] together in, say, a building or on a block. The active ways
that people have historically sought out community are going to be the
same ways that people continue to build community. It’s a self-selective
process. This moment that we’re in now [is one] where no amount of
accent, birthplace [means anything] in the face of police brutality, of
extralegal vigilante violence against Black people, Black children. We
don’t have the leisure to decide whether we need to get together in this
moment.
HANNAH-JONES: You never could
come to this country as a Black person and it mattered that you weren’t
born here, when it came to violence. There’s never going to be a unified
Black community— there have always been Black communities. They’re very
different, but you bond over the things that are necessary for you to
build community.
TILLET: How do
African-Americans engage Africa and the Caribbean today? Is it primarily
through tourism? What are those other points of solidarity,
because ones around Black/White binaries don’t work everywhere we go?
SANGWENI: Hip-hop culture has
done amazing things for solidarity. When you go to certain parts of
Africa and you’re African-American, it’s like, “Oh, brother, teach me
that hip-hop thing.” There’s a certain thing of wanting to be
like African-Americans but not wanting to be African-Americans.
TILLET: For me, it’s about political
solidarity. I went to Kenya as a junior in college with a sense of some
utopia [about Africa], and I was sexually assaulted there. So it
changed from being solidarity only around race to actually thinking
about the lives of Kenyan women and their vulnerability. It went from
Pan-Africanism to what we would call Third World feminism, or African
feminism. I work with women in South Africa around violence against
women. These forms of oppression are quite similar to what
African-American women are experiencing. There are all these other lines
of solidarity that I think we often don’t pursue, because we only think
of race. But how do we create solidarity in ending homophobia, ending
transphobia, [and the] HIV/AIDS crisis?
HANNAH-JONES: We also need to
keep in mind the ongoing struggle domestically. When you think about the
two most notorious police brutality cases in New York City—Abner Louima
and Amadou Diallo—they were immigrants. In understanding that, when you
see Baltimore exploding or Ferguson exploding, solidarity also needs to
be with immigrant communities, joined in that struggle that continues
here as well. Harry Belafonte (who is Jamaican-American) was flying
money in to the Mississippi Civil Rights Movement at the risk of his own
life. And the strong Black nationalist presence in Brooklyn came from
the Caribbean.
LIGHTFOOT: There is something in
this country that is about wanting to silence the retelling of our
histories that we need to actively fight against. Some of that is about
making sure we’re educating ourselves and those coming up behind us to
know our connections are not new. Our tensions are not new. And so we
don’t have to reinvent the wheel when we’re trying to think of ways to
overcome them. 
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