Race Matters, Volume 2: My Whiteness

February 25th, 2008:

For the first time in my 23 year short life, I am white.

Let me explain.

Prior to my travel in Sub-Saharan Africa, I was warned by many friends (Black American and African alike) that on some level I would be stripped of my black identity. At the time, I acknowledged their caution intellectually, understanding that many Black Africans would see me as American before (or opposed to) "Black." Furthermore, I knew that in my case--as racially I have been an anomaly to many with whom I have interacted over the past 6 months--I would be particularly scrutinized, if not completely stripped. I was prepared, at least in my mind, for my romanticized vision of a Sub-Saharan Africa waiting for me with open arms to not exactly be the reality. All that said, I still held out hope for a connection.

Perhaps it was because I held out this hope that being called "white" blindsided me with such force.

To be fair, I was never actually referred to as "white," though language and attitudes in my direction suggested as much. The word I hear most frequently is "toubab," which is used for any different-looking foreigner, though there is a general understanding of it in reference to white people. (As a side note, this experience prepared me quite well for travel through other parts of West Africa such as Ghana, where the comparable word is "Obruni") Once I learned the meaning of this word that I heard so frequently around me I couldn't help but bristle. Sam quickly understood my dislike for the word and (at least from an American perspective) its implication and as a result stopped using it around me (though he never referred to me as such).

Having the opportunity to share my frustration with a friend (Francisco) who had similar experiences gave me a much needed outlet for my feelings, though it could only do so much. Having spent significantly more time in Senegal he had come to grips with--and come to understand--the word and gave his perspective, though we agreed on the irony of coming to Africa to be called "white."

Though for the most part it was kids who would point and shout "Toubab!" as I walked down the street (I would listen attentively in conversations amongst adults, waiting to hear the word (in reference to me) so I could give a dirty/sarcastic look) I found myself unable to just shake it off. Like being called "rich" in 5th grade by a white friend (which to me was synonymous with being called "white" as society as I knew it showed few examples of "black" and "wealth" going together), to being called "oreo" in 7th grade by a black friend (no explanation necessary) to being called "jewish" by my high school basketball coach (though I think that was more a term of endearment), "toubab" brings me back to the terrible days of my adolescence when I felt like my own racial identity was constantly being mistreated and violated.

But maybe I'm being overly sensitive.

After all, the word points out my difference from Senegalese and I am different. Moreover, I find that oftentimes, I am the one drawing the line of distinction, not the Senegalese whom I interact with on a daily basis. I find myself more and more frequently distinguishing myself from Senegalese (and in my mind, much of Sub-Saharan Africa) by embracing my Black American identity, an identity which they cannot share. On a superficial level, Senegalese hip- hop culture and other US cultural exports allow me to revel in this identity as in this context, these exports belong to me, not the Senegalese. I would wrap myself in a blanket, a feeling of cultural superiority; and though I knew it was wrong--on a number of levels really--it made me feel good.

And all the while I wanted to be embraced by Senegalese as "one of us." I wanted to have my cake and eat it too in a major way, and it took me a bit of time to realize how unreasonable this desire was as I was not prepared to make any steps of my own towards embracing Senegal (or Sub-Saharan Africa) as a part of my Diaspora.

If there is a turning point in the story (and I'm not sure if there actually is one) I would say that it came in the days leading up to my visit to Goree Island (Dakar's--and one of West Africa's-- most terrible and famous slave ports) talking to Alun, a friend of Sam's.

"This visit is important for you...it is important for us too, but it is very important for you." (He said it all in Wolof, but I have no idea how to write all that). I was moved by the statement because it captured both what we shared and didn't share. It acknowledged that slavery is a terrible part of our shared history, but at a certain point, we have to embrace our differences in order to figure out who we are. I will never have the legacy of direct African family or colonialism as a part of my personal history and many Africans will not have the legacy of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and American slavery as a part of theirs. But understanding our shared starting point, as Alun alluded to, is important for us both.

So I still separate myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, though in a different (and healthier) way than before, believing in my heart that there is something, deeper than I may ever be able to understand or articulate that we share. And I still hate to be called Toubab, though I am doing a better job to humor the kids with a smile, a wink or some English, hoping (though not holding my breath) that one day their eyes too will be opened to what we share, even if it is beyond either of our tangible conceptions.