Black Like Me: On Being Black and Undocumented

by free2be Bell

category: DREAM Act

Published July 19, 2009 @ 05:03PM PT

I am black and I am undocumented. I might be a student, a woman, a daughter, a sister, and a friend, but my world as I know it today is a product of those first two identities.

I was born in Nigeria. I was sent to the U.S. on a tourist visa when I was six years old. My senior year in high school, I found out that I was undocumented, and the summer after I graduated, we were put in removal proceedings. It has now been 3 years since then, and I’m about to enter my 4th year in college, though we are still in removal proceedings.

I am black. I identify as black simply because it’s a physical trait of mine that is quite obvious to any casual observer. Growing up in the public school system in the United States, I learned about African-American history in the context of America’s history. In history classes, we were taught about slavery in America, segregation, Jim Crow laws and the unimaginable horrors that African-Americans of generations past have had to face. In political science classes, we spoke of the Civil Rights Movement, Martin Luther King Jr. and all of the positive changes that era spurred. In literature classes, we read the work of Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes, and spoke of the Harlem Renaissance. I learned about the importance of triumph over adversity, perseverance, and the words I hope to ring true in the lives of DREAMers one day: “Free at last; free at last; thank God almighty, we are free at last.”

But it was never my history. Being black, I can relate to some of the everyday struggles with racism and the proliferation of stereotypes surrounding the African-American community. I know what it feels like to be discriminated against simply because you look different, or simply because you belong to a minority group. However, I’ve been confusing people all my life by not being the person they expect me to be simply by looking at me; confusing people by defying stereotypes. It usually starts when they hear my voice, a voice with no African accent because I’ve lived here so long, and a voice they hear as more “Valley girl” than “brown-skinned girl.” From the clothes I wear to the way I choose to wear my hair, I feel judgment upon me from all directions. Questions when people learn I played tennis in high school instead of playing soccer or running track. I’ve been called an “Oreo” more times than I can count, which is a pejorative term that means black on the outside, white on the inside.

But the confusion comes in both directions. While there are those who wonder why I don’t act “African-American,” there are others who wonder why I don’t act more “African.” My reply to that is simple: I spent only the first 6 years of my life in Nigeria, and the last 14 years in the U.S. All of my memories are American memories. As a result of a variety of factors, I don’t know much about Nigeria. Nigerian culture, religion, language etc. are not my culture, religion, language etc. Most of what I know about Nigeria has been through Google and the research from one history paper I wrote the past semester. My mother and I constantly clash because our perspectives on everything could not be further apart. Where I was born may have been where I come from, but it is not who I am and does not determine the person I will become in the future.

I am black. But I am not African-American and I am not African and I am not Nigerian. I am just me. Regardless of documentation, I am me and I am American. I am a product of my past, present and future, but in the end, I am my own person. We must not encourage division across country lines. We must break the “us” vs. “them” mentality because we are all one people in the end. A sense of national identity is very important, but not at the expense of personal identity. The constant emphasis on place and belonging as the product of where one was born only leads to confusion and isolation for those of us who are left floating in the middle. What do you do when your place of birth is completely foreign and the place you call home does not welcome you?

I leave you with a poem by Langston Hughes, one that expresses how I think it feels to be black and undocumented:

I, Too

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.