Black in (Almost) Every Language

English. My first language. My parents’ third language. English. Growing up, my parents would sing to me and share stories and passages with me in their first languages. They had hoped I would learn them. It didn’t work; I didn’t let it work. My rejection of non-English languages started early—first with my torpid approach to learning, then with my experiences in the outside world. In this outside world, I felt the implication that my heritage and cultural languages were not important. I felt this being drilled into me every school year, from kindergarten through high school. Every time a teacher or principal would refuse even to attempt to pronounce my last name, every time another kid would laugh and tell me I was only American and I couldn’t be Kenyan. It took everything inside of me to keep a brave face and hold on to the fringes of my parents’ culture for dear life. But at least everyone agreed on one thing. I was Black. That was undeniable; at least I could claim that. But even that identity turned out to be more complicated than I thought it would be.

African-American English. This part is a little complicated but necessary. I would define African-American Vernacular English (AAVE) as a semi-distinct dialect of American English that is, in some form, spoken by a significant population of Black Americans. I am not in that population. My speech has been heavily influenced by my parents’ British-Kenyan English and my small-town midwestern surroundings. My resulting speech patterns, and a number of societal and personal factors that may be difficult to delve into, have led to people perceiving me in a certain way. Growing up, I was always a bit nervous when I hung out with other American Black people because I was so used to receiving judgment and laughter. This judgment came from the perception that I spoke and acted “white,” or the idea that I needed to drop the act of not speaking the way I was “supposed to.” Looking like I should belong, without sounding like it. Growing up, I almost felt more pain from others “forgetting” I was Black than from the racist comments I would hear. The difference was, I could tune out and compartmentalize the racism, but not being fully accepted as Black felt like a betrayal. This lack of belonging seemed all too familiar to me, and was reminiscent of experiences I’d had across the Atlantic.

Swahili. This time, people saw me as Black, but only Black. Not Kenyan in anything other than appearance and name. I have never had the experience of simultaneously feeling both fiercely Kenyan and deeply un-Kenyan, more than during my visits to extended family in Kenya. My relatives are beyond loving and understanding, but others can be cruel. To some, I am a Black American with the face of a Kenyan; someone who looks like he should belong, but somehow doesn’t. That translates to some laughter, mild ridicule, and the need for me not to speak sometimes. I have received this reaction in Kenya, as well as in the United States, when I tell people I’m Kenyan-American without being able to speak Swahili. At least they see me as Black, but maybe that is not everything I was looking for. Maybe, I was just looking for a sense of belonging and community. Looking for a home.

Gĩkũyũ. My parents’ first language. The language of home. To my knowledge, its pre-colonial vocabulary did not have a term for ‘Black people.’ It wasn’t a term or idea people identified with, even with the variety of coastal Arab, Indian, and Portuguese traders that showed there was a range of human complexion. That ambivalent approach towards the concept of racial groupings certainly changed with the rise of a particularly violent era of British colonization in the region. If people weren’t being identified as “Black,” “Kenyan,” or “African” before, they certainly were now. But these collective identifications were decided by individuals unconcerned by their ramifications – families split by new borders, with new unrequested identities being used against them.

Kikuyu. The English word for the Gĩkũyũ language. It’s easier for English speakers to say. In fact, here are a few more things that make life easier for everyone. There are now crisp borders between Kenya and its neighbors. That made it easier for the British to know where their land ended, and where the others’ began. My parents are really good at slowly saying “c for cat” and “d for dog” when spelling words out to different customer service agents. Yes, they do speak clear, proper, fluent English, but their accents are enough to send any inattentive listener into a panic. They go out of their way to allow others to stay within their comfort zones. Furthermore, to make things easier on everyone, my dad got a master's degree so that someone would stand to hire him . . . for a position where most of his colleagues just had bachelor's degrees. Funny enough, he didn’t get that job immediately after completing his master's degree, even as one of the top students in his class at Andrews University. It ended up taking him just under three years of working two “unskilled” jobs and supporting his three kids and wife, before he got a job that only required a bachelor’s degree. The rationale behind this was made abundantly clear by an interviewer who was bold enough to directly tell him that the reason he would not be hired was not his level of ability or intelligence. It was because of his African background and work experience. This was even after my dad had been in the United States for years and was a United States Permanent Resident. This interviewer was not the only one to hold these views, but he was one of the few to verbalize them. My dad was different. This classification made things much easier for everyone.

Spanish. My second language. Learning it at the Universidad Adventista del Plata in Argentina has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. And yet, I have never felt more different. The intermittent stares and questions about my background certainly aren’t malicious, but they do have a way of making me feel isolated. Using the label “el negro” (the Black [person]) to refer to someone is not only acceptable but also quite helpful because that title alone is enough to narrow down the possible results significantly. The population of Black people in Argentina is not very high, and as a result, I am already seen as different, even before I open my mouth. Nobody would make the mistake of thinking I look Argentinian. As I have visited other countries in South America this school year, I have noticed that my experience of being seen as Black has varied in each location. In Brazil, I looked like I belonged, and people treated me like I did. In Chile, I got no bewildered stares, and I was never made to feel like an outsider. In Uruguay, I was mostly treated with kindness, but that was interrupted once or twice. Like when I watched the World Cup final, surrounded by a crowd of over a thousand white Uruguayans all shouting “tribu, tribu” (tribe, tribe) at the massive screen when a Black player like Mbappé would handle the ball. Very different experiences in every place, based on intangible elements and factors expressed through language.

Language. A beautiful tool with the power to build and to break. In each language and in each society, different aspects of identity are seen as holding importance and significance. Many of our societies have decided that race is one of those aspects. As a result, I was born into a group I never signed up for but always knew I was a part of. Being Black, or at least perceived as Black, has meaningfully impacted my interactions with others, and their perceptions of me, regardless of language. But, it has been important in my life to realize that what matters to me is how I see myself, even if others’ perceptions of me change. Seeing my life story and the stories of those before me gives me perspective on who I truly am and can be. No language or society can take that away from me. That is why this month exists. It’s a celebration of our story, in any language, and the decision never to let someone take it away. What language will you be celebrating in?