jonathaniketem

[jonathaniketem]

Coming to Terms

I was the last to introduce myself at my table, comprising four desks facing each other. World cultures—my very first class as a middle schooler. I couldn’t have been more excited. Our teacher sat in the front of the room just surveying her surroundings; her pearly, white smile was about as bright as the hot Texas sun. I still remember Ms. Juarez getting up herself, flattening out the creases from her outfit like she usually does once she got up and and introduction herself. Right after she spoke a few words and while the crowd gasped in excitement, I stared at my table, aghast. “You guys will make a presentation about your own culture by the end of the year, it only seems fair as this is a world cultures class,” she smiled as she always did while stating something that felt similar to a death sentence. How was I to complete something I had so much trouble accepting?

Now let’s turn back in time—back to when I was nine years old meeting some of my closest friends for the first time. I came across a group of kids my age range playing soccer right in front of my house on the street. I was too shy to come out and just ask if they would let me play with them; with the knowledge I’ve amassed now I know children are much easier to congregate with peers than adults who may be a bit pretentious to ever allow anyone foreign join their clique. I only walked away from the screen gate concealing my gazing presence for a bottle of water when I heard a thump against the familiar sound of something hitting the plastic exterior of a car. I ran outside yelling at those rowdy individuals who dared to hit my father’s sedan. They did what kids knew best and ran for their lives, and as a kid myself, I ran after them. We ran and ran until the sun went down only for all of us to collapse from exhaustion. We laughed about how stupid this all was while apologizing for hitting my dad’s car. My summer as a nine year old then on was me going out and having fun with the new kids I met. I started to grow bonds with them and create memories hoping nothing would throw a wrench into the fun I was having. Sadly it’s always those who try to escape bad luck who end up chasing its tail. One day all my new friends came to our friend Tobias’s home for a game day. The environment was much different than it was in my house: R&B music playing in the house, friends of Tobias’s dad in the backyard having a barbecue, and a marathon playing of a show I had never heard of before called Martin. I must have been very tense as Tobias noticed and tried to calm my nerves, and if Tobias noticed my other friends did too. They must’ve realized I wasn’t feeling like my regular self, all from being in a different setting. “Hey why do you look like you’re out of place? You’re Black too, aren’t you?” The question I always felt uneasy about. I stood there and stared at everyone unable to say a thing for awhile. To this day my present self could never understand why I agreed that I was such instead of the truth, but the lie was played and it had to be kept up or my image would’ve been ruined.

I am an African American, an American citizen who just so happens to have African roots. This is what I have finally accepted myself to be ethnically. Though it was never easy for me to accept as a youth. I have parents from the Eastern horn of Africa, born and raised in the country Eritrea. They sadly had to leave their homes to escape the war for Eritrean independence from Ethiopia, later meeting each other in Houston. They were proud of their Eritrean ethnicity, yet they gave birth to and raised a son who was ashamed of who he was. I was surrounded by people who identified as what the average person would imagine to be the Black American. I was constantly seeing myself as fitting into this group without also being apart of my own group. I didn’t have the knowledge to be able to be apart of both the African American community while also being proud of my roots as an Eritrean youth. I saw it as wanting to be able to accommodate myself into this community I was around so long that being a bit different would only make me feel segregated deep within, so my only solution was to lie about who I was. I’ve been questioned continuously as I differed visually from the peers I so wanted to be apart of, the loose curly hair, my bulging eyes, and complexion that made it seem I was from the Middle East. Because other people have continuously made assumptions about my race, I have found myself frequently discouraged. Discouraged to the point that lies flowed smoothly out my mouth like water surging from a faucet. Embarrassment followed me no matter who asked the question I dreaded: “Hey what are you? Are you Black?”, and no matter how many times I was asked my lies never failed to put me at ease. 

A thing about lies I’ve come to realize—they may start out as little white lies, but the constant repetition of a lie breathes life into the lie. The lie starts to become its own entity, an entity I despised but kept molding with the eccentric tales I formed that would’ve put a seasoned politician in awe of what the mind of a youth could conjure in fabrication. My lies started with only a few peers; later, newer mouths would ask the same questions with familiar ones standing close by; my lies couldn't change there or I would be a liar. The lies began to form an identity—latching on to my person like the backpack I so proudly carried through the hallways of the school I spread my lies, instead the lies were a burden to my conscience. The typical person would try to fix something weighing heavily on their mind, but the lies were an addiction that sadly started to rope in others that weren’t supposed to be involved. Since my sister, two years my junior, started to attend my school I’d tell her to start lying about our identities. She could never figure out why it was such a big deal to me, but I started at her just as drug addicts stare at their loved ones asking for a bit of cash to get high one last time. Looking back it was quite repulsive doing something so crude to the innocent minded. I was her source of wisdom as her older sibling, yet I tried to bring her into the darkness I created out of disregard for myself trying to fit in with the groups of people I just happened to want to be a part of. Another thing about lies that I often hear and can confirm for myself are that they most likely will always catch up with their creators no matter how hard they try. As children get to meet others outside their family, they start to bringing them into the homes they were raised in and subsequently meet the ones who did the raising. For the liar I had become I could not believe I made the simple mistake of leaving my parents alone with friends to talk—the same parents who love to represent and share their information about their homeland. To hear one of the many customers you’ve sold your lies to ask what an Eritrea is feels probably about as painful as getting shot in the heart. I was truly grateful the attention span of my peers was about as long as a toddler’s who still hadn’t formed object permanence yet. There needed to be a remedy for the troubles I was causing myself, some soul searching before I was completely branded as a liar and someone who couldn’t come to terms with who they were. Surprisingly, all it took was a summer trip and a bit of contemplation about life to get myself on the right track.

Summer before the start of the nerve-wracking middle school experience, a family trip was presented to the June-born siblings as a gift. I didn’t know how to feel about going to Eritrea to see and experience the environments my parents grew up in. The trip was for the entirety of the summer, coming back only two days before the school year was about to start. We would be taking the German airlines Lufthansa stopping in Frankfurt, Germany and Istanbul, Turkey for gas and once again taking off until we landed in the capital of Eritrea: Asmara. Summer is the perfect opportunity for friends to make a few more memories before they went to different schools and possibly losing contact with each other. It hurt my child heart to know that I couldn’t go out and have fun, but instead I had to go to the place I tried my best to hide the existence of. The constant questions of why I wouldn’t be home got my creative process running, my solution being that I told everyone we would be visiting family in Europe. My lie wasn’t completely far-fetched though; my mother and father both had brothers located in Sweden and Norway, so coming up with this I felt proud of what I conjured up. The trip there wasn’t an easy journey: our first flight cancellation due to the 2011 eruption of the Nabro volcano, TSA possibly giving White House security a run for their money, and the long flight hours accompanied by the sounds of my sister heaving up her airline meals every moment of turbulence. I couldn’t have been happier once I had both feet on the motionless earth. Finally stepping out of the airport, I stood by the entrance waiting on my mother to get her bearings. Hand stretched out tugging at my luggage, I watched in awe at the deep lavender masterpiece in the sky the sun had left once it set ready to rise once again from where I came from. “Not bad,” I thought quietly to myself, “I guess I’m home.”

Asmara is the capital of Eritrea as well as my parent’s birth place. There are many ethnic groups living in Eritrea; my family is a part of the largest group in Eritrea called Tigrayan due to the language we speak: Tigrinya. Because of my delayed learning of English and natural tendency for Tigrinya as a child, my father decided to withhold my learning of the letters my parents grew up with called Ge'ez. They decided the 26 letter alphabet worshiped by this new country they settled in was much more important than millennia of history and culture. Though I regret their decision now I never cared much for it back then, especially during our trip when I had two translators by my side. The air there was very cool, which never made much sense to me until my parents explained how we were many feet above sea level, basically living on top of a mountain. Walking to our grandmother’s house from when the taxi dropped us off, we were headed to where would be staying for the entirety of our trip. I saw that everyone was walking, reminding me much of the climate of New York from various videos and photos I have seen. People walked and talked mostly in Tigrinya and to my surprise English as well. Asmara is much more advanced when it came to popular culture and what was big in societal trends as the capital of this country compared to the more rural cities my great grandparents and so on came from. My father thought it would be best to walk the rest of the way while my mother took the taxi back to her childhood home preparing for our arrival. We walked the streets taking detours walking past the many food stalls and shops out in the open, like shopping at a bazaar. The stained homes and buildings from the sun and style to the colorful, but bleached architecture made it feel like I was vacationing in one of the South American countries. I couldn’t believe what beauty Africa had housed. 

Living in Asmara for just less than three months I started to see what it felt like being more than just American. It wasn’t as big of a difference as I thought, especially not from the rumors about Africa that I heard back in America. Of Course as popular as Asmara was, it couldn’t be used as a standard when comparing all of Africa, as if comparing a mansion to low-income housing provided by the government for struggling individuals. Things like famine, poverty, and horrible living conditions existed, but I was living as lavish as I could in my grandmother’s home. I was woken up to this sad reality when we traveled to my great grandparents village of Maiha, which also served as my grandfather’s burial place. My grandfather died before I could ever meet him two years from when we left to come to Asmara—another reason that warranted this trip. The trip there was suffocating; the advent of the air conditioner seemed to not have reached east of Africa just yet as the bus ride there was unpleasant. The whole ride we were leaving the cool mountains and entering sea level, and humidity was coming at full force that summer. At our stop we walked to Maiha, my mother’s family village where she hugged, kissed, and introduced us to our family. Maiha was a desert from what I perceived it as, almost no vegetation anywhere with everyone’s skin clinging tightly to bone where muscle should’ve been missing. I couldn’t fathom how people could be living here, but these were also my roots. We walked to an area that presented itself as a miniature version of a cemetery I remember once seeing as I joked around with my siblings, holding our breaths until my father drove past it. My father pointed out my late grandfather with his image on a tombstone, I quickly noticed the resemblance he had with my cousin that was back in Asmara. My mother and her sisters circled around his final resting place as their sounds of sorrow hit my eardrums, their wails had hints of grief and sorrow I couldn’t help but feel regrettably sad my mother felt this way. Something in that moment made me think life was fleeting, it wasn’t very normal for a child so young to be thinking about such things. Our journey back to Asmara was filled with reminiscent stories of young girls and their time with their father. A grandfather who would spoiled his grandson every minute he spent with him would’ve been joyful to experience, but loved ones are taken before these moments can even be recorded. I learned that my grandfather had an avid love for language, housing the ability for speaking many languages during his life. It was something about that fact that resonated within me even though at the time it seemed to be just one of the many accomplishments he had under his belt. Once we made it back I remember sighing loudly that we were back home, which made me question my word use at the moment. I was finally comfortable enough to call the place my mother grew up in home, and I wasn’t at all ashamed by it. This new found respect I had garnished upon myself seemed to keep me on a high. In the coming weeks of traveling around the country and enjoying the cuisine, to my surprise was a lot of pasta and pizza, only added to my enjoyment for my summer. I later learned there was more Italian influence in Eritrea than I knew back from when Italy used to control this little country. From words such as eyeglasses and car borrowed from Italian to the architecture and food, Eritreans used their suppressors identity and incorporated it into their own. The love for the language and learning more words in Tigrinya took new heights when I decided it was time I learned the alphabet from my uncle who was a school teacher. It was no easy feat, but the dedication I had for this task was marvelous and quite miraculous looking back. By my age at the time, my brain had most likely already made its last connections with neurons in the language department, cutting its ties with neurons that most likely would’ve made learning these symbols a lot faster. Though with my effort, my plastic brain must have given me a chance to redeem myself from my ignorance as before I knew it I could read small segments from the local newspaper like an infant reading the big text from a picture book. The applause I received from family members in the room during my recital was very heartening and exciting as I showed off my new trick unbeknownst to my audience. 

Before I knew it my first year as a middle schooler was only a few days, just under two weeks. The sorrowful goodbyes and hugs hurt my little heart. I made ties and bonds with people I never knew existed until three months ago and I never wanted to leave. The environment there was very free and fun and I couldn’t fathom coming back to America. The smiles I once had plastered on my face now masterfully painted to express an aghast look. If someone said this was the same happy little boy enjoying his life in eastern Africa, they would’ve been taken as a joke. Ms. Juarez’s words still rang in my ears and my trip playing in my head over and over. Before I knew it the bell rang signaling us to our next class before I could over think how I felt my life was over. The whole school day consisted of trying to distract my foreboding thoughts with the workload I was piling up on my first day, yet I still couldn’t get world cultures to stop taking over my thoughts. This kept on up until I finally made it home after a tiring day of school. I had to come up with something soon as I laid in my best going through every decision I could’ve made about a school project possibly changing my outlook on many things. My thoughts raced back and forth when I suddenly remembered all the fun I had during our trip and remembering the times I struggled learning a new alphabet for the sake of trying to please family who passed on before I even got to meet him. Though I broke my promise of continuously practicing my Ge’ez I couldn’t help but smile at myself struggling to get better at something I had put my mind to. This trip couldn’t have been scheduled at a better time, a time when something as important as a cultural showcase was announced just after my return. I was finally more accepting of something I despised for so long even though I wasn’t going to change over night I was taking the necessary steps and that's reason enough. I hopped off my bed and ran downstairs to my father reading his newspaper at the dining table as usual. I remember him looking up waiting for me to tell him whatever it was I had to tell him, but nothing wanted to come out. I couldn’t just close up now after I finally told myself it was time for a change. I started to hate myself even more for making such a topic embarrassing for myself in the first place when I should’ve embraced it like other Eritreans I knew. This was my time to finally leave my cocoon of hate and emerge as not a full fledged Eritrean just yet, but however far baby steps would take me for the meantime. I took a breath in and out and before I knew out came the words “dad I need help with a project at school.”

The lights were off and seats were rearranged so that everyone was facing the front of the room. The student right before me alphabetically decided to make a powerpoint slide about what being Mexican American meant to him. I wasn’t listening closely, only paying attention in little bits before I would stare out the window watching the trees waving hello in the wind. Time kept ticking and I knew soon the 10-minute interval for our presentation would start over again for the next student. My heart ticked in rhythm with the second hand on my watch and I realized my heart seemed to go faster and faster, a heart attack was all I could think of which only sped up my heart beat and didn’t make the situation any better. As I took deep breaths to calm myself I heard the class start to clap, my time was up. I wasn’t going to let 10 minutes ruin my life, this was going to be nothing but a simple speech to a bunch of people I met during my sixth grade year. I got up with the most confidence I had in awhile once I heard my name, tri-fold board in my right hand, a garment worn by women from Eritrea and Ethiopia in my left hand, and a traditional drum given to me by my late grandmother on my father’s side slung across my shoulder. I stood in front of my audience with my presentation set up, like I was at a science fair nervous to explain my booth. I took a deep breath, yet this time it wasn’t going to be used to spew lies any longer. I was standing my ground against all my demons ready to release myself all by giving a presentation. To many it may have looked like a child talking to his school friends about how he grew up, but to me it was a life changing moment. In that moment as if all at once my lies seemed to disappear into thin air relieving the stress I made for myself all those years; I was finally ready. “Hello my name is Jonathan,” I smiled a nervous, toothy grin, “and this is my presentation on what it means to be Eritrean.”

——————————————————————————————

Afterword

My thoughts were built selfishly upon self-love that was never present. I owned information that many peers I share my skin color with would never get to know. I couldn’t accept something that many could try to search for after it was stolen from them centuries ago, but I was ignorant to that fact. I was ignorant to the culture I was blessed to have information about and in my selfishness pretend to have no such knowledge. I am thankful for this gift many of my brothers and sister will never get to know: another language, another culture, another home. I care for my roots ever greater now since I’ve learned the significance of where I came from. I am African American with known roots from Africa. I am able to speak my African tongue. I am proud to say my heritage lies in another continent. I am me.