Leks and the City, except the city is Oberlin, Ohio:Issue 6: What does it mean to be African here?Not Black, Not International, African.
by Lekan AS
Hello, hello! Long time no see friends! Well, depends on what you classify as long, but I indeed haven’t talked my shit here in a hot second. I hope you’re doing well. The energy on campus currently is one that I find rather difficult to describe. It is as though the air is heavy, unable to be inhaled without a coughing fit. While I know not everyone is disappointed by the news the country received on Wednesday, I do think that the majority of the people who inhabit this space are. And again, I hope you are well.
Now that that’s out of the way, I have much to say! First…thank you? I write these “essays” not expecting anyone to read them. In fact, the fact that I don’t expect anyone to read them is what gives me the confidence to run my mouth. As I’ve mentioned a billion times before, this column is home to my stream of consciousness. The fact that people actually read and internalize what I say is rather…er…sweet, I think. I’m bringing this up because of the sheer amount of people who reached out to me after my last essay in this column. Messages, stopping me in person, etcetera. Again, kinda crazy that people actually read my shit, and if you’re reading this right now, thank you <3.
Okay, let’s get to the context. What the fuck is “Leks and the City?” Well, “Leks and the City” is a column I created in my first year at Oberlin to document my experiences as a Black, African, international student navigating both the United States and a predominantly white institution for the first time. The Grape has been kind enough to house my essays (really more biweekly journal entries) for the past year now.
I originally planned on writing about desirability politics for this issue. I changed my mind when a friend of mine called me in a storm of tears and anger. You see, this friend of mine is an interesting character—an individual who cares deeply for her identities, and for the people with whom we happen to share this floating rock. She also happens to be an African attending a small liberal arts college in the South. Another piece of information (which is a rather important plot point in this story I’m about to tell), is that she is the President of her college’s (very, very, very very very small) African Students Association. Her and her friend had put a fuckton of work into crafting an event celebrating African music, culture, dance, and identity in a bid to not only have a good time, but to showcase an aspect of African-ness to a space and a people who don’t know jackshit about the continent. She was excited. Her friend was excited. Of course, only seven people showed up.
Unsurprisingly, she broke down. It takes a good amount of courage, of confidence, to share aspects of yourself with others who have made it rather clear that they couldn’t give one flying fuck about where you come from. Meanwhile, you’re forced to swallow everything about their culture—their language, their music, their food, their ways of being. You may read that and think, well, but she chose to move to the U.S. Of course she would need to learn to assimilate. To that, I ask you this. What the fuck do you know about U.S. hegemony?
Many Africans know more about the U.S. than Americans know about the U.S. Hell, in grade school, I had to memorize the fifty states of this far away country that had fuckall to do with me. You see, in order for the United States to maintain this image of the most powerful, most amazing, most magical, most free fucking nation on God’s green earth, these values, these understandings of American triumphalism, must be inculcated in people from the Global South. People from the Global South must know that they come from “shit-hole countries,” they must know that in the grand scheme of the world, they mean absolutely fucking nothing, and they must know that they nevercan and will compare to Western understandings of development. Many people on the African continent are brainwashed into thinking the U.S. is heaven on Earth. Fuck, I thought so too. I was invested in U.S. politics at a young age, U.S. race relations, U.S. media and entertainment, yet, most people in this country can’t even pronounce where I come from. You see what I mean? U.S. imperialism has forced itself down the throats of billions of people, and because of this, Americans really and truly believe that they’re the only ones who live on the planet. They believe the world revolves around them (exhibit A, the absolute dogpiling on Tyla during that stupid fucking Black vs Coloured debate. Look it up if you don’t know what I’m talking about). Unfortunately, Americans knowingly or unknowingly possess a deep rooted unwillingness to learn or to engage with other cultures and identities. It holds them hostage. It blinds them to the reality of what it means to live in a world ruled by a nation that cares only for its interests. And so, when my friend told me that only 7 people showed up to her event, I was not surprised. But my heart ached for her regardless.
It is difficult to exist in the U.S as an African. Race, of course, plays a large part, but the cultural differences are often the nail in the coffin. I remember the first time one of my African-American friends told me to “pop a squat.” I looked at him utterly confused because I did not have a strong grasp on AAVE. I asked him what it meant, and he told me it meant to sit down. I was embarrassed. I am black, yes, but in that small way, my difference was once again pushed to the forefront of my consciousness. Africans often have to navigate a number of winding paths in this country in order to be successful. One one hand, we’re black. But blackness is not one thing. It is multifaceted, multidimensional, and traversing majority black spaces in America usually requires Africans to keep on their toes, lest the manner in which they perform blackness is not up to par. In majority white spaces…well, you know how that goes. There’s xenophobia (from all races, including other black people), there’s the issue of the rhetoric used to refer to African peoples in conversations regarding immigration, there’s visa politics (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read about the way in which visa policies disproportionately affect Global South peoples), and then there’s the fact that the marker “African” itself, is an identity linked to barbarism, terror and immensely weird, racist and parochial stereotypes about what being from Africa means.
My friend told me how this event she planned was a way in which she could share herself with the people she attends school with. Music, dance, and energy were the ways in which she aimed to connect, to bring people together. But, of course…
I don’t know, man. I’ll be honest and say it’s been good for me here, at Oberlin. Good doesn't mean great though, because I’ve still had to deal with a bunch of weird fucking shit (real ones will remember the fucker I wrote about last year who called me Shakalala Timbuktu), but overall, my time at Oberlin and the U.S. is one that I am grateful for so far.
But not everyone has the luxury to be shielded from these things, and it makes me fucking sick. Being African is probably the thing I’m most proud about, but having to navigate the fallbacks that come with it is…difficult. Anyway, all of this to say, friends, you need to step outside your comfort zone. Take a class on the African continent. Hell, take a class on South Asia, on Australia, take a class on anywhere that’s not fucking America. Read. Listen to music from other places. Try new things.
The world is a massive place. There is so much beauty outside of our tiny little bubbles, and we are doing ourselves a disservice if we choose to stick to what we know and have always known. I think that’s all I have to say. See you next time <3
