I haven’t written on this blog in a long time and it’s because life is real. It’s not always easily captured on a blog. Teaching was hard; probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life and that’s because success doesn’t rely 100% on my progress so much so as it relies on the progress of the kids. I may be very good at and know alot about journalism, English and history, but if I cannot effectively relay that to my students then what good is my knowledge? So, I found myself struggling to engage students, create effective and interesting lesson plans and to stay in control of the classroom which is the most difficult part. I have the utmost respect for teaching and for learning how to become a teacher in the traditional sense instead of through these alternative teacher programs.
Then there was my personal story. My reasons behind my desire and determination to immerse myself in an African culture centered around my quest to bridge the gap between Africa and I. I was searching for my “true identity.” Quite often I found I was spurned by people who rejected me because I was American while others jokingly called me, “Charlotte American” or introduced me as their American friend before I even had a chance to speak.
The people at Goree Island will never know how hurtful it is to demand I pay more than double to take the ferry to the island than the Senegalese because I am a foreigner and not African. (Sidenote: I’ve never actually paid the expensive rate because I can “pass” for Senegalese if I keep my mouth shut, but it still hurts!) The vendors will never understand how unkind it is to call after me, “my sister, my sister,” beckoning me to come to their stand with the intention to cheat me while I stand on the very island from which they may have packed and shipped away my ancestors.
Then there were the good moments; times when people affirmed that I looked just like their sister or cousin. They say I look like a Tukulor. There were instances when I somehow managed to get the real price of an item with my limited Wolof. Vendors never forget your face and some are nice. I saw a guy I had bought jewelry from five months ago recently and he smiled and said hello. He greeted me in English and when I replied that his English was improving he told me that he was taking classes and then handed me a cowshell bracelet for free.
It took me awhile to realize that it’s neither group, not the people that deny nor the people that affirm my “Africanness” that should have power over my true identity. It’s all about how I perceive myself. Yes, I am American. Yes I am also African. But I cannot be limited to a title or a label; I am Charlotte Young, free of what you say I am because I am so much more than what you think! And many of the same people that declare I am not African would reject me regardless if I did not fit their ideal social standing or was of another African nationality.
I still live in Dakar. Just last weekend I was out with friends at my favorite night spot watching Senegalese, Cape Verdeans, Cameroonians, Ghanaians, Canadians and who knows what other nationalities dance to Congolese music. You see this mixture of nationalities and culture, this is Africa.
I was shy of dancing until one guy pulled me up.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“America.” I replied.
“No, you are from Africa!”
He proceeded to dance around, bouncing his shoulders and shuffling his feet to the music. Another guy hopped in front of me.
“Do like this,” he said.
Moving his feet and hips in a dance similar to that I’d seen in the states. So I copied him.
“Well look you can move!” someone teased.
I looked at them and smiled. “Merci.”
So that is it. I am Charlotte—lover of self, lover of people and culture and lover of assisting in youth development—just not as a teacher.
Mach’Allah.
Peace
