My father is from Nigeria. My mother is a first generation Canadian, caucasian with straight hair and dark eyes. She blends in a way that people don’t feel the need to ask her where she’s from, or makes them unafraid to ask. I look like her, in the shape of my jaw, my eyes and my ears. You have to know the two of us well to see our similarities, which I’m sure is the case for all apparently mono-racial parents of obviously bi-racial kids. It’s something we get used to and don’t question until we see that hesitance in the eyes of someone who wants to ask but doesn’t want to offend.
I live in Canada, not the United States, but because our media is predominantly American we live with the assumption of an Afro-American or American Black sensibility in the eyes and minds of many who see us. For the record, I’ve known poverty and I’ve been hungry and I’ve done some things that I was embarrassed about until I came to value those acts for the way they’ve shaped the person I am. I’ve lived in low income neighbourhoods and spent childhood summers without shoes on my feet and have known too many who were criminals because they had no choice, and some who were criminals because they wanted to be. There are parallels between American Black and Canadian Black people, perhaps most strongly felt in our shared history. Many of our ancestors have the Middle Passage in common. Most of our ancestors knew slavery.
But the majority of Canadians who look Black emigrated to our country in the last two or three generations. We are the children of skilled practitioners exploring North America after immigration laws relaxed in the 1960s, from the countries of Africa, or the Caribbean, or Central America, travelers riding the post-slavery, pre-equality diasporic wave. We are refugees filtered through the United Nations. We are students who chose to study abroad and wound up in The Great White North, and formed ourselves to fit our new cultures. We are the children, some of us, of those who found the place too cold, too inhospitable, and too different from home, and ultimately returned without us.
I don’t know my father. We’ve exchanged letters a few times over my three-and-a-half decades. What I know of Nigeria’s cultures comes from Ben Okri, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Chris Cleave. I know the greed for oil has killed people there, as it does with varying body-counts wherever there is oil and money to be made through its extraction. I know my father has other wives and other children, and that I have uncles in Europe and cousins in the USA. I know he was of the Igbo tradition, which means our people were bound, shipped and traded, despite his vehement protestations otherwise. I know he called Nigeria the most beautiful country in all of Africa and thus the most beautiful nation in the world. He wrote to me to come to him when I was fifteen. He had a place for me in a good school in Benin City, he wrote. He knew a family that would take good care of me when I was ready to marry, he wrote. He named me “Princess” and sent love to my mother.
I didn’t go.
My children know none of this. When my daughter was assigned “Kumbayah” by her piano teacher, I side-stepped the teacher’s request that I explain the song’s provenance for her. At seven years old, my daughter is innocent. History sloughs around her, but does not touch. So when she plays “Kumbayah”, it is spritely, happy, almost joyous, her little fingers skipping over the keys, and I love to hear it. She has just recently realized some people choose not to be married, after months or years, and so their children have two houses and two bedrooms, or one house that is emptier. She has come to understand that people might have babies before getting married, or might welcome babies from other parents to raise as their own and love with their whole hearts. She is learning how people are mean to each other, and make bad decisions, and hurt each other deeply on purpose or by accident. She knows how people, like her, have parents for whom the shape of their eyes or the colour of their skin or the bend of their hair mean nothing compared to the scope of their love. And that’s enough. For now.
Last week, at the library, I saw NIGERIA in bold print across a children’s magazine. Faces, it was called. I picked it up. Put it down. Grabbed it quickly and checked it out with the stacks of picture books and early readers. I placed it with the other books on the table by the blocks at home, and when my daughter picked it up, I told her, “My father is from Nigeria. He lives there now.” And then we learned, together, about the many languages spoken in Nigeria, and the gorgeous red tomatoes in the Lagos market, and the value of elders’ wisdom, and how to make Puff-Puff, which the editors declare a beloved snack. Later, while she was resting, I learned that I’d chosen a biracial Nigerian vocalist for my wedding song, and that I’d named my children for family and place in the tradition of a people I had never met. I sat with that magazine and remembered going to the library in Calgary by myself and sitting on the floor in the World History section, and laying eyes on photographs of my father’s nation, of his people, for the first time I can remember. I felt the ache in my chest as I had when I saw a Benin Bronze in an archaeological text, and how the shape of her head is just like mine. Just like my son’s. Just like my father’s.
Nigeria is not my country. I am Canadian, as are my children. Multiculturalism is official policy, here, and minority rights are constitutionally entrenched. It doesn’t mean there is no racism. There is racism in Canada. It doesn’t mean there is ethnic, cultural, or gender equality. We still have a long way to go. It doesn’t mean we are more culturally aware, or above ethno-cultural derision, or a true mosaic of the world’s diversity. What it does mean is that a biracial woman born out of the 1970’s wave of West African immigration can walk into a public library and pick up a magazine about a faraway place representing an integral piece of who she has become.
It means that I can sit with my daughter and show her a luminous reflection of who we are, and talk about going to visit, one day.
(This was originally posted at The Valentine 4 blog.)