Searching For Home
Acknowledging the Limitations of Words in Defining Identity
Words are a powerful medium through which we often see our true selves reflected. From the time I was a child, words have allowed me to connect with the world in a special way — whether they were put together as books, poetry, quotes, or some other form. They have given definition to feelings and experiences I have been unable to adequately articulate for myself. I read the following poem halfway through my Global Health Corps fellowship, and I frequently come back to its words because they perfectly encapsulate my experience.
Umebinyuo’s poem has been embedded in my mind and heart since I discovered it. Her words describe my struggle to find my sense of “home.” I was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and immigrated to the U.S. at the age of eight, resulting in a tug-of-war between my identity as an Ethiopian and African and my nationality as an American. It was only three years ago that I became an American citizen, as I had long associated forfeiting my Ethiopian citizenship for an American one with giving up my identity, despite having remained actively connected to my Ethiopian heritage after leaving Addis.
Beyond citizenship, I have always felt “foreign” in the U.S., in the other/alien/abnormal way that xenophobes force non-natives to feel. I remember my first time reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s Americanah, in which the protagonist writes in her personal blog called “Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes)”:
“Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I’m Jamaican or I’m Ghanaian. America doesn’t care.”
The character Ifemelu’s sentiment about her experience in the U.S. connected with me on such a deep, raw level because it gave words to a feeling I often experienced but did not know how to verbalize. This sense of otherness, coupled with the complexities of being a Black woman in the U.S., continuously pushed me closer to both Ethiopia and the African continent as a whole.
However, when I returned to Ethiopia ten years later in 2016 to complete my practicum for my Master of Public Health, I felt the same feeling of “foreignness” in my homeland that I felt in the U.S. While I am fortunate enough to still be fluent in the main language Amharic, I was shocked by how people automatically guessed I had come from the U.S. At work, I made sure I often communicated in Amharic, which helped in building rapport with my co-workers, but I was still considered one of the “diaspora.” When I returned to the U.S., a feeling of now being too foreign for where I considered my home stuck with me.
Before I moved to Zambia as a Global Health Corps fellow to work as a Senior Research Associate for the Ministry of Health, Ethiopia was the only African country to which I had previously been. One of the first things that stood out to me during my fellowship year was the camaraderie I felt among my workmates and other Zambians I encountered.
When asked where I was coming from, my reply of “the States” was constantly met with the emphatic redirect of “…but where are you from?” This indicated the person’s assumption that the U.S. was my secondary home, and I felt that the fact I was also African outweighed whatever stereotypes were often tacked on to my being as an American. I felt like I belonged.
However, this sense of security I had was challenged during a meeting in which my intentions in leading a project were questioned because I am not Zambian and because I am American. The person expressed to me, “You’re American, right? I think we should always be suspicious when people offer to do things at no cost.” They made negative assumptions about my intentions based on my nationality. The person has since apologized, but the experience continues to stand out when I reflect upon my time in Zambia. It made me question what I may have done wrong to cause my integrity to be challenged. Why was my citizenship automatically associated with whatever preconceptions the person had? Am I not African enough? Why did they choose to see my “Americanness” over my “Africanness?” And most importantly, why did I give the power to define who I am to someone else?
This incident made me reflect upon the power we sometimes give others in defining who we are. The reality is there will always be labels that will be placed on us by others. They may be positive or negative, and we may or may not agree with them. What matters is our confidence in who we are and our firm grounding in our beliefs and identities. My time in Zambia has helped me connect with myself in more ways than one. Proximity has allowed me to be physically connected with Ethiopia and the African continent as a whole. I have travelled to nine countries and have met different people from different places who have introduced me to new languages, cultures, and ways of living, while also making me feel “at home” — whatever that means.
I recently re-read one of my favorite books, Cutting for Stone. In it, the author Abraham Verghese says,
“The key to your happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have, and own the ones you don’t. If you keep saying your slippers aren’t yours, then you’ll die searching, you’ll die bitter, always feeling you were promised more. Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny.”
I was again struck by the influence of these words on me. My identities are my “slippers,” and my identities are neither linear nor singular. While words have given me so much strength and meaning to feelings I could not adequately verbalize, “owning my slippers” means to also find the words to define myself. I am Ethiopian. I am African. I am American. I am a woman. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a traveler of the world. I am a myriad of traits. No matter where I am, I am the only person who can define who I am.
Hiwote Solomon is a 2017–2018 Global Health Corps fellow at the Ministry of Health in Zambia. All GHC fellows, partners, and supporters are united in a common belief: health is a human right. Want to get involved? Check out these great opportunities to support the health equity movement and consider joining us as a fellow or partner when applications open later this year! And don’t forget to connect with us on Twitter / Instagram / Facebook.
