Diaspora Dialogues II: Tanzania : ‘But, You’re Still American, Dada’
‘You’re still American, dada.’
In Swahili, dada is the word for sister. Yet, any woman can be your ‘dada’, a close friend, a coworker somewhat close in age, and even your new host sister. But, in the context of American, I did not want to be an American dada, just a good old Tanzanian one.
But, you’re still American, dada. Such crushing words uttered by my host sister radically shook up my understanding of American identity and my African identity. I felt at a crossroads. Now, prior to leaving for Tanzania I’d read blogs and stories of folks who had warned us ‘starry eyed’ African Americans from traveling to Africa and receiving a full fledged welcoming committee with traditional names, dress…I’ll not veer into stereotypes, but,overall; ‘don’t come to Africa expecting folks to welcome you as an African person, primarily, you’ll be seen through the lens of an American. ‘I got this. Well, I thought I did- and I welcomed the distinction albeit uncomfortably. Until, a mind blowing conversation with my host sister came about a month into my stay in Tanzania. I vividly remember journaling about how inescapable my American identity truly was.
Upon meeting my new host sister, I was wrought with questions about life for young people in Dar es Salaam. Where were the clubs? Popular drinks? Best beaches? These conversations allowed me to get to know a different side of Tanzanian youth and how I would immerse myself in this new culture. Then, it was my turn to be questioned. Where are you from? America. No, no, really- where in AFRICA are you from? Stumped, I tried to as least awkward as possible, explain the history of slavery thus robbing me of pinpointing my exact origin on the continent. “Well, I know my family speculated we could be from Sierra Leone?” I burst out. “Oh, but, you’re still American, dada.” Ana responded. How could this be? Her and I: both Black women both interested in similar things and now essentially sisters; but I, the American one. Was this the dismissal that all those cynical blogs warned me about? I was in shock and recorded this dismissal of my own African identity with great sadness. I wanted to finally come into my fullness as an African person. After being stripped from fully engaging in my African identity vis-a-vis colorblind white suburbia and ostracism from my predominantly white university, I saw Tanzania as my chance to rid myself of the veil and stain of being Black in America and live in my black fullness.
It wasn’t until truly dissecting African colonialism and global systems of inequality, did I understand Ana’s point. Reframed as a comment on localized culture and not necessarily a Pan-African identity, I saw her perspective. True, as much as I consider Tanzania my home — it is not my origin. True, as much as I love Kenya and Rwanda- these places also are not my origin. However, as a Black person separated and discouraged by white power structures to seek my African origins,by being in Africa I felt at home with so many brown faces.
I realize now what I was attempting to do was erase my American identity. In part, the history of being an African in America is complicated, painful, and constantly under attack. By assuming the fullness of my African self, I attempted to see the duality of my African-American identity in the context of the African context. I was denying myself the beauty of what it means to be an African in America given the history of Blackness in America from the early arrival of enslaved Africans to ports in early America. By denying my American identity, I was also denying the work of my ancestors in America, the sacrifices, the resilience, and the culture created here in America. Instead of seeing the fluidity of Blackness both in American and Africa, I chose to attempt to rid myself of the American components of Blackness. I realize now that by trying to rid myself of my American self, I was incredibly naive and downplaying the powerful and resilience of African Americans.
On the other hand, my work with an incredible gender networking organization in Tanzania put me in contact with some incredible women who validated my African identity and understood the complexity of my American one. One woman in particular, Martha immediately welcomed me to the organization and ‘home’ to Africa. On the first day, she told me “Welcome, dada- or should I say welcome home to Africa.” I was overwhelmed with gratitude and especially surprised given the blogs I read warning Black Americans from being welcomed to the continent. Either way, I was happy and truly was unraveling and felt at home.
Another welcome from Mama Ana who insisted that I meet and become friends with her daughter, Happy who worked at the Embassy and had also been to the states. These connections with women in Tanzania who called me ‘dada’ who recognized me as African (albeit with a funny accent), were sustaining- life-giving, and nothing short of a blessing. Through our conversations about Black women in Tanzania and in America; it was here that I truly saw how similar our struggles were. While fighting female genital mutilation and advocating for an end to gender based violence in Tanzania, I saw the work that my peers and I were doing to end sexual violence against women in the United States. While preparing memos and briefs about the kidnapping of the Chibok girls by Boko Haram, I saw Black girls being treated as property and a bargaining tool while the international community lay silent. My work with the gender organization was a critical moment in my feminist consciousness and my racial consciousness. Their immense library with black feminist literature and research that was constantly at my fingertips meant I was free to explore themes of freedom for women from across the African continent and in the United States. The space to discuss feminist theory and political change over mandazi and chai meant my colleagues and sisters were open to new perspectives and curious about life for women in the United States. The intellectual and personal reflections from working in the gender development sections meant the intersections of my blackness and womanhood could be safely explored and nourished. Again, I was overcome with gratitude.
My work at TGNP was centered in the Information and Communications Department and I was responsible for writing reports, press releases, and also conducting an interview project of staff on the implementation of a new constitution for Tanzania. Needless to say, my days were jam-packed- curating interview questions and my own personal ones about how a country includes citizens in policymaking processes and also creates a new order that is inclusive of Tanzania’s most vulnerable population. Working with TGNP was not only reflective of my feminist consciousness, but politically, it sparked an interest in understanding more about how the United States includes or excludes certain citizens from political processes. Now in 2016, as we enter a daunting ‘Trump Presidency’, I am reminded of how my colleagues worked with parliament members to ensure the needs of women and marginalized populations were not excluded in the writing of a new katiba (constitution). As a foreigner, however, I had to be sure not to exercise any ‘helicopter politics’ therein sweeping into an organization and attempting to take control or minimize the efforts of the local Tanzanian staff. There were times where the slow pace of things became frustrating, indeed, but my philosophy on servant leadership has always been to let those whom you are serving guide the process as my role was merely to support the goals and mission of the organization. And, when the workflow was painfully slow (at times it was), I retreated to the library and dove into a good read to remind myself of how incredible it was to work in such an environment.
When I look back on my time in Tanzania all I see is my growth as a woman and as an African person. Growing through the uncomfortable conversations about my American identity was a reflection of my tenacity and desire to make the most of my experiences in Africa. Not every interaction around my being American was ideal, but every takeaway was all the more enlightening and left me with more questions about who I am as an African and an American. Two full years later, I am still unraveling the beautifully complicated curves of my African-Americanness and without my start in Tanzania- I would not be half the woman I am today. My bio on Instagram reads “TZ made me…”, and while vague, it means TZ made me live, taught me love, humbled me, and strengthened me. And for all the lessons on my African and Americanness, I am forever indebted to Tanganyika.
