Lost Archives: You're Not African
A Reflection On Ancestry & Nationality
Intro
“You’re not African.” He said it without a moment's hesitation, next to the office microwave. I was livid. The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
Why would my Mexican say something so mean without a moment's hesitation? I tensely gulped air. “I respect your opinion, but you don't get to decide who I am”
From down the hallway, another coworker shouted “You can't say that”. He backpedals. “We’re American. When I have my kids they will be American” I responded. “You don't stop being who you are because you go to another place” She chimes in again “What are you talking about? it's about culture your children will be Mexican”
I didn't want to write this today. I didn't want to talk about my identity. More accurately, I was scared to write this. The beginning of this story happened a few months ago. The climax happened a few days ago. I don't know where it's going to end, yet.
Cold Samosas
This started during lunch at our construction site break room– our version of the watering hole . Not the water cooler, but the microwave where we gather to warm our food. I was heating up leftover Nepalese food when my coworker pointed at my samosa.
“What is that?”
“It's a samosa. It's like an eggroll but it's filled with potatoes and veggies,” I explained. You find them in Indian cuisine and African cuisine. I could make some and—”
“You’re not African,” He interrupted.
American African
Those words cut like a knife. I don't understand why he responded this way.
I didn't even claim to be African at that moment. And yes, I do believe I am African.
Here’s what I know:
My ancestors stopped being African when they got to these shores.
I love and accept the African roots of my black culture.
For me, Black and African are the same—one is just more specific.
I’m also undeniably American. Born here. Contributed here my entire life. My grandfathers fought in World War II. My grandmother survived the Jim Crow. No one—looking at you, Ron Desantis—can take that identity away.
Being American doesn't erase being African. Generations in a different country does not change DNA or heritage. My culture is the culmination of Africans living in America for generations.
Identity is a personal choice and this is how I chose to identity. Some black Americans identify differently and I understand that as well.
A Pattern of Erasure
This wasn’t my first time hearing this. A few months earlier, a friend from the continent said something similar over lunch. “African Americans aren't African,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Seeing my face fall, she backpedaled. “Well you aren't African in the same way.”
That hurt worse than my coworker’s words. Her father is from the continent. She was supposed to be an ally, she is supposed to understand. Instead, another door slammed shut.
It hurts but same as with Luis, it's not her choice. I decide what my identity is.
The Citizenship Conversation
The tipping point came during Thai food with my friend Jake. He tells me he is applying for Italian citizenship. His ancestry is mixed European but because he can track relatives back to Italy, he can apply for citizenship.
I get a knot in my throat. It's a familiar feeling. It's the feeling I get when white Americans talk about their heritage. It's a mix of jealousy and sadness because I didn’t know where my family was from.
He then asks “do you know where in Africa your family is from?” I pause and respond. “No I don't know. My last name is Scottish. I could be part Scottish or it could just be slavery”. He chuckles. It's that same awkward laugh I usually hear when I make this comment. It's there to cut the tension. Maybe its white guilt. Maybe it's just the discomfort around discussing slavery.
The DNA Journey
A few weeks later, I bought a Matriclan test from African Ancestry. African Ancestry is a black owned genetics company that traces DNA to African countries. They have access to the largest database of African DNA in the world. This database can pinpoint the ethnic group and current location of a DNA match.
My test arrived on a day I was home sick from work. I did it immediately and returned it to the mailbox that night. The website confirmed they received my samples. Results require 6-8 weeks of processing. Fuck, 6-8 weeks.
I texted Jake, and told about the long wait. He said “ It will be worth the wait”. So I waited and waited.
Six weeks later, I was killing time at an auto shop, waiting for my rental car, when the email arrived. I clicked the link in my email and a letter loads.
“Dear David,
It is with great pleasure that I report your MatriClan™ Test result. We have determined that you share maternal genetic ancestry with the Mende people in Sierra Leone today.”
I buried my face in a Good Housekeeping magazine, fighting back tears. God not here, not now, not the fucking water works. After years of being told I wasn't African, I finally had proof. My maternal line traces to the Mende people of Sierra Leone.
I texted my mom, my sister, my cousin. Then sat with the weight of it. All those years of not knowing. All those people were attempting to decide for me.
Now I know. I’ve always been African. I just needed to find my way back.