First Generation Gap

 
 

“Yuh come from foreign?”

Those four words were enough to make my 12-year old heart fall to the pit of my stomach. I had failed, again. I practiced my patois (patwa) for days gearing up for my trip to Jamaica and yet it still wasn’t good enough to fool this lady. She smiled, amused as she rocked her baby.

I nodded yes.

I was from foreign and I hated it. For the rest of the vacation, when we were out I’d let my parents do all the talking and just stand there hoping no one could smell the American on me. However, even when I was home in the U.S., I still felt I was from foreign. It wasn’t easy growing up, pronouncing words differently from other kids because that was how I had overheard my parents saying it or always having my lunch packed with various sandwiches containing plantain while my friends paraded their Lunchables.

I wasn’t always left out though; at one point the school I went to had a majority of Jamaican students. So much so in fact it became the cool thing to be and I would be quick to label someone a Jah-FAKE-n meanwhile I was the Jah-merican in my own house. However, once I got to high school no one understood why I couldn’t do sleepovers or why the only football I cared about actually involved feet.

My insecurities crept back in when I came to college and began to meet Caribbean students whose accents made them sound like they sang every syllable. They knew every single Caribbean food, song, and dance. Meanwhile I had to scramble to research the newest Vybz Kartel song and ‘dutty whine’ until my neck cramped up to feel relevant. Until one day, one of the girls started to talk about the Caribbean people that only knew their flags and nothing else about their culture. I nodded my head in agreement until she ended her speech with “no offense Sofiya.”

My heart fell to the pit of my stomach, again. I couldn’t fool her just like I couldn’t fool the lady years before. For days I let it affect me, I was tired of not feeling good enough. If my black card wasn’t constantly being revoked my Jamaican card sure was.

I began to think about all the things I did know and I came to the conclusion that just because I wasn’t loud about my culture it didn’t mean I was ignorant of my heritage. Just because I didn’t always wear it on my chest, didn’t mean I wasn’t proud.

I admit I do not know everything about Jamaica, when I cook fry dumplings they come out like rocks, and I couldn’t tell you how on earth Bob Marley could make the most revolutionary lyrics sound like peaceful mantras.

However, I can explain the ideology of Marcus Garvey, I can tell you what reggae songs make my parents slow dance, I can tell you about how my grandma thinks black dressing and rum solves every ailment, and I can tell you how this little island where my parents were born changed the world.

I am Jamaican not because of how much I know or how much patois I can speak but because of who I am.

  • Pierre

    Good job Sofie proud ah yah.
    Didn’t see any mention of my name in there tho its cool next time.

  • thefashioncult

    I can definitely relate to feeling foreign WHEREVER you go. I’m born to Nigerian immigrants who raised me in the lily white Midwest. Being black and having a “funny” name made me foreign, then when I moved away to go to an Historically black university my accent (‘you sound like a white girl!’) and my lack of knowledge about black Americans made me foreign. Then, of course, visits to Nigeria made me feel the most foreign of all. It used to be a real source of anxiety for me. Now that I”m in my 30s, though, I’ve embraced my upbringing as something that has allowed me to feel comfortable no matter where I go. I don’t have to always be amongst others like me. Rather, I can be at ease knowing that who I am is just fine in any setting.

  • http://www.facebook.com/mykie.mcgowan Mykie McGowan

    Yessssss!!!! This is my life! I thought I was the only one who felt that way. I was born in America but I was raised by Jamaicans who made sure I knew where I came from. Because of that, I always felt I didn’t belong in the Jamaican or American bracket. But I met a Jamaican who told me that it doesn’t matter what people think you are, you choose who you are. Since then, I identify myself as a Jamaican because it’s in my blood. Blood is thicker than the water that separates me from Jamaica. :)

  • CoCO_Boom

    My mom is African American and my father is from the wonderful island of Antigua, I grew up with both my parents and felt a connection to both sides of my heritage. Now being only half West-indian is even harder than first generation from both sides. No matter how many times i went to Antigua in my youth, I am forever labeled , “yankee”. I’m learning to appreciate it tho