The 37th Best Place to Live in America

In the late ’90s, my parents brought me home to a suburban town in northern Connecticut near the Massachusetts line. The town was quaint, with old houses touting 18th century New England, and a community that seemed to protect and serve one another. This was the town I always wanted to be a part of, and in many aspects today would like to have felt nostalgic for. However, when we celebrate the past, we always seem to glorify the beautiful parts, the memories that make us feel good rather than the brutal truth – and the truth is if I had grown up in 18th century New England, I would have been a slave – one of 5 in the town at the time.

But instead, I grew up in a town that was 92% white. The seemingly perfect town filled with church members, soccer moms, lovers of their community, has a glaringly dark past with racism. All that to say – that the town where I grew up is a place where black people make up only 2% of the total population and no one seemed to care.

We don’t talk about what it means to be such a small minority in a place that is reportable “safe” and a great place to live. I don’t disagree that it is “safe”, but these statistics are made by and for white people. My memories of the town are distorted but I know of the trials and tribulations that my family went through and other Black people, even if they try to hide behind high-end cars and responsibility politics. The truth is that towns like mine are “perfect” in theory because they intentionally exclude others who threaten their collective identity. They run away from the issues at hand and instead put on a shiny smile like parents attending their kid’s fundraising event, to deflect that they are in fact not perfect and sustained oppressive systems. If you are “perfect” then issues such as mental health, poverty, sexism, racism, and more don’t exist.

I went to school from kindergarten to high school here. I only had one black teacher in middle school who wanted to make me feel like I belonged. I didn’t. I knew it. And he did too. But he tried because he knew what I would be facing throughout my life. But the other teachers and neighbors were stronger, using their polite demeanors to constantly surveil and harass me into knowing my place. The racism tied with sexism, wealth discrimination, and prejudice because of my family’s status as black immigrants was psychological warfare served with a smile.

Fast forward to today while black men and women are killed constantly and our ideals of democracy for all are crumbling. I’m bombarded with fake activism on my social media feed and then puppies or someone’s trip to Long Island. It’s a weird type of dystopia. Justice still has not been served – not to Breonna Taylor, not to Trayvon Martin, not to George Floyd, and not to the 2% of Black alumni who attended these primarily white institutions alone. They all deserve better. We deserve better and I am empowered by the lives of other Black alumni and people of color across the nation; whose parents worked to put them into systems that would benefit them, only to realize those systems were not created for them. We are resilient, and we won’t be held to the standards of the systems that oppressed us. Now is the time to act. We are the 2%. Support black alumni in Connecticut and across the nation by signing the petition now.

Petition: Improve Racial Inclusivity in Tolland Public Schools

Reflections from a First-Generation African

Immediately when I stepped foot in Ghana-it changed me. The air was dry and dusty, the pace immediately slower, relaxed, and the people busy but conversational and friendly. Ghana was different but surprisingly familiar. Nothing like I thought it would be, but not distant from what I’d experienced growing up. I didn’t grow up entirely like the Africans I knew—in a two-parent household with children running around and rice and stew being served for dinner three times a week. I grew up in a home that was rooted in African ideals but preoccupied with the American pressure to “make it.” Our family friends were Ghanaian, Jamaican, and Nigerian, yet with the demand of my parents’ work, they dwindled in how frequently I saw them and size. I remember when I was younger attending loud Nigerian parties where the music boomed and shook the house. My dad played his old man hits of Nigeria and welcomed the friendly atmosphere of like-minded Africa. This faded as my father grew older and farther apart from my mother. They eventually separated then divorced, only leaving the authoritarian ideals intact.

Divorce is not talked about in African families—at least not in mine. African families are supposed to be strong with formidable ideals and the strive to create a more prosperous future for children. But every African family is different. Some may engage fully with their African cultures, others may be “Americanized.” Yet, we all bond through similar cultures. I could claim to be African but knew it was not valid until a native African confirmed my claim. I could claim to be Black but knew I could be invalidated at any time, leaving me to choose what was convenient. I was Black when defending myself against White classmates, but African when it served me and suited my ego.  I fluidly navigated different social identities but knew I wanted to explore my African roots when I was forced to engage a Black world that didn’t fully accept me.

These intersecting identities drove me to travel abroad to Accra, Ghana. Where I knew family resided. Family, I had not met, and my mother spoke little of. Family brings worth, memories, and a perspective of your parents that you never would have gathered from them themselves. But families also expose truths that shock you and may even harm the interpretation you have of your identity. My family greeted me with warmth when they visited me at the University of Ghana. They brought laughter, wisdom, and tenderness. I learned about my mother and pieced together the missing puzzle piece to complete the mosaic of who my family was. Yet, upon leaving I realized that it was only one piece of the puzzle and there was a multitude of other insights and knowledge, I’ve yet to discover.

From my experience aboard, I learned I am a lot like Ghanaian and African people—despite the continental divide. The way I look, my expressions, and the foods I love to eat relate. However, I also learned I am different than many Africans as well. I am not religious enough. I do not know the local language and my bargaining skills are subpar. I am a coalition of identities. We must acknowledge that Africans have relatively different experiences and ancestry. Ghana is a heterogeneous state made up of people from various ethnic groups, religions, and ancestral stories. The journey to America to achieve the American dream may be presented as the same but is not—an obvious observation but something that is not quite explored. Identities are not linear. They are multilateral and even though I had the privilege of visiting a country where my parents were from, African identities and culture are not far from any of our descendants. I write this piece to give thanks to those who granted me the opportunity to study abroad, but also to acknowledge that a person is not simply a result of their parents, but created by experience, exploration, and aspiration to compose their own identity.