1.
Fork at the Cultural Road
By Enni Aigbomian
Growing up and getting disciplined by my mother she would constantly
remind me “You are not American.” This was her own way of implying that I was
acting like the typical American child (which was unacceptable). What was the
typical American child? Was it the child I studied closely on Disney Channel when I
first came to this country at the impressionable age of nine? The one who retaliated
with venomous words when their parents tried to discipline them. The child who
made my eyes widen with wonder at how much leeway they received from their
parents.
Throughout my adolescent life, whenever I got out of hand, my mother would
make a note of clarifying that I was indeed not American, regardless of my status as
a US citizen. What she never did was backed those words up. Cultural reassurances
like “But you are Nigerian, and you need remember that,” would have been
appreciated. No, all I needed to remember was that I was not American. A command
I tried to take in but was never able to resolute in my mind. I was not American but I
certainly could not be Nigerian. I did not think or act like a Nigerian, a fact my
siblings (who grew up in Nigeria) would present to me at times when necessary.
It was not until I left for college in DC that the question of my identity started
to arise. Before this my culture and identity remained an unexplored frontier. I
never asked questions and none were asked of me. My friends did not treat me like I
was this special exotic creature from a different world. What I identified as was not
a topic that I addressed that often. I was just myself—whatever that was.
College changed all of that. Going to a university in the heart of DC meant that
I came into contact with people from a wide assortment of cultures. And this was
new to me. Coming from a town that held in it a handful of Nigerian families. We
were classmates that walked past each other in the halls of high school—never
acknowledging our similarities due to some sort of shame. Once we arrived at
school we left behind our houses that still lingered with the aroma of the egusi and
pounded yam we had for dinner the night before. We masked the pungent smell of
our culture with the veil of what we wished to emulate. What we wanted to be but
could not fully attain due to our parents’ constant reminders and friends who
sensed that we could never really be. American.
Things became different once I arrived in DC. During the first weeks of
classes I came into contact with more Nigerians than I ever had in nine years (when
I left Nigeria). At first it was the most exciting thing. I would gush “Oh my gosh!
You’re Nigerian?” when people introduced themselves to me. Nigerian names like,
Chioma, Tobi, Dayo, Chike, became the norm. We would speak in American accents
about what we were. Yoruba or Igbo? I was Esan. Here at my heavily populated
international school, being American meant I was boring, non-exotic. My Nigerian
background was partly what made me interesting.

2.
I finally had people who understood what it was like to have Nigerian
parents. We shared stories and laughed about things that now made sense to us and
made fun of things that still did not. Like the Nigerian parent reasoning that if you
want to dress remotely descent when going to school you’re obviously going for a
fashion parade. I caught up on Nigerian art and culture. Apparently “Can I pour your
wine,” by Styl Plus was not a “thing” anymore. It was about names like Wizkid and
Ice Prince. Azonto was what we danced to now. I learned and read about new age
Nigerian authors like Chimamanda Adichie. I familiarized myself on the past works
of writers like Ben Okri and musicians like Cardinal Rex Lawson. My culture, I
learned, was so rich and beautiful. I felt like there was so much I had missed out on
and so much to catch up on.
Though I was becoming fully versed on all things Nigerian. I still did not
speak or act like what was expected of a Nigerian. For this my Nigerian friends with
their Nigerian accents and Nigerian attitudes would smile and remind me of how
un-Nigerian I was. “I am more Nigerian than you,” my Syrian-Nigerian friend would
say jokingly. At first these comments left me uneasy. If I was neither American nor
Nigerian enough, what was I? The more I mulled on these thoughts the more
confusion surmounted. Yes, it was freeing to be able to further explore a part of
myself that I kept unexposed out of a fear of being mocked. To meet people who did
not try to box me into the African stereotype pushed in many American films such as
“Coming to America” or even worse, “Soul Plane”. Now I was faced with the dilemma
that I may not meet the criteria needed for my own culture to fully embrace me. I
turned the idea over in my mind, how would I fix this glitch in my cultural matrix?
The answer? Absolutely nothing. All I could do was not blow up an idea that
was truly not important. As clichéd as it sounded, I was going to be myself. Whether
or not it was acceptable, I am crossroad where these two cultures need to meet. I am
the shared interest. Part of my coming of age included the idea that I am indeed not
Nigerian or American. I am more than that. I am partly a product of the fusion of
these two distinct cultures. I am vegetable soup and focaccia bread. I am the
discipline of my mother and sisters. I am the lesson learned from mistakes made. I
am the places and things I have experienced and learned. One could me the neo-
Nigerian or a component that makes up the great salad bowl called America. Culture
is a miniscule part of it all. My identity is made up of a myriad of things and it
continues to grow exponentially with each day.