Recently my friend invited me to her residential hall, which is an African-American themed hall. They have lots of meetings and outings there. So I thought it would be fun. On this particular day they were having a pancake breakfast, just a time to mix. I was excited to be there, too.
I walked in at a time when the mini-party was at its peak. I found my friend; excitedly, we hugged and she led me to a seat in the back. We sat there for some time. I sensed some sort of discrimination. I wondered, were we just isolating ourselves or were we facing discrimination?
My friend' s breakfast came in first, and it was a plate full of colors. My mouth watered. I have always liked rainbow dishes: they make me hungry. She let me pick pancakes and fruit; we ate and only then began to talk.
The black American contemporary music was extremely loud. Some boys and girls were beating the tables and some guys on the stage were dancing in what looked 1ike a kind of competition.
We talked about various subjects: hair, boys, shoes and books. And then we got to it. " What do African Americans think of Africans?"
We argued. I told her I thought African Americans were haughty. Why did they sideline us? When we met in a narrow passage and our eyes met, they quickly looked aside before we greeted. Why? Weren' t we all black? I mean, wasn' t this exactly the reason why there was an African-American themed house to begin with?
Did they look down upon us because they grew up in America and we in Sub-Saharan Africa? Oh yes, I felt this was it! They believed that we were HIV-positive and that the giraffes were right behind our huts.
My friend uttered, " No! " And then she continued:
"I also thought so at one point but after living with these guys, I got to a different conclusion altogether. These guys are not from Africa. They were not born there and may have never been there. We can' t expect them to naturally like us or bond. We are different. Skin color is the skin color. "
