Finding identity in the people who love you
Back in the day, I used to pause when people asked me where I am from. I had to do some gauging first: Who am I talking to? Is this person interested or just asking for the sake of small talk? Is a long winded answer appropriate for this setting? Most people didn’t know I was asking myself these questions. I had learned ways to buy myself some time, usually by asking people something about themselves.
When I did answer the question, the responses ranged from one sentence to an essay. The one sentence answers sometimes developed into an essay based on the person’s follow-up questions. If I started with Burundi, people tended to ask when I last lived there. I would say I have never lived there. They would want to know where I was born. I would tell them, and then explain that my parents were refugees from Burundi when I was born.
My response to the question of my origin often depends on where I am when being asked. When I was a US newbie in high school, the answer was always Burundi but hardly ever developed into anything. I wonder if it’s because most of the people who asked were preoccupied with their work or had similar backgrounds and understood there is no black and white answer (other ESOL students). In college, the curious minds were never satisfied with my answer. So, my identity essays started there.
I came to be very comfortable with letting people know that my life has never been a straight line. I envied the classmates who had lived in the same house their whole lives. It seemed like such a privilege, even if they did not always see it that way. I have lived in eight countries, short and long term. In some of them, people knew exactly where I was from because of where I lived and what languages I spoke. In others, I blended in with other “foreigners” and was treated accordingly.
When in the US, I am from Burundi. Even after 15 years here, people still ask and find it amazing that I speak English well.
When in Europe, I am a Black American. They want to know what state and city I call home.
When in Burundi, I am a Burundian American. Even though I speak Kirundi, people can tell I don’t live there.
When I speak to other Burundian Americans, I am from Baltimore.
But where I feel most comfortable is with my people, no matter where they are from. My people are not tied to any particular country. They are kind, caring, selfless, compassionate, and often funny. My people are those who will spend time with me when I need to get away from the daily routine. They can usually tell when something is wrong even when I did not say anything.
My people are those who will drop what they are doing and come celebrate with me when I have some good news. They will also be sad with me when I have bad news. Most of these people have known me for years now. They are family by blood or by choice. They have counted me among their people for one reason or another. These are the people in whom I find the earthly part of my identity. They go with me wherever I go, minimizing the importance of identifying with a place.
