Victoria Adaora Obiagu
“We really do give white people too much credit for something that should be a natural occurrence. To treat the ability to maintain composure while being the minority in a room full of people of color like it’s enough and such a grand achievement, should be offensive to both the real minorities and to white people. Let’s put things into true perspective. The slave owners were surrounded by black people all day, every day. So tell me how I’m expected to successfully be confident in the evolution of the white American worldview?” I search the room for appreciation, or at least stupefaction from the knowledge I just dropped.
Instead, there was a steady uneasy pause across the room. Everyone’s eyes were fixated on me with such consternation. The class was pretty diverse, well, acceptibly diverse enough to pass as “diverse”. Everyone was wearing the “how did she even get there?” look on their faces. The white students were really uncomfortable just with the fact I brought up slavery. The Latino and Asian students were searching around the room for what was going to happen next. As if they were looking for a chance to alley-oop their own grievances about white people. The black students only served me a booming “fam?” expression as they all looked towards each other across the room. As I try to exhale away my growing anxiety, I notice professor Lee’s disapproval of the time and place I chose to bring up my very political thoughts. His grimace made me think to myself: Really, Victoria? How did you manage to conclude the very first workshop meeting with slavery? Poor Scout. She was only sharing her experience in Zimbabwe last year. She wasn’t ready for my follow-up. She really wasn’t. I chuckle to myself with astonishment. I mean I consider it a skill to be honest. However, it wouldn’t hurt for me to start dialing it back every now and then.
Professor Lee attempts to break the uneasiness with a “And thank you, Ms. Obiagu for your thoughts. We appreciate your raw vulnerability. I’m sure we feel like we already know you.” I give him a smirk and he returns one back with a nod. I like Professor Lee, he’s a well-rounded black educator. I look forward to hearing his insights on the American justice system in the coming weeks. Although I’m not exactly sure what I want my place in the system to be. All I know is I want to change it some way, some how. But in the inevitable event that I won’t change anything, I would hope I’ll be heard at least. I didn’t sacrifice my summer for this six-week program in Atlanta for nothing.
“Alright everyone! We are gonna try this again on Wednesday. Everyone enjoy the rest of your afternoon on me. I’m letting you all go 5 minutes earlier”. Professor Lee closed the workshop with a wink to the class with the hope we all caught his corny humor. As he confidently expected, we did. All of the students began to shuffle all of the their belongings together as if they forgot what I did to poor girl, Scout. Since I didn’t sense any further unrest among us, I decided to forget about it as well.
“Hey! Vic-Victoria is it?
I turn around to find one of the black students from my workshop group. “Yes”.
“Cool, cool. My name is Malik Paterson”. He reaches out his hand and searches me for a return.
“Victoria Obiagu”.
“Obiagu? You Nigerian?”.
“Yup”.
He seemed to be standing there fishing around for his next response. I feel like already know what his next question was going to be. He’s gonna ask me if I’m Yoruba, because he has a friend named Femi and he’s Nigerian.
“Hmmm, that’s interesting”. He continues to look at me as he attempts to formulate a dialog with me, “You were going pretty hard there in class don’t you think?”.
Now I’m left fishing around for my own response. I thought he was going to ask me what tribe I’m from. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I mean, you know… considering”
No, I don’t know. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m catching on to what you’re saying, Malik.” At this point, I can tell he’s trying to carefully choose his words, but I don’t know why yet.
Malik surrenders with a sigh. “Considering that you’re Nigerian. You don’t really have direct ties to American chattel slavery. So I find it interesting that you are very passionate about such things.”
I stand there completely dumbfounded. Is this nigga trying to invalidate me? “Um. I don’t understand what my ancestry has to do with the fact that slavery happened, AND that it was evil and unforgivable.” Malik nods and smiles in a half agreement.
“Sure, Victoria. But what I’m saying is you don’t need to feel like you’re our spokesperson on being black.”
“Malik, am I not black? Am I not black in America?” I pause. “Are you under the false pretense that my family doesn’t experience being black in America, because we aren’t descendants of slaves?” Go head, Malik. I know where you’re trying to take this wasteful conversation.
“Look, Victoria I’m not trying to offend you or disrespect your family. I’m just saying that it’s a little odd to me how passionate you are about something that isn’t your history. We both have different histories is all I’m getting at. Your grandparents weren’t even around for the civil rights movement. They were in Nigeria. Where they didn’t have to feel like a minority”.
Oh, I’m infuriated. How dare he try to regulate my history? Why is he doing this to me? Why is he making it seem like I’m begging for oppression? What? Is he going to say I don’t deserve to say “nigga” next? Because my great-greats weren’t the first niggers in America? He doesn’t know anything! He doesn’t know I witnessed my Anambra state-born father be called a nigger to his face when I was seven. I saw his face, he was angered, he was triggered. He knew about that word. He knew the white man standing in his face hated him. He felt the white man standing in front of him thought less of his humanity. I’d really like for Malik to say to my father, “chill fam, your ancestors weren’t even slaves”. Oh, the ignorance.
“Actually Malik, My grandfather, Vincent Ahizechukwu Chiagozie Obiagu came to the states in 1966 to attend Morehouse College. According to the white crowd that was spewing verbal abuse at him for stepping into a ‘white only’ diner, he had better get his nigger ass out of there before he got his face beat in”. I take a deep breath. “He stayed in the states until 1968. He then returned to Nigeria in the midst of the Biafran War. Google it.”
“Oh… uh, Victoria”. Look at your stupid face, Malik.
“Well, Malik. I enjoyed our verbal sparring, I guess. However, I need to get on with my day. God bless.”
I’m exhausted.
