The Inauguration

I know...I know
Some places we can go, some places we can go
I know...I know!
Some places we can go, some places we can go
Do you wanna ride... with me?
~ Jay-Z, "Do You Wanna Ride"

Dear Black America,

As I walk the streets of London daily, passing Picadilly Circus, strolling in Trafalgar Square, and bustling through Brixton, I can only think of you, all of you. Often I find myself explaining where I come from, who my tribe is, the forgotten tribe of America. My presence here has redefined me. Furaha in America, is African-American, not American. Here, when I open my mouth to speak, everyone hears an American, though at home it is African-American. So as I embark upon my adult life and experience being young, black, and in London, I constantly reflect on how wide that hyphen is between the African and the American for us as a people, as wide as the Atlantic Ocean, but London is bridging the gap.

America's borders are brimming with immigrants. Everyone who lives there once was an immigrant, even the Native-Americans who crossed the Bering Strait. To ask immigrants why they came to America, answers would reflect thoughts of freedom of religion for those on the Mayflower, means to support family members for those who made it North of the Border from Mexico, or to simply attend school for the many Nigerians now in Texas. Yet, if you think outside of the word immigrant and were to ask all Americans, there would be some whose answer would lack a theme of a better opportunities. For the millions of African-Americans who have lived in America for centuries, they did not come by choice, but force. When they arrived, education was denied. When they came, the labor they found gave no wages. When the traveled here there was no road or planes, and the Mayflower for them was not flowery. Still, African-Americans are in America, have built America, but are thought to believe they are not Americans.

My entire life I have defined myself as African-American, a type of American. Most Italians, Irish, and Polish consider themselves American too, but their type was not always necessary. They are white. They belong in America. When I traveled to Tanzania last year, people would ask me where I came from. Saying America or Marekani seemed false because I had black skin, black hair, black features, I could not be from America. The only way to explain to them that yes I am American is to say that my mother, my grandmother, and before were all born in America. Then the Tanzanians would consider me American. So, how many generations of black people will have to live in America, to be Americans? We are consistently set apart, segregated by terms, but not by law. And I learned that I was American, once I left America.

Since our immigration, how many of us see past 125th Street or beyond our small town in the South? While America's land stretches from one ocean to another and its mass appears double stacked like a Big Mac between Canada and Mexico, few of us travel to even see the mountains, prairies or oceans white with foam. And even if you did, there will ring a consistent reminder that you are still just black. Driving from Philadelphia to New York would bring New Jersey state troopers profiling. Walking down the wrong road at night in Mississippi could cause rednecks to rustle. And since we see so little of America, we see an even smaller proportion of the rest of the world, which extends much greater than this beloved land. As long as these borders envelop us, we remain just black, or for them, we remain just niggers.

After living in Tanzania for three months and living in London for seven months I have developed a sense of ownership for America. I love America, the place, not the institution. America remains the place of our people, the lost tribe of Africans who made something out of nothing when they arrived. America caught up with the Queen and created a strong empire with a fraction of the history on the backs of blacks who worked without wages for most of that short history. That stretch of time with profit margins longer than Appalachian trail made America the strong force it is today. My people, our people, built this country, but we can never see this effort as long as we are trapped inside blinded by America's borders.

My time here in London has carved a new identity for me and offered me a new mirror to view myself. Before I was made to believe that I was a color or a descent, but now I realize how American I am and how much all of us are entitled to that massive piece of land. This entitlement has given me a spirit of confidence that keeps me focused on you, Black America, for we are the forgotten tribe. While we all cannot free ourselves from the bounds of the United, but disunited States, take this trip with me. When I left America, my community came with me, all of you did. So until we can all see beyond the borders and limitations that were set for us when our ancestors rocked on ships and landed in America, use the internet and me as your travel guide.

I miss you. I love you.

Furaha.