I remember when I was 8 years old and had just moved to a brand new country. I was a shy kid, for the most part while growing up, and moving continents did not help at all with that situation. When I arrived at JFK with my mom on a very cold day, I then knew my life would change forever. I was excited for the new experience in America that had so clearly presented itself. My dad received us with a warm smile and I remember him uttering two very important words that would resonate with me for the rest of my stay in New York City: “Welcome home.”

I was born in Nairobi, Kenya. We then moved to Nanyuki since my step dad had just gotten a promotion and had to move to an office in a different part of the country. I went to a private British school there; where most students were white. I never really felt alienated or at all bothered by the fact that most of my classmates were of a different color. I don’t think children pay that much attention to these issues. My best friend in the school was however not white. He was Indian. British Indian. And we never even once talked about the appearance of our skin. Living in Kenya was easy. The United States was something else.

When I started at St. Patricks in New York, I immediately noticed that I was one of the few students of color in the entire school. The only student of color in my class. I started getting nervous and anxious more frequently than an 8-year-old child should ever feel. It wasn’t because I felt like my life was in any sort of danger or anything, but because I wanted so badly to be like all the other kids in my class. I wanted the straight blonde hair, the blue eyes, and the white skin. I hated my race! I was a child going through self-hate even without fully understanding the concept or meaning of it.

I remember having a conversation with my dad a few months later about wanting to transfer schools. I didn’t really like that it was a catholic school either. I wasn’t at all keen on wearing the green ugly uniform or having nuns as teachers. I wanted to go to a uniform free school. Like the kids I saw on TV back in Nairobi. American schools were pretty much just like the Kenyan schools I had gone to at this point.

It wasn’t until I transferred to St. Joseph Hill that I started appreciating diversity. There were more students in the class who looked just like me, which might seem like a trivial thing to attach to self-worth, but I assure you, it’s more important than most people give it credit for.

Six years passed and I moved back to Kenya. Not due to the anxiety but because I missed my family. My mom, my siblings, my cousins, my grandma were all here. Living away from the people who matter most to you at such a young age was a struggle. Life back here in Kenya was relatively easier. The school I went to had more black kids and it didn’t hurt that they were all smitten by my foreign accent. I went from a position of always feeling like I was second best to being an entitled little god. My issues with my skin color however never stopped. Even back here in Kenya, I noticed the privileges that white people were afforded that others who looked like me would never get.

I can say that I made peace with my natural features when I was a senior in University. I was 21 years old when I started feeling a glimmer of pride about being black. For the first time in my life, I had no desire to abandon my race anymore. In relation, I started growing out my hair. It was not a ‘fashion statement’ at all, as most people who know me stated. It was more about accepting the physical features that make me a black person. I took pride in it. I got defensive when people suggested I shave it. And generally got angry when people dissed its texture.

I am black! It took me almost all my life to come to terms with this fact. To embrace and love it. But finally, I am here. And I am proud!

levisryan

Writing since March 2017 · 1 story contributed