Many Americans have shallow perceptions of ethnicities.

I won’t argue that white ethnic identities like Italian, Irish, etc. are not stereotyped in our society. However, in regards to black ethnic identities, most of these stereotypes are negative. Many African cultures are belittled and seen as poor and primitive. Never does society take into account the complexities of race and ethnicity when referring to black ethnics. Most times, people don’t even bother differentiating ethnicities of different African countries from one another. And blacks who are Caribbean or cannot trace back their ancestry and identify themselves as “just black” are forcibly labeled as African-American. This just shows that in the eyes of society, blacks are just black. Frequently, we are not seen as special like white ethnics. Instead, our history and culture are deemed not worth knowing about.

Personally, I have never witnessed Haitian culture being outwardly celebrated. In grade school, several classmates could not find Haiti on a map or did not know that Haiti even exists. We never learned about the Haitian Revolution or the effects of colonization on countries like Haiti. Instead, teachers mentioned Haiti when talking about Voodoo, and curious kids would ask me if I practiced it. And now, when many people think of Haiti, they ask me if Wyclef Jean is still Haiti’s president and they merely think of the donations they made to earthquake victims without following up on the country’s well-being.

I soon began to hide visible aspects of my Haitian identity.

Not because I was ashamed of them, but because I couldn’t stand being asked questions all the time or having to witness people’s shock when expressing the morals I was taught to uphold and the food I ate. As a kid, I would turn down my mother’s offers to pack leftovers for lunch in fear of what people would say about the food I ate everyday at home. I remember the one time I brought Joumou soup to school for lunch; many found the smell disgusting and thought it looked gross. I was extremely embarrassed and hurt – my food, my culture was pinned as out-of-place and unwanted. I resorted to bringing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday.

I also remember when kids began pointing out my parents’ Haitian accent. Up until then, I had not recognized that my parents sounded different from everyone else. To me, their voices are the sound of home. Yet, to others, their voices are a sign that they are not “real” Americans.

When I grew up and told people that my father was a doctor, they questioned my father’s credentials.

I found this incredibly offensive. Rarely do people question the validity of the credentials of white ethnics from well-off countries. However, when black ethnics arrive to America, not only must they combat the negative stereotypes of black men and women but also the stereotypes of immigrants.

It must have been hard for people to understand that my father, a black foreigner from a poor country, could be included in the professional world or even amount to anything. People would do the same to my mother, who is a nurse. They would also say my mother’s accent was funny and would constantly ask where she was from. And of course, my parents always encountered this at work first-hand which made them feel less included in this society.

Despite these occurrences, white Americans believed me to be Americanized.

Even though there were times where it was apparent my culture was different from theirs, they considered me to be (African-)American. I dress like an American, I speak like an American, I mostly listen to American music and I watch American movies. I am not bilingual, nor am I poor or lowly like other Haitians according to mainstream media.

And yet, I must ask myself: “How can I be American if America refuses to recognize or respect my own parents and the culture we share?”

I will not stand here and allow myself to be assimilated into a culture that will not accept all of me but instead only the parts it deems desirable.

One could assume that after experiencing all of this, I could seek refuge with my own people, my fellow Haitians. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Every time I attend family reunions I am surrounded by a language that sounds so familiar, and yet I cannot understand it. Jokes pass over my head, and I always need to explain why I do not speak Creole. I do not sound like everyone else or know all the Haitian customs. In the eyes of my relatives, I am not a real Haitian. I am Americanized.

For a while, I thought my troubles would have been solved if I were able to speak Creole or French.

I was convinced that this would bring my identity crisis to an end; my relatives would see me as a true Haitian and I would solidify my identity as a Haitian-American instead of feeling like an out-of-place American. But I realized this would not solve the real issue at hand.

Yes, my parents chose not to teach me their native language, and I resented them for it for a very long time. In fact, I’m still upset that I missed out on having such an important element to my cultural identity. Every time I used to question why my parents did not teach me Creole they would say, “Because you are an American and you should speak English.” This response made me angry at them. I would argue that the two were not mutually exclusive, that I could be bilingual and still be an American. But now I understand what they really meant and why they raised me the way they did. They were just afraid of how I would be treated when my ethnicity was visible to all of America.

I hate to admit it, but they were trying to assimilate me for my own good.

They did not emphasize Haitian language and customs too much in my upbringing because they wanted me to be identified as American. They made sure I spoke English as perfectly as possible and that I did very well in school so that I would not give anyone any excuse to discriminate against me. By not having an accent, speaking English well, and by seeming “Americanized” I would not experience the same discrimination my parents faced, and still face, as black foreigners.

My parents did what America wanted them to do – they made an American out of me.

But then again, the term American is so vague. Does it allow for differences in ethnicity and race or does it simply refer to the Anglo-Conformist view of what is American? Personally, I think the meaning fluctuates. Therefore, I feel stuck in this strange in-between, as I am sure many first- and possibly second-generation blacks feel they are in. We see our parents face discrimination for not only being black but also for being foreigners. And, in turn, our parents and society might attempt to assimilate us, and our cultural identities will be lost in the process. We are left questioning who we are and where we fit in.

But perhaps we are looking at it from the wrong perspective. Maybe there just isn’t a place to fit in. Labels place limits on who can belong to a group, and the world is too ethnically and racially diverse to abide by this limited structure of just few labels.

Yes, I am American, but I am still Haitian despite what some people might say and how I might be treated at times. But I refuse to assimilate. I refuse to give up who I am.

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