“You don’t look like you’re from here though.” I sighed as the words slipped so carelessly from their lips, so oblivious to the way I’d carry that burden with me wherever I go. The phrase echoed through my mind like a fly that I couldn’t quite catch, always hovering in my space without my knowledge. Without my permission. I never quite understood why it was so easy for people to tell I wasn’t South African. My passport says I was born there, my accent is a mixture of all the different cultures in the country, my mannerisms reflect what they were supposed to. Why was it so easy for me to look different?
Whenever September approached me, I tried to run away. That month was mocking, it was a tune in my ear that had an Ethiopian undertone. Heritage Day was supposed to be a day of sharing culture, music, food and wearing traditional clothing. South Africa is the rainbow nation after all. Yet, white wasn’t a colour in the rainbow, but I wore it every year for the occasion. I walked through the school gates in embarrassment, shrinking under the curious gazes of my friends who wore similar clothing. I was defeated, the façade I thought I was hiding behind began to crumble. Little did I know I wasn’t hiding behind anything; I was only revealing what everyone was thinking. I confirmed my greatest nightmare; I was different. If it wasn’t for the clothing that covered the skin, which I thought was the same as everyone else’s, it was the length of my name, the dark circles around my eyes, all the things I used to identify another Ethiopian person. To identify myself. Throughout my childhood I would witness people dancing to Amapiano at school functions, switch from English to another language mid-sentence, furrow their eyebrows when I told them I didn’t understand. Eventually, I got an escape when my parents applied to Bodwell. And the month before I was packing my bag, I went to a “gas station” (but South Africans call a garage) and the cashier asked me something in Sepedi, to which I turned to my friend in confusion. “This one must learn Sepedi quick,” is what he told my friend in English, but this time I laughed it off. I knew what was coming, or rather where I was going.
Enrolling in Bodwell was supposed to be my clean slate, my fresh start. An international school filled with so many cultures surely would be a way for me to perfectly blend in, no matter how much that contradicts the whole “strength in diversity” motto. I didn’t want to find someone from Ethiopia, and especially not a South African. I wanted to learn about different cultures, and when people ask me where I’m from I wanted to say South Africa and go back to their culture. Never mind my complicated roots, I wished to immerse myself in something I struggled to express growing up. When people spoke different languages here, curiosity and admiration poured through me rather than the stress I experienced in SA. Although, the envy never went away. Even as a little girl, I felt embarrassed to admit to others that my home language was English when they could speak up to three languages. When they asked me to say something in “Ethiopian”, I’d laugh it off and change the topic. However, now people would assume only English is spoken in my home, and I felt apart of my identity that I tried to hide shrink without me knowing, but that was what I wanted… right? As I navigated the overwhelming diversity that was Bodwell’s corridors, I soon figured out that my cultural identity would never be invisible no matter how hard I tried. For the one time my classmate remarked, “but you don’t sound South African,” was when I knew it was starting again. All the effort I put in slipped through my fingers, falling right in between the two cultures I didn’t need to learn about.
Coming to terms with my cultural identity has been a work in progress, but I know it’s something I should embrace rather than erase. Even if the question, “where are you really from?” still lingers, I am trying to take it with a pinch of salt. My avoidance of my identity ends now, as I attempt to label my diverse background as a strength rather than a black sheep of a personality trait. Instead of a weakness, my background could become my biggest strength. All I need to do now is allow it to be the same way everyone else has.