BlackBoard Winter 2021: Diaspora Issue

WINTER 2020

African Privilege in Racist America A Ugandan student’s first encounter with American racialization

Detangling the Roots of Braids in African Cultures

The cultural significance and history of braiding across the Diaspora An Intimate Conversation With Blackness Confronting the dilemma and myth of Black American “hegemony” with Dr. Alexander Weheliye.

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Table of Contents 9

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By Onyeka Chigbogwu

Black Skincare

By Rebecca Covington

Poetry

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The Role of Reggae in the African Diaspora

Photoshoot

The Evolution of Braids in African American culture

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Afro-Latinx identity

By Shira Nash

By Jacquy Germain

By Cameron Simpson

African Privilege in Racist America

By Bengi Rwabuhemba

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Personal Essay: An Intimate Conversation Racialization in Ecuador with Blackness

By Karina Karbo-Wright

32 Album Review: Pyschodrama by Dave

By Ari Crockett

By Adriana Martinez-Smiley

34 BlackBoard Asks: What Does Your Name Mean?

By Imani Sumbi

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Afro-Latinx students embrace identities, find community

by Rebecca Covington

Although “Afro-Latinx*” is not in the Mer-

riam-Webster dictionary, the term holds importance for the millions of people who identify with it.

Afro-Latinx Weinberg freshman Mychael Torres says that the term revolutionized how she saw herself in her community.

“A lot of times, no one knows that I am Cuban because I present Black,” Torres says.

“I grew up in a majority Hispanic community but was never a part of it. Once I became aware of my identity, I started viewing my surroundings in a different, more familial way.”

The term Afro-Latinxo refers to a person from or of Latin America or Carribean descent who is also of African descent. It originated in the 1920s and 30s, when the concept of Pan-Africanism allowed those of African descent across the globe to identify with Africa and feel prideful of their Blackness in a world that discriminated against it.

In the 1990s and 2000s, the term Afro-Latino grew in use in the United States. In recent years, the Afro-Latinx population has received increased recognition, as the Pew Research Center conducted its first survey that focused on Afro-Latinx people in 2016, and Mexico gave the option to identify as Afro-Latino or Black for the first time on its mid-decade survey in 2015.

Torres says she recognized her identity as she began to spend more time with her father’s Latinx family.

“They made food I wasn’t familiar with and spoke differently than my Black family,” Torres says. “That’s when I started understanding the difference and importance of my Hispanic heritage.”

According to Pew Research Center’s survey, 24% of the Latinx population in the United States identifies as Afro-Latinx, Afro-Carribean or of African Descent. Roughly 130 million

“I think my parents exposing me to race conversations and encouraging me to embrace being Afro-Latina made me more confident.”

-Vivica Lewis

people of African descent live in Latin America today.

Weinberg freshman Vivica Lewis identifies as both Afro-Latina and as mixed race.

Lewis says she felt trapped between two worlds when she was younger.

“Some of my earliest memories are of being at stores with my parents and store associates asking if they were my parents or if I knew them,” she says.

Lewis says there was an expectation for her to be knowledgeable in both Black culture and Latinx culture in her majority white classes at school. Yet talking about her racial and ethnic identity with her family helped her gain appreciation of her identity.

“I think my parents exposing me to race conversations and encouraging me to embrace being Afro-Latina made me more confident,” she says.

The terms we use to identify ourselves are just one layer of who we are. Afro-Latinx means that we don’t have to choose one identity or one history to live in.

*But Merriam-Webster does have a definition for Latinx: of, relating to, or marked by Latin American heritage —used as a gender-neutral alternative to Latino or Latina

Poetry and photos by Onyeka Chigbogwu

AP Reading List Sometimes I read books.

All the pages are white And all the authors are white And all the characters are white.

And America sits back, comfortably Because the pages look like them And the authors look like them And the characters look like them.

When I was little the books had pictures And color.

And though few did, I knew which characters looked like me.

When I was a little older, the books didn’t have pictures And had less color.

Still, I knew which characters looked like me.

Because they had the same identity: slave.

When I grew up, the books still didn’t have pictures And almost no color.

And without doubt, I knew which characters looked like me.

Because they called them the same name: “nigger.”

And I learned this was my story.

No one with Bronze skin Ever achieved or conquered Or learned to write their own narrative.

Sometimes I read books.

All the pages are white And all the authors are white And all the characters are white.

And I have realized America doesn’t want slaves and niggers to know how to write.

Photo Frames I wish I had a wall that spoke for me.

White walls talk the most.

My mother tells me stories.

Stories of my great uncle’s head, How it rolled all the way home from war.

She tells stories herself, Because her wall does not.

White walls speak for themselves.

The people Who the walls look like Paint them so they so the walls do not— And because they can— And sit quietly While their wall speaks for them.

Stories of Love War Hate Peace Stories written in light, Held in a wooden frame.

My mother tells me stories Because her wall does not speak for her.

Stories of Turtle How he got his shell Stories her mother told her.

People tell me, “you look like my mother” Well, she looks like her mother I wonder who else I look like My wall does not tell me.

I wish I had a wall that spoke for me.

Then I would know my story.

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THE SECRET TO OUR SKIN

by Shira Nash

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veryone has heard the saying “Black don’t crack,” but behind this light-hearted phrase is a much longer history of Black skincare.

Although the beauty of Black people throughout the Diaspora is frequently emulated throughout society, the profound nature of Blackness is uniquely ours.

From Kenya to Haiti, from Brazil to Swaziland—Black skin seemingly defies age, gravity and all adversity.

Our melanin is special; each pore imbued with intensity and glow.

So, what’s the secret? We have our ancestors to thank: they discovered natural ingredients and formulas to help Black skin uphold its beauty, both then and now. One can trace the origins of Black beauty products to the daily routines of Black kings and queens in the Motherland.

product has much humbler origins. Shea butter is produced in around 21 countries all over Western and Central Africa, an area now dubbed as the “African Shea Belt.” This butter is commonly extracted from the nuts of shea trees in Ghana.

Considered a “women’s gold,” it is known for smoothing, soothing and conditioning skin due to its high concentration of Vitamin A, E and F, as well as fatty acids. Not only does it enhance our natural complexion, it has been a source of economic stability for those who produce it. According to Shea Butter Store, roughly 16 million women dedicate their lives to collecting shea fruits and processing the kernel into butter, and its production has been noted as a source of female empowerment in their villages.

“We have our ancestors to thank: They discovered natural ingredients and formulas to help Black skin uphold its beauty, both then and now.”

When walking through the aisles of Sephora or Ulta, a customer might stumble upon the newest moisturizer with one remarkable ingredient— shea butter. Today, it’s a sophisticated commodity that dominates the skincare market, but this

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Shea butter is not the only African skin care product that has swept the United States.

African Black soap has also become popular.

The history of African Black soap goes back to the Yorùbá people of Nigeria, called ‘ose dúdú’ by the Yorùbá. This skin-transforming soap is typically comprised of the ashes of dried plantain

skin, water, cocoa pod powder, palm oil and shea tree bark. From evening out skin tones and discoloration to soothing rashes and psoriasis, the soap is notorious for its medicinal and cosmetic benefits.

Nathalie Boadi, a first-year Weinberg student, incorporates Ghanian African Black soap in her “simple yet effective” daily routine. When describing her routine she says, “First, I wash my face with water, then I use Ghanaian Black Soap to wash my face. Lastly, I do a final rinse to ensure that all of the soap is off of my face.”

Proud of her African roots, Boadi says that when her family travels to Ghana, she brings back shea butter and African Black soap, “because they are all-natural products made in the country, meaning they do not include any synthetic oils or preservatives that may harm the skin.”

Black skin is truly oneof-a kind, and the products we put on our skin are vital to maintaining its radiance.

For Boadi and many other Black women, natural and organic ingredients are incredibly important.

She says that these ingredients are important for the prosperity of one’s skin, “especially in a time where many skincare products sold in stores are processed.”

Black skin is truly one-of-a kind, and the ingredients and products we put on our skin are vital to maintaining its radiance. Black esthetician Bettye O. Day, is an expert at treating and nourishing Black skin. Bettye O. Day Spa in Hyde Park is dedicated to providing skin services that are “not just for the wealthy but for everybody.”

After receiving her first facial and seeing a drastic

Above: Natural shea butter (Daveynin/Flickr) Bottom: Wala women work bowls o shea butter in Ghana. (Dominic A. Kyilleh/Wikimedia Commons

difference in her skin, she “thought that every person of color should enjoy the experience of a facial.” Each salon service is individually tailored to the needs and concerns of the client. In regards to Black skin, she says that shea butter “is good for the body, you know, to hold in the moisture.”

“The skin is worn for the rest of your life, so you really want to take care of it,” says Day. From the Motherland to the United States, Shea butter and African Black Soap products have become primary ways to cherish one’s skin. And who knows, maybe these are part of the reason that Black don’t crack.

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Reggae as a Crucial Element of the African Musical Diaspora

by Cameron Simpson

When people think of reggae music, dreadlocks and

marijuana often come to mind. While these associations aren’t completely wrong, it would be disrespectful not to consider the legendary genre in its entirety. With its signature accentuated offbeat and homophonic texture, reggae has made countless influences in mainstream culture.

Reggae music originated in Jamaica in the late 1960s and can be described as the lovechild of ska and rocksteady, two musical genres that also originated in Jamaica. According to Revolt TV, reggae is a relaxed style of music that was initially meant to express the pain, emotion, hope and struggles experienced in everyday life. However, it evokes a plethora of different emotions in its listeners. Sierra Thoulouis, a Weinberg first-year, says reggae allows her to reminisce.

Flickr

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Wikimedia Commons/Eddie Mallin

“Without dubbing and toasting, we would not know rapping, rhyming or spitting.”

“When I think of reggae music, I think of positivity, peace and home because my family is from the Caribbean,” Thoulouis says. “[It] makes me think of light and love and puts me in a happy place.”

Reggae music typically incorporates Jamaican patois, which can be likened to a passionate moaning and groaning. The heavy incorporation of historical African instruments such as Nyabinghi style drums, xylophones and scrapers give reggae its unique aesthetic. Initially, reggae was popular solely in Jamaica, but by the 1970s it gained international attention.

In 1977, Bob Marley released his album “Exodus,” which garnered more global popularity for the genre. Marley is credited with creating a widespread association between reggae and marijuana due to his easy-going demeanor and ritual use of cannabis. He is remembered for singing about topics many could resonate with, like living in one’s truth and standing up for what one believes in. Marley embodied Black solidarity, promoting liberation in all of his records. For these reasons, Marley is known as the King of Reggae and is typically the premier artist associated with the genre.

“Reggae music typically incorporates Jamaican patois, which can be likened to a passionate moaning and groaning. The heavy incorporation of historical African instruments such as Nyabinghi style drums, xylophones 11 and scrapers give reggae its unique aesthetic.”

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Detangling the Roots of Braids in African Cultures

by Jacquelyne Germain

“Braiding means comfort... It means time spent with another person and exchanging values and knowledge. It means friendship.”

Graphic by Camille Williams

-Fatou Diao, owner of Binta’s African Hair Braiding

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rom ancient African societies to modern-day braiding salons, braids transcend time, region, texture and the status quo. Though the meanings of braids have been ridiculed throughout history, Black people around the world still wear braids to proclaim pride in their African heritage.

22 Graphic

by Camille Williams

Origins of Braids in African Cultures 3000 BC-1400s)

Braiding in Africa originated in ancient Egypt around 3000 BC, according to the book “African Hairstyles: Styles of Today and Yesterday” by Esi Sagay, a Nigerian researcher who studies hair design. An Egyptian’s hairstyle marked his or her social class, and braided wigs denoted elite status among men and women. These wigs, made from materials like human hair, wool and palm leaves, were braided and hardened with beeswax to protect the hairstyle. Distinct

braided styles developed in Africa to indicate age, marital status, kinship, wealth, religion, occupation and ethnicity. In West Africa, Yoruba men and women believed spirits passed through the hair into the soul, so they wore braids as a form of communication with their gods. Across early African cultures, braiding was always done by trusted friends, family and other community members. They used wooden, hand-carved combs to style the hair and ornamented braids with beads, shells and cloth.

The Yorck Project via Wikimedia A painting from a grave in Thebes, Egypt shows a woman with braids.

Braids in the Era of Slavery (1500s-1800s)

Courtesy of Smithsonian A house slave in the U.S.

The Braiding Revolution (1900s-1970s)

Slavery images.org A sketch by missionary of a Peule women from Senegambia in the 1850s.

The transatlantic slave trade tore Africans from the traditions that shaped hair care, dispossessing millions of their cultural identity and humanity. Plantations did not allow Africans the time to fix their hair, according to Black hair historians Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps, authors of “Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America.”

Labor assignments dictated an enslaved person’s hairstyle. Enslaved men and women working in plantation houses, who were favored for their lighter skin and looser curls, often wore tight braids or plaits to maintain a polished appearance as required by their masters. Women working in the fields abandoned braids and wore scarves or kerchiefs as a form of protection from the sun, while men shaved their hair, wore hats or cut their hair short with animal shears. White people referred to Black hair as “wool,” equating enslaved people to animals.

These demoralizing labels were used as a mechanism to uphold slavery and Black inferiority. Without suitable products to style their hair, enslaved people used bacon grease, goose fat, butter or axle grease on their natural curls to achieve sleeker, straight styles. Slaves also coined the term “cornrows,” as the hairstyle resembled cornfields.

According to sociology researcher Emma Dabiri and author of “Don’t Touch My Hair,” slaves also concealed maps in braided hairstyles that were unintelligible to slaveholders.

From the start of the 20th century until the dawn of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1950s, Black men and women in the U.S. emulated European beauty standards. This led to the development of chemical-lye relaxers and hair care products like Madam C.J. Walker’s “Hair Grower,” which allowed Black women to achieve straight hair.

The Black Power Movement in the 1960s to the 1970s, however, emphasized the beauty of natural hair and rejected Eurocentric features as the pinnacle of beauty. Beyond the illustrious big afros, braided styles were also popular, particularly cornrows. In 1963, actress Cicely Tyson was the first Black woman to star in a television drama where she showcased her intricately styled cornrows, thus bringing natural hair into the mainstream media on the CBS show “East Side, West Side.” Esmeralda Kale, the curator of the Herskovits Library of African Studies at Northwestern University, says that “it was that connection to power, rights and freedom” that tied Cicely Tyson, 1973 via TheVinylBridge.com 23 the value of braids to Black liberation in Africa.

The Politics of Braids (1980s-1990s) However, white society still did not tolerate natural hairstyles. In 1981, Renee Rogers, a flight attendant for American Airlines, was fired for wearing cornrows, leading her to file a discrimination lawsuit, which she lost. Throughout the ‘80s, Black women working in service and professional settings were reprimanded or fired for wearing braided styles, particularly cornrows.

Yet the war on braids in the ‘80s did not stifle the popularity of the hairstyle into the next decade. The ‘90s were marked by box braids, a style that mirrored the eembuvi braids of the Mbalantu women in Namibia. From short bobs to waist-long styles and microbraids to dookie braids, box braids appealed to Black people of all ages, classes and regions. The appeal also came from their practicality, as they could be worn for months with little maintenance and withstand many conditions. Celebrities like Brandy, Janet Jackson, Jada Pinkett Smith, Snoop Dogg, Larenz Tate and Bow Wow showcased their braids on red carpets, music videos and films.

Wikimedia

This put African braiders who could recreate styles from the continent in high demand. Therefore, braiding shops like Binta’s African Hair Braiding in Chicago flourished 20 years ago. Owner Fatou Diao says that braiding hair, a process that can take her five to 12 hours, breeds a sense of intimacy.

Brandy at the 10th Anuual Essence Awards in 1997. “[Braiding] means comfort,” Diao says. “It means time spent with another per-

son and exchanging values and knowledge. It means friendship.”

“Especially when I go to a PWI, it’s very important for me to find little things that will connect me back to my Blackness,” #TeamNatural (early 2000s to today)

#TeamNatural (2000s-now)

-Camryn Smith

In the early 2000s, braids were at the forefront of the #teamnatural movement, as braids were an essential protective style for women transitioning from relaxed hair to natural hair. Celebrities like Alicia Keys, Beyonce and Serena and Venus Williams flaunted long cornrows and box braids in the mainstream media.

Just like the ancient Egyptians, braids today allow Black people to express unique parts of themselves. Zion Sylvester, a second-year student in SESP, says that wearing braids helped them grow in tune with their androgynous identity.

“I just wanted to express myself—the way I felt. I just wanted to be more confident, so I just wore braids,” Sylvester says.

Camryn Smith, a first-year SESP student, says that her braids allow her to connect with her Jamaican heritage. She says that in Jamaica, braids are an essential not only from a cultural standpoint, but as a protective style to withstand the tropical climate

Wikimedia Beyoncé performing at the Formation Wold Tour in 2016

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“Especially when I go to a PWI [predominantly white institution], it’s very important for me to find little things that will connect me back to my Blackness,” Smith says.

The art of braiding embodies resilience and innovation. In a world that has belittled and discriminated against Black hair, braids have triumphed passing from generation to generation along with new styles, meanings and stories.

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An Intimate Conversation with Blackness Confronting the idea of Black American hegemony with Dr. Alexander Weheliye

By Karina-Karbo Wright

I don’t think I knew what a diaspora was

static and convoluted until I was forced to confront it. The complexities of my identities allowed for my change of heart, yet the constant struggle with the complicated definitions of Blackness across the diaspora remained.

Like me, Professor Weheliye’s racialization was complicated. “I have gotten different viewpoints on Blackness, and also the diaspora,” he says.

before a couple of years ago.

The truth is, I was wrong about so many things when I was first socialized to the meaning of Blackness. Blackness to me has always been made up of interchangeable parts that are self-defined and redefined everyday. Blackness feels like the only part of me I can confidently root myself in. I will always have brown skin, curly dark brown hair and We are the Black people who have been forged by the dark brown eyes. I will always fires of freedom that grew in the bellies of the ships and have my family, my rhythm died in the bottom of the seas. and my Blackness. Yet, I We are Black people, who craft and create the popular didn’t understand that these aren’t the things that make up culture that is funneled throughout our Diaspora.

Blackness. I was so protective of the culture that I was just He grew up in Somalia, spent some time starting to barely understand. Worse, I tried to deny in the United States and attended high school and other people the ability to root themselves in our college in Germany.

Weheliye’s interaction with the culture without roots. expansiveness of the diaspora, while navigating these I wanted to know the answer as to why I spaces as a Black queer man, is closely tied to the and many others supported the dominance of Black American culture in the racialization of Black people in intimacies of the diaspora.

Apart from Black diasporic formation through the Western World. So, I reached out to Dr. Weheliye. the atlantic slave trade, Black people now also unite Dr. Alexander Weheliye teaches “The Black across that pain to sprout beauty in the forms of Diaspora and Transnationality” at Northwestern; He specializes in Black culture in the U.S., the Caribbean cultures, beliefs, and aesthetics. In society, Black Americans are the dominant influencers of culture. and Europe, as well as Blackness and technology Through Black music, Black creators and Black and Black music. When I met with him, I struggled to spaces like those within professional sports, there is explain why I was writing this article. I could barely the notion that Blackness is one thing. It is portrayed formulate words to depict the weight and pain my as one collection of ideas and it looks like 50 Cent, experience carried.

Madea and LeBron.

“This is, however, an extremely white, “Go on, let it out,” Weheliye says.

Western world view of Blackness,” Weheliye says.

Performative masculinity is one element of this Like many others, my racialization was painful world view. Homophobia, mysogyny, cis-ness, and and abrupt. My relationship with Blackness remained violence are central to this mascultinty, and the white 28

people who created it map these notions onto Black people across the globe. This stereotypical patriarchal understanding of Blackness not only sets limitations on Black expression but entirely erases Black people in the Caribbean, Africa, Asia, Europe around the world. American Blackness has been so heavily commodified into popular culture that seemingly no other Black cultures have space to exist. I ask Professor Weheliye about his experience with the erasure of international Black culture.

“In the mid-1980s when I was living in

“Some Black folks who migrate to the U.S. want to distance themselves from Black Americans, and I think ‘but you live in the same projects?’ What is going on here?...How does this make sense? And I think sometimes that kind of rift between Black Americans and other diaspora populations comes from that,” Weheliye laughed.

And yet, Weheliye is absolutely correct. We are the Black people who have been forged by the fires of freedom that grew in the bellies of the ships and died in the bottom of the seas. We are Black people, who craft and “There’s not a lot of space for Black populations in majority create the popular culture that is funneled throughout white nations to express and create autonomous political our Diaspora. All Black and cultural spaces outside of the United States.” people and cultures matter.

-Dr. Weheliye When the world is trying to erase us, it is on the Black community to not divide Germany, it was the beginning of the Afro-German ourselves further. So thus, we have to be like Du movement. One of the things initially was naming, Bois, and admit that the protectiveness and discord because there was no self-delegating name. This of whiteness was allowed to dissect our Diaspora into happened because Audre Lorde visited Germany and nations. I will follow Du Bois and say that I allowed taught a course about Black feminism… and one of that discord to dissect me. While Black Americans, the things she said was ‘you guys should come up Black Carribbeans, Afro-Latinx peoples, Black with your own name,’” Weheliye says.

Europeans, Africans and Afro-Asian people all have In response, I asked him how he believes unique and beautiful cultures, there is unity among Black American culture became the dominant those differences. There is unity within the differences narrative in the Western World, but also within and of the Black Diaspora. between Black communities.

“I think that because there is such a long history of Black Americans in the United States sort of living as kind of citizens and non-citizens...” he says.

“In popular culture where in its mildest version, a push back against African American hegemony, and I really don’t agree with that… I think that African American culture is present in a lot of places in a way that other Black cultures are not, but that doesn’t make it in any way hegemonic… But I also think that at the end of the day, so many different Diaspora populations have looked to African American culture and politics because of the long history of Black folks at the margins of modernity, but then… That is the way things tend to be centered here. Because there’s not a lot of space for Black populations in majority white nations to express and create autonomous political and cultural spaces outside of the United States.”

Weheliye prompts an important discussion between Black folks around the world. As Black cultures are being crafted, drafted, exchanged, and interchanged, how do they influence each other? And why do we distinguish between each other when there is such an intimate connection between our cultures?

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From One

DIASPORA

To Another

by Adriana Martinez-Smiley

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nitially, I wasn’t viewed as different. Ecuador is a country with as much ethnic diversity as the biodiversity the country touts. I had the privilege of living there for seven and a half months before I started my academic career at Northwestern, and it was life-changing. I lived with an indigenous host family that welcomed me as their own, I had a fulfilling job at a cultural radio station, and I found a community with other fellows in my program. As an Afro-Latina with an intermediate level of Spanish, I enjoyed some privileges because of my ability to “pass” as Ecuadorian. I wasn’t up-charged for items in the mercado, I was greeted by sweet abuelitas on the street, and I was invited to community events by locals. I was made to feel comfortable. But a few occasions reminded me of my Blackness.

In Ecuador, the Afro-Diaspora is confined to two different areas: Valle de Chota and Las Esmeraldas. Both are notorious for being “dangerous” Ecuadorian communities. I lived about an hour outside of la Valle del Chota, so it was common to see Afro-Ecuadorians come into town. Afro-Ecuadorians certainly experienced racism, but their existence was tolerated. They lived apart of the population, so while their oppression was systematic, it didn’t necessarily show itself in everyday matters.

Then, one event created a rift between populations. Tens of thousands of Venezuelans fled to Ecuador due to Venezuela’s economic crisis. More and more “outsiders” filled the streets and created growing discomfort among the locals. In Ibarra, a town about 40 minutes from me, a Venezuelan man stabbed his pregnant Ecuadorian wife to death in the middle of a park, causing an uproar. Police were castigated because they were present during the attack but didn’t stop it. Protests rose up throughout the country condemning violence against women and the machismo culture that fosters it. Angry citizens chased Venezuelans out of motels, burned their belongings and beat them.

Anyone that they couldn’t immediately identify as Ecuadorian didn’t belong. I was someone that they began to notice more. They didn’t look upon me so kindly. At first it showed through small slights. I endured long stares from paleteros. I offered greetings to the same abuelitas and received none back. These incidents made me feel uncomfortable, but I didn’t take it personally. Then tensions grew.

Once, I went to a grocery store to waste time while waiting for a friend. I didn’t plan on buying anything, so I walked out. Almost out the door, a towering body planted themself in front of me, looked me up and down and said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Without buying anything?” he asked.

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My mouth opens slightly. “I didn’t want to buy anything.”

“Let me see your bag,” and his eyes went towards my small multi-colored bunny backpack.

I unzipped it, showing him my wallet and set of keys.

“See!?” I exclaimed, and then stormed out. On my way out, I saw a group of folks that do look like me, idling, as if waiting for the clock to signal that they can go back home.

I noticed the policemen’s stares at the park now. I didn’t want to go there anymore.

Another time, I was going on a walk with my host family toward the mountains that lie nearby, and a Kichwa abuelita stopped in front of our path with her cows in tow. “Where are you all going?” she asked.

“We’re walking along the path,” my host uncle answered.

“What about her? Why is she here?” she asked, pursing her lips in my direction.

“She’s coming with us. She’s family,” he said. He continued walking, and my host siblings and I followed.

I could see from my peripheral that her eyes were following me, but I continued looking forward.

This turn of events made me sad, not so much for myself, but for the inescapable reality of the Venezuelans, whom they perceive me to be. I would always implicitly be an outsider, like the Venezuelans that risked their lives to escape poverty, like the Afro-Ecuadorians that are segregated from the rest of the country.

For a while afterward, I felt uncomfortable going outside. I didn’t want to walk into stores anymore. I didn’t sit right with my host family anymore. I was so aware of my racialization that I began to let it encroach on the sense of belonging I had developed. that I grew so comfortable with.

“I

would always ImplIcItly be an outsIder , lIke the

V enezuelans that rIsked theIr lIVes to escape poVerty , lIke the a fro -e cua dorIans that are segregated from the rest of the country .”

But this wasn’t the narrative that I wanted to take back home with me. I expressed my reservations to my host family.

“Adriana, you’re a part of our family. It doesn’t matter what others think,” said my host mom.

We began to go on family outings more frequently. She would show me off proudly in our hometown and introduce me as her daughter.

I realized that I didn’t have to feel Ecuadorian; I had to feel like myself again.

PSYCHODRAMA An Album Review

by Ari Crockett

Dave/Wikimedia

A light yet contemplative piano riff resonates

in my ears as I adjust my headphones in confusion. Do I have the right song or not? The piano continues to play its solemn tune, lifting me up and dragging me down with each note. At the last lingering note of the intro, Dave makes his entrance as he starts his flow and the beat kicks in with piano accompaniment.

obviously untrue, and Dave addresses it saying, “Tell us we used to be barbaric, we had actual queens.” Dave also reminds listeners that “Black is so much deeper than African American,” highlighting how the high visibility of Black America tends to overshadow or ignore the experiences of other parts of the diaspora.

There’s so much collective trauma that comes along with being Black, but when Dave states that “Black is all I know, there ain’t a thing I would change in it,” he shares the sentiment with most Black people that despite the tribulations inextri-

“Black is beautiful, Black is excellent / Black is pain, Black is joy, Black is evident.” He spoke of Blackness as a state of being and as a volatile experience. This was my first introduction to the 21-year-old British rapper, songwriter, pianist and “Black is beautiful, Black is excellent record producer David Black is pain, Black is joy, Black is Omoregie, better known as Dave or Santan Dave. evident.”

It was also my first intro-”Black,” Dave duction to his breakout hit “Black” and his first studio album PSYCHODRAMA. cably tied to Blackness, he still wouldn’t forsake being Black.

“Black” proves to be a macro look at the universal Black experience as Dave highlights the comDave uses common tropes within hip-hop and monalities experienced by Black people across rap to get his point across, as demonstrated by the diaspora. Blacks have been told throughout his usage of the therapy session and psycholohistory that the Africans from whom they degist in the first song of the album “Psycho.” In the scended were primitive and brutish. Because of context of “Psycho,” it initially felt like a cheap this, those of the diaspora were removed from gimmick that any rapper who wants to seem hard the original context of their heritage and made to or intimidating would use; I wasn’t sure if I was feel less than. This rendition of Black lineage is super excited for another rehashed thing that has 32

super excited for another rehashed thing that has been done before in far more interesting ways.

one with depression might do to escape their problems. “Psycho” is fitting as the introduction to PSYCHODRAMA and as a suicide prevention anthem.

“PSYCHODRAMA feels like an exploration of the inner mechanisms of Dave’s mind, intellectual and emotional.”

However, I empathized with his description of a youth filled with inequality, violence and difficulty. I kept listening. Following the switch up of the mood about halfway through the song, I was far more endeared.

What can I say? I have a weak spot for braggadocio.

The bounciness of the beat and the far happier flow made me bump along with it. If the song had ended like that, I would have been completely satisfied. But the song didn’t end that way, rather going from rebellious anger, to escapist arrogance, to sobering depression.

With the sound of the masterful piano playing, I came to the realization that all the posturing and bragging was a cover for the true message of “Psycho,” which implored anybody struggling with depression not to consider suicide, as it only moves the pain to friends and family in the wake of that death. The way Dave tackled the whole topic was clever, the song mirroring what someWikimedia

In addition, the final song “Drama” (see what he did there?) is an appropriate, emotional send off to conclude the album, serving as a message to his older brother currently serving life in prison. The motif of the therapy session introduced in track one, and carried through until track 11, is based off of his brother, Christopher’s, experiences. Dave describes the way he looked up to Christopher as a role model and even a father figure. With Christopher’s imprisonment, Dave lost “the only fucking person I idolized.” After this loss, Dave doubled down on pursuing his music career, stating boldly in the song “It’s world domination in music or it ain’t anything.”

And “domination in music” is exactly what Dave has achieved since his debut in the British rap scene in 2016 and subsequent EPs and hit singles. Truly an exemplar to the modern state of conscious rap, Dave’s knack for wordsmithing and deep introspection reminds me of J. Cole or Kendrick Lamar.

PSYCHODRAMA feels like an exploration of the inner mechanisms of Dave’s mind, intellectual and emotional, as told by Dave himself and guided by the reoccurring interjections of the psychologist character. A true dedication to his craft, driven by his own ambition and the love he has for his family, has pushed him to make his first masterwork. The unique perspective, extraordinary storytelling ability and masterful manipulation of words and wordplay, though hard for an American ear to grasp at times, is the reason for Dave’s current and still growing success.

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BlackBoardAsks:

Whatʼs the significance of your name?

by Imani Sumbi

All three of my names come from my father’s family, which is African

American on my grandmother’s side and Kenyan on my grandfather’s side. While my father and his brothers received Christian first names and Swahili middle names, I was given just the opposite: a Swahili first name, Imani (“faith”), after the seventh principle of Kwanzaa, and an English name, Pearl, after my great-grandmother.

Like the people I interviewed for this piece, I have had countless experiences of people misspelling, mispronouncing and outright creating their own version of my name (can someone tell me how you get from “Imani” to “Ivana”?). If I’m being truthful, my name was something I had to learn to love. That said, no matter how many times I have to correct people on it, my name now and always will be a great source of pride.

The following responses have been edited and condensed for clarity.

Nala Bishop, freshman, SESP Atlanta, Georga “So, my dad’s middle name is Alan, and they just switched it and they got Nala. It also means ‘gift’ in Swahili. I always want to go by my middle name, which is very like, white.

My middle name’s Marie. People rarely get it right the first time.” NY-luh, NAY-luh, NOH-la...everything but my actual pronunciation, honestly.

Photos by Imani Sumbi/BlackBoard

“I used to caddy, and that’s a very white-dominated field, very male-dominated field, because it’s golf. So, I would have my name on the back of like a bib so the golfers could know my name. But they would still always get it wrong, and I remember telling my friend I was just so upset one day because they didn’t get my name right at all. And I was just like, ‘I hate my name, I’m gonna go by my middle name.’

And she was like, ‘No, you should be proud of your name. Just always correct them. Correct them until they get it right.’ So then I was really thankful for my name and thankful that my parents named me Nala. And I would never change my name, honestly.”

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Ayinoluwa Abegunde, sophomore, McCormick Kogi State, Nigeria “In my culture, you have a bunch of people name you. So, I could have had names from my grandma, my grandpa, [and] my parents’ friends, if they wanted to name me. So, my dad and my mom did name me separately, but the name they chose for me to go by was what my mom named me. And she told me that because she had a lot of complications when she was pregnant with me, she prayed to God to spare our lives. And so the name was inspiration from the Holy Spirit, and it means ‘We praise God.’” Feben Lemma, freshman, Weinberg Arlington, Virginiia

“I was born in Ethiopia, and I came here in 2008. So, before I came here, I had a different name. The name was Edelawiet.

When my dad came to America—he won the [Diversity Visa] lottery in 2003— there was some issue with [the] visa and United States immigration service. My dad came up with the idea that they should change my name and make it more simple, because they were like, ‘Edelawiet’s too complicated. No one’s going to be able to pronounce it, so we should change it.’ And then my aunt came in and was like, ‘Okay, I have an idea.’ And they decided to name me Feben. Feben means someone who is very kind, adventurous, and very friendly. So, in my aunt’s eyes, I was eventually going to go to America and be adventurous. She said, ‘She’s going to be a sweet, loving and friendly person.’ And now here I am in America with Feben on my birth certificate.”

Faith Oviawe, freshman, Weinberg Houston, Texas When [my mom] was pregnant with me, she was so certain I was going to be a girl. Like, she was telling everyone, ‘I’m having a girl!’ But everyone around her was like, ‘How do you know, how are you so sure?’ because at the time, it was pretty early. But she had this adamant certainty in her heart. She went to the doctor when the time came, and the doctor was like, ‘I can’t really tell because the baby’s legs are closed, but it seems like it’s a boy.’ So, she left and she said, “We’ll see.’” But my mom’s really spiritual, so in her mind it was, ‘If it’s a girl, then I’ll name her 35