Last night, me, my suitemate and suite neighbors were all out in the common room talking.

We hopped around different conversations and somehow ended up on race and nationality. My suitemate and I are “black” if you’re describing us. My suitemate and I are African if you know us. She is Kenyan by birth and I am American by birth. But I don’t identify as an African-American all the time. My parents are both from Ghana, which makes me a first generation American. Being black back at home meant a quick profiling (which is understandable for descriptions and general usage) or you didn’t know where you “originated.”

But Chris, let’s call him Chris, told me I was not African, I was American or black.

I didn’t show it, but I was upset. (But I’m over it.)

I have never once had anyone tell me who I was and who I wasn’t. Yes, jokingly people would say things like “Oh you’re so white” for the way I talk or the things I’m into. Or people (especially other Africans) don’t genuinely know that I’m African, because I don’t “look” African and I don’t speak their language. But to have someone flat out tell you, you aren’t what you know and live is beyond confusing.

He said I wasn’t using the definitions of these titles correctly.

Right, and I’m also using the statistics about black people or African people incorrectly.

Definitions and statics are exactly that – definitions and statistics. They do not have interpersonal relationships, they do not live,and they do not place a face and emotion to their words and numbers.

I am African because I am African. My parents are African by birth. They had me. They speak to me in our language, they feed me our food, they teach me their culture. My skin is their skin. My heart is their heart – I am as much African as I want to be. I take pride in knowing who I am – that is something a definition doesn’t account for.

I am in charge of who I am. You can decide for yourself if I am black, African-American, or African. And I can decide for myself what I am, because all three of those are real living identities – not just labels. Somedays I am more of an African than an African-American. Other days, all I am is African-American. But on the bad days, I end up being black.

I don’t know. I’ve never had to be constantly aware of the fact that I am a minority (because I didn’t feel or look like one in New Jersey), but being in North Dakota has opened up this new narrative. I don’t want race to become something I spend my time talking about and thinking about and defending and explaining.

I’m here for reasons unrelated to who I am by color and birth and I would like to focus on all the other stuff in life.