When I think about cultural identity, images of people in traditional African garb involved in some sort of ceremony immediately come to mind. These pictures are indicative of the associations that have been made in my mind around the concepts of culture and tradition. This particular set of images may be related to my particular background, but it’s the symbolism that is important here. What these images suggest to me is the idea that one’s cultural identity links back to something deep, almost primal or instinctual, within us as humans. What I am trying to get at is more than just a set of traits that define a people; but more the in-depth and often elaborate rituals and behaviors that tie a group of people together…the sort of stuff that is not easily accessible in modern society.

I am speaking (writing, if you insist on nitpicking) as somone who should have a direct line of connection to my cultural heritage. Both my parents are from the same Ethnic Group in West Africa. They both speak the language, and are fully familiar with the customs. Sadly, we (meaning myself and my two brothers…me in the middle, like Malcolm) do not speak the language, at least not at a respectable level; and are only generally aware of said customs. It was certainly not a priority for me when I was growing up. I liked video games better.

There were a lot of old customs in full-swing all around me…even in the midst of all the western influences that were making their way into our lives as we got older. There was religion – churches on every corner in the town I grew up, it seemed to me – but ancient customs still stood. In fact, when it really comes down to it, tradition still trumps religion. For instance, one might get married in a church, but would still have to do the traditional wedding ceremony – always first – according to the customs of the bride’s family. I personally have dreaded this practice since I hit puberty and realized I might have to get married. In fact, it is the chief reason I haven’t returned home since I got married while I lived in England years ago. Angry in-laws are waiting for me to come and properly “claim” my bride. I fear they have scouts at ports of entry into the country. It’s best to avoid returning altogether.

As children, adults in the family tried to make us aware of the dangers of not knowing where one was from, of not being able to communicate in anything other than the White Man’s language. There were stories of times during the civil war when being able to speak your language and/or understand local customs was the only proof that you were not the enemy…thus sparing yourself from a violent death at the hands of your own. While tales of the war were cool – one particularly juicy bit involved my uncle, then a child, being dressed-up as a girl to avoid the “draft” – we weren’t too worried about this situation ever arising for us; not in modern times. In fact, most attempts to learn about our tribal customs as we were growing up were driven by the fear of “Mama-Sisi”…my grandma on my dad’s side.

Sisi had a habit of turning up at our house from the village unannounced, causing all kinds of issues. She always seemed to be grumpy when I was a child…the perfect human expression of a wet blanket. We mostly tried to avoid her…like the plague. However, we knew that at some point during her visit we would inevitably be summoned to her abode (the guest room at our house) to be judged for our sins – our lack of appreciation of our culture. This experience was always nerve-racking…about as much fun as water-boarding. While I can say I gradually got on better with my grandma as I got older and could see through her “attitude”, I can never look back with any fondness at those meetings. They were, without exception, horrible.

Each encounter usually started with a paragraph or two in our mother-tongue, which we would invariably fail to understand. Then she would switch to English and proceed to lecture us extensively. She often called my parents in to get a share of the tongue-lashing for failing to pass this knowledge onto us (if they weren’t smart enough to make themselves scarce once she started). She also berated them for being so westernized themselves. They weren’t exactly happy about her manner of imparting wisdom, but they got the point; and often put in a decent effort to get us on the right path after each…er…pep-talk. They would try to speak the native tongue a little bit more, buy some books to educate us, etc. It never lasted. Everyone reverted to type after a few days.

I knew – then and now – that such attempts were doomed from the outset because culture is not something that can be transferred in a such a half-hearted manner. It has to be lived; it has to be embodied. There’s just no way to do it part-time. I had friends who were much more fluent in their tribal tongues and traditions. Each had been brought up with their parents instilling these ideas pretty much from birth. Not so with us. My parents tranferred their own unique set of values to us – effortlessly, I might add. In fact, they get extremely high marks for that. As a adult, I am still surprised how much of them I have in me. This, however, is not the same thing as being brought up with the values of “the tribe” unless the tribe is just mummy and daddy. I guess that is the key. My parents are members of their tribe, but it doesn’t pervade their lives enough for them to be natural extensions of it. Interesting…

For my grandma, her culture was a significant part of who she was, or who she thought herself to be. The demise of the tribe = the demise of her. This is a BIG deal. It’s the reason why ideas like these are so powerful. Tie in the identity of the people to the identity of the structure. They will fight till the death to protect it. My grandma was (still is) trying to preserve herself in a way, by preserving the idea of her tribe. She expected that idea to pass on to her offspring so they would hold it in the same manner, and then pass it on to their offspring. And so on, till infinity. That’s the idea. She failed to do that.

For better or worse, the power of my father’s cultural identity isn’t as strong with him as it was with his parents; probably because he’s a surgeon who rips people’s throats open for a living. Whatever the reason is, this condition is a lot worse with my generation. It’s a safe bet that my kids will be even further away from their ancestral legacy in that respect. I caught my 3-year old son singing “All the single ladies…all the single ladies” with a big smile on his face the other day. Strange. Such leanings raise serious questions that I won’t try to answer here. Has the tribe lost me and my Beyonce-singing child? What’s the big deal anyway?

More on that next time.


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