At Last

"Piece of My Love" by Guy

...you can have a piece of my love / it's waiting for you...

A few nights ago my two brothers and I stayed up until 6:00 in the morning discussing our histories. We discussed our experiences coming to America, the circumstances about our emigrations, the reunions with our families, etc. [They are not my biological brothers, but in our culture, any cousins you are close to will be given such positions in your life].

Our eldest brother, Richie arrived in the States about a month after the war in Sierra Leone had started in June of 1997. It was before the people of Sierra Leone themselves knew that anything was going on.

Listening to him discuss it made my heart hurt so. There were a few killings, but in an unstable country such as our own, people thought it was just another coup committed by some seriously disgruntled countrymen. It turned out to be a bloody civil war that almost almost depleted our population and diminished our national spirit.

As our soil was dirtied with the blood of our people, those who had emigrated sat on their couches in the States and in Europe, crying for Mama Sa Lone and the family they left behind.

It was an incredible feeling of powerlessness that I saw my parents operate under for the duration of the war. In the rare times that a family member got to a phone to call us here in the States, there was a sense of relief that they were still alive, dread about the report of who had been killed or what had been torched, and more anxiety for the certainty of more deaths that had yet to come.

I have several cousins, aunts, and uncles who survived the war and made it to the States and to Europe. Their stories are too real. The hallways of our Virginia house would sometimes turn to bush and I'd see people running, barefoot and desperate away from the rumor of approaching rebels.

I would want to cry but kept my face dry for fear of ridicule. With all the suffering that they endured, rarely do you see a broken spirit or a teary eye. Disgust, anger, disbelief, yes, but no break downs.

The most interesting stories are those told by the children and by the young adults. Their accounts of the war are decorated with funny traditional Sierra Leonean games while hiding in forests, tricks they played on each other, and upbeat songs about the dreary circumstances and fear of the rebels they were running from.

You know my imagination is quite the machine. Everytime I hear stories, I swear I am there. I have consumed, totally, these stories and the emotions and the comraderie of war. I meet relatives all the time who do not realize that I emigrated to the states when I was only two years old.

I apparently have an understanding of the cultural operations and speak Krio like one who is Fresh Off the Boat (FOB). And I honestly think that this is because I soak it up so whole heartedly (not to be corny because I hate it when people say this) into the depths of my soul.

Despite the war, the rogue government, and the continued medical decrepitude, I am so proud of Sierra Leone. I am so proud to be a Sierra Leonean. I am so proud of what my family has been able to do despite treachery on all sides. I am Sierra Leone.

But along with my pride comes some disdain. After the tragedy of war and displacement, we arrive here to a new country, a different culture, alone. The move literally rips families apart. There is a severe disconnect between parent and child.

Our parents want to raise us as Sierra Leonean children, immersed in the culture and they want us to behave as typical Sierra Leonean children do.

However, we are not immersed in the culture. No matter what our parents, aunts, and uncles try to teach us, they are not our only teachers. We have our fellow classmates, the media, teachers, mentors, coaches, etc. that are imparting different and often oppositional cultural values.

Therefore, the rules of operation within each of us is a hybrid of two cultures and each individual chooses the elements of each they want to make their own. The Sierra Leonean culture at home is then left unsatisfied.

The biggest example of this disconnect is the emotional relationship between parent and child. In the United States, culture stresses bonding and connection from day one. The discussion about breastfeeding is given foundation by the concept of bonding with the child.

In Sierra Leone, such a thing is not stressed. Not that people don't bond back home in Sierra Leone, but it is different. If one is not close to his or her mom or dad, there are aunts and uncles in the same compound (neighborhood) who they identify with. There are also older siblings and cousins who they may also be close to. The culture does not stress the nuclear family in the way that Western culture does. Your parents are not the only people you can go to.

But here, in the States, we immigrants are often alone and the idea of a nuclear family is new and even hard. So the children must bond with the parents. This new American culture stresses family bonding (remember in elementary school when they were teaching you about having family dinnners and such?), children need to bond with someone, and now, the parents are unavailable and there is no family/neighborhood to fall back on.

My brother feels like it is up to the parents to compensate for this change and he resents it that they don't. They bring us here and try to raise us in our Sierra Leonean culture completely oblivious to the fight we enter when we go to American schools and make American friends and watch American television.

He also feels that they don't meet us halfway when we feel alienated as foreign children with our foreign accents. We come home to our foreign parents to relay our social grievances and they don't understand. Lef dem pikin dem. If you wan halaki, falla dem pikin dem. Focus pan you book. Na school go mek you bette.

No one says that is bad advice. Our parents do what they can and how they know, but they don't understand that socialization is just as important as the books to an 8th grader. Yes, we want to do well in school but we don't want to be miserable at school and often times, we were. Assimilation is hard damn work. There is much work required to make friends and "fit in", more work than is required of us back home.

But cultural difference prevented/prevents our parents from understanding why socializing is so important and we fail to understand why our parents don't understand.

As if social alienation is not enough, there is no real relationship between parent and child. Our parents are working too much and flat out don't care much about extra curricular activities or hobbies. Many of us complain about our parents missing out on sports games, art exhibits, award ceremonies, etc., because of being at work or being uninterested. Na ball de gi posen eat? Na painting de pay rent? Oos satificate ge fo pay insurance? Bo duya...

So they don't go and harbor resentment for years to come. We live our lives, we love our families, we get along. But a time comes when we children grow up and can do for ourselves. A trend is surfacing in which once the financial umbilical cord is cut between parent and child, there is no real personal relationship there to continue.

In discussion with over a dozen cousins about to go to college, in college, out of college (almost everyone goes to school), or out working on their own, I have discovered that they don't feel any obligation or need or desire to maintain a relationship with their parents.

I find that to be so sad. We have such a wonderful culture and such a wonderful family. We take such good care of each other, despite our emotionally inadequate relationships. We have the great potential and makings of amazing relationships, but we continue to fall short.

I feel that way at times. I have had a serious brand of "falling out" with my parents and when I think about that which I feel they have done wrong (and I have done much myself, trust), I fill with anger and resent of unmatched height and want to forget abou them totally. However, in that same moment, I feel an immeasurable tenderness for them and the happy girl I was growing up. I do the love the culture that we grew up in (aside from some disagreements about gender role, which I shall save for another entry).

The situation is viscous, complicated, painful, and omnipresent in our interactions. I have no idea how to fix it now because all of us who are complaining of this situation are grown now. I guess we just have to be aware and try not to repeat the situation with our own children. And in the meantime, we just hang on.