How can I shake up my American identity and imbue it with values/practices I loved in Europe? 

I quit my job in academic DEI (diversity, equity & inclusion) two months before the U.S. Presidential election and toured Europe for six weeks. Here’s what I learned about existing in a racialised body in the heart of the empire: an account.

I thought I was going to have an epiphany about my blackness while in Europe. Instead, I was forced to confront my Americanness; a part of my identity I am more than happy to ignore, even minimise, as an attempt to reclaim power back from an empire that imposed this undesirable americanness on me. As part of this unwanted confrontation I was of course forced to reckon with the immense privilege this identity brings, which was très uncomfortable. 

I’ve spent my whole life aligning with whiteness as a survival tactic (whilst internally denying it) only to remain on the margins still.  My background was constantly questioned: ‘But where are you really from?’ strangers would demand.  When I would smirk and answer truthfully ‘Wisconsin’, I derived much satisfaction from their frustration. In the U.S, non-whiteness is assumed to be non-American. And yet here in Europe I’ve finally become a fully-realised American.

The question of blackness as part of an American identity does not seem to bother white Europeans the way it bothers white Americans. When it is revealed that I’m American, no one questions it. No one prods at my family tree, or demands to see a birth certificate. I didn’t feel that the colour of my skin dictated so much of my experience here as it does in the U.S, probably due to my American identity overwhelming my racial identity. James Baldwin observed a similar phenomenon when traveling in Europe, an experience on which he reflects in the film, From Another Place.

‘And […] perhaps only someone who is outside of the States realises that it’s impossible to get out. The American power follows one everywhere. […] One sees it better from a distance … from another place, from another country.’ James Baldwin, From Another Place. 

Like Baldwin, I ran away to escape the overbearing weight of the contradictions of a Black American identity, and instead I was confronted with my own plain unmistakable Americanness. ‘Wherever you go there you are’.

There is much pleasure to be had as a marginalised person in rejecting the empire’s imposed identities in an attempt to claim power back. But what does this mean when I do this beyond American soil? What are  the implications of an American rejecting their American identity abroad? The truth is, while rejecting this part of myself, I was still expecting, unconsciously, to retain my American privileges. My French (and German, and Czech, and Polish) language capabilities are very bad, forcing everyone else in those countries to converse with me in English. I also retain my privileges of having a passport that allows me to travel more or less visa-free to many parts of the world. This was a privilege I did not fully appreciate until conversing with my Indian roommates at a hostel in Prague. 

Strangely enough, because I still expected to retain my American privileges, it was impossible for me to deny my Americanness. But at the same time, I am not French (or Czech, or Polish, or German). And so in denying my Americanness abroad, I found myself caught in a vacuum of identity that race would normally fill. If I was not American, then what was I? A sovereign being, belonging to no state perhaps? A stateless, racialised black cis-woman. But of course, the reality never changed; that I am a U.S. citizen and enjoyed the privileges it afforded me while travelling abroad.

This catch-22 parallels the same ambiguity I feel back home in the U.S. when wrestling with my racial identity. Because I am ‘mixed’ and was raised by white people within a working-class midwestern protestant white culture, I almost never feel I am ‘black enough’ or doing (performing) blackness correctly. I often feel like an outsider with Black folks, but simultaneously, I am othered by white people. I am neither and both at the same time, existing somewhere in-between. So one could say I feel both race-less and State-less at times. And at other times, it is painfully clear that I do in fact belong to a race, and a state; usually when I am reminded in violent and oppressive ways. 

I learned that I tend to wear the same five articles of clothing over and over again. The large black suitcase I borrowed from my mother that I stuffed full of ‘just in case’ items, rarely (if ever) got worn. It turns out, when I am in a new environment, navigating unfamiliar social and political terrain, in which I speak very little (if any) of the local language, I tend to be less adventurous in my clothing choices. Getting dressed occupied a shockingly small amount of my time compared to how much time I spend getting dressed while at home in the US. It was actually a relief, somewhat liberating, to be so focused on my experience that I paid very little attention to my appearance.

Of course, I was still concerned about appearing clean and put together and mitigating my Americanness as much as I possibly could. At the same time, I was not pulled to experiment with silhouettes or colours as much as I do at home. 

I assimilate in Paris with kindergarten level French better than I do in the U.S. with perfect English. In the U.S, it’s always ‘Where are you from?’; the implication being, you’re clearly not white so what are you? Or, as an unsuccessful seduction technique, ‘You are so beautiful, where are you from? What are you mixed with?’ The implication being, you are clearly not white or black, so what are you? The more pernicious, underlying implication being, ‘Black women aren’t this beautiful, so you must be something else’.  Colourism in the U.S. is a problem just like it is in Europe. 

There is something very juvenile about being a tourist in a foreign country. 

Not knowing the local language renders you vulnerable, helpless, pathetic. All I want is something to eat and I must solve the puzzle of finding a place and getting there and ordering and paying, all in a different language. Sometimes service workers speak English, especially if the establishment is located in a high-tourist area, which helps, but also ushers in a feeling of shame. The veneer has eroded. I can’t escape my Americanness when relying on English. 

I feel shame about my Americanness similar to that of what some white people feel about their whiteness. This country is so strongly associated with things I detest, it sometimes feels like an inescapable suffocation. I’m supposed to feel lucky to have been born in one of the wealthiest, most powerful countries in the world, and yet, when I look around and see what little this place has to offer someone like me (our president is a literal white supremacist), I can’t help but feel a strong urge to sever myself from this legacy. And perhaps it’s the very fact that I will never be able to completely rid myself of this place that creates the urge to do it in the first place. 

I am trapped, but I’m so lucky to be trapped here, in this place.