My name is usually the first thing people notice about me. It’s only a handful of letters, but it’s enough to signal to someone that I am part of their community or that I’m different.

As the daughter of Nigerian immigrants I always felt like I had one toe in my family’s culture and another in American culture. My dad would tell us stories about Nigeria, but as a child I never quite understood just how different my parents’ upbringing was. I’d ask my dad what his favorite ice cream flavor was and he’d just shake his head at me. I’d bring my home cooked lunches to school and would be made fun of for how much it smelled to my classmates. At the same time I would also be a spokesperson for Black America in my home. I understood the effects of systemic racism in the US better than my parents did because I grew up experiencing it, as a child and young learner, while also studying and understanding the impact of American history on Black America. 

I was self conscious of my name and at 8 years old I decided that I was going to change it to Chrissy. I began writing it everywhere: my homework, tests, cards. All of my classmates went along with it until my teacher, who was white, told my parents. They were shocked and disappointed that I would overwrite the name they’d given me. My younger self didn’t know the meaning of my name and what I cared most about was whether or not anyone could pronounce it. Between that, and anything that felt “foreign” like the food and other aspects of my Nigerian culture, all I wanted was to fit in. Changing my name seemed like the easiest thing to do. 

When I was nine years old, my parents told me and my three siblings that we were going to live in Nigeria for a while. At the time, I was clueless as to what that implied. They could have said, ‘we’re going to live in London’ and it would have been all the same. Only when we landed in Lagos did my siblings and I realize that life was going to be different. It was around Christmas time and it was sweltering hot when we landed. My 7 year old sister said, ‘I’m so hot I need a Coke’. We looked around the airport and I remember realizing, ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore’. I didn’t have the words for it at the time, but looking back I realized how much culture shock we experienced. Just as I was becoming an “American kid,” I now had to learn how to navigate being a Nigerian one.

Yoruba is one of four main languages spoken in Nigeria, if you include English. The other two commonly spoken languages are Hausa and Igbo. My parents and family speak Yoruba, but I didn’t know a word of it when we first arrived. We only spoke English in our home in the US; it was a way for us to be American first, and Nigerian second. Once we landed in Lagos that requirement faded away and my mom decided that they would let us learn the language. Our parents would go on speaking English to us so that we could have continuity, even though English was the primary language spoken in all of our classes. Each interaction that I had became so critical to my ability to connect with others. Through listening and getting to know my grandparents, who I met during that time, I not only began to learn Yoruba, I also unknowingly honed my skills as a listener; observing and truly hearing what others are saying.

We ended up living in Nigeria for six and a half years. Even after that much time I never felt completely Nigerian. While it’s clearly my heritage, there were always obstacles to completely blending in. I didn’t know what my full name meant until I learned Yoruba. My name translates to God has given me or God’s gift. The beauty of Nigerian languages is that when I meet someone I can figure out where they’re from because everything is translated back to a word or phrase. So upon seeing my name, people knew I was Nigerian and expected me to speak Yoruba fluently with a perfect accent. I’d get questions about why I couldn’t speak it properly and I’d always get corrected. These expectations constantly wore on me, knowing full well that if I had an American sounding name that I wouldn’t be held to these standards. I spent those years wondering, am I Nigerian enough? And upon returning to the US I also wondered, am I American enough?

After returning to the US I found myself floating between both my Nigerian and American identities. I’d developed a tangible connection with where my family comes from; I’d learned the language of my ancestors, met my extended family and was surrounded by familiarity. While I was returning to a place that I recognized, I realized that I had changed. Developing my sense of self in Nigeria meant that I came back to the US with a global perspective that opened my eyes and enabled me to be proud of being different. As I grew older I began meeting other people like me; people whose parents had immigrated to the US and struggled to conform with the old limited notion of what it meant to be American. 

Growing up in two distinctly different cultures left me feeling like there was no one place I belonged, and I needed to know if there were others who understood my struggle. I was in my twenties and looking to find myself, and part of doing that meant understanding why I felt so restless. In my search, I  learned that I’m what’s called a “third culture kid” or TCK. The third culture implied that kids like us found a way to mold the two or more cultures we experienced growing up into one that fit our personality. Many TCKs either wound up as a restless spirit who continually is searching for the place they can call home, moving from one city to the next or as someone who seeks stability, firmly planting roots in one place, as a way to feel grounded and connected.  I’m the former. After college I moved all around the US and eventually I made the big decision to move to Cambodia. Because of my time in Nigeria, it was relatively easy for me to embrace Khmer culture. During my first visit to Southeast Asia, I traveled through Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. When I arrived in Cambodia, I felt an automatic connection to the country. Traveling through Phnom Penh and Siem Reap reminded me of traveling from Lagos to Ibadan, more so than Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh or Bangkok. What I discovered, after some time living in Phnom Penh and traveling through the provinces, is how similar Khmer people are to Nigerians. When I mentioned this to a fellow South African, she mentioned that Cambodians are the most “African” of Asian people. That made sense to me. In Yoruba culture, when you visit a family and they’re eating, there’s a saying, “E wa jeun.” which translates to “Eat with us.” When I traveled through the provinces of Cambodia for the Pchum Ben holidays, I experienced that same welcoming nature. Six of us were invited to eat with a friend’s cousins, folks who didn’t even know we were arriving until about 30 minutes before we arrived. And despite our language barriers, visiting them felt like home.  If anything, my three years abroad once again underlined how similar we all are and that if we took more time to connect with one another then more of us might make that realization. While I’m back in the US now, I know that this isn’t forever. My community is scattered across the globe, spanning from Iraq, to Brazil, Cambodia, South Africa and beyond. I’ve begun sketching out what I call my 20 year vision. I realized that it’s ok to call the US my base and that maybe there’s another base out there that’s just waiting for me to find it.

Bunmi's shoutouts:

Pchum Ben
Reframing American history through the 1619 Project
Third Culture Kids: Citizens of Everywhere and Nowhere by Kate Mayberry
Yoruba Arts and Culture

Since college physics, I’ve come to embrace the law of conservation of energy in regards to what happens when you die. The law states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed - only converted from one form of energy to another. Thus, those who die are still all around us, you just have to pay attention. It wasn’t until my best friend’s death that I really tuned in. I remember being so upset about her death and then all of a sudden this hummingbird flew by me and landed on a telephone wire to sit with me. Each day it would come back and sit with me through my grief and I knew it was her. It took me years before I could connect with my dad, likely because I’d spent so much time shutting out my sadness and trying to ignore it.

My mom would always talk about signs she noticed from my dad, and I even had witnessed them while visiting my childhood home, but never on my own. I’ll never forget the first time that I connected with him by myself. I was talking to my mentor about quitting my job and leaving the construction industry. Something landed on my hand, so I flicked it off without looking. Glancing over, I saw a grasshopper sitting next to me. I went to walk inside and froze. I couldn’t help but ask myself, ‘is that a sign from dad?’ So, I went back outside and the grasshopper just sat next to me throughout the entire call.

When I went inside I rushed to look up what the grasshopper symbolizes. In addition to luck and prosperity, the grasshopper signifies only moving forward. It felt like my dad was giving me permission to move forward and leave my job behind. Even recently, my mom, husband and I were closing on the purchase of a cabin. While we were signing the papers, we heard this loud boom at the window. On the window we saw a giant grasshopper. Once again, my dad was saying hello and sharing his excitement to keep moving forward.

The most connected I’ve ever felt to those who have died was when I was close to experiencing my own death. In the fall of 2020, I went backpacking with my husband. As we drove up the mountain, we saw a mama bear and her cubs sprint across the road. The mama just stopped and stared at us in a way that told me something was wrong, but we kept driving. Upon reaching the trailhead, we realized that a fire had ignited nearby. Little did we know then, that this would be one of the top four largest recorded fires in California history--the Creek Fire.

We began caravaning up the mountain to escape the fire. Once we reached the top everyone began coordinating, but I couldn’t even speak because I was so afraid. It hit me that we might not make it out and we could all die. You could see the flames licking the night sky through the trees. I asked my loved ones, those who had died, for guidance to get us out safely. Ironically, I’m not scared of death because I don’t believe life ends when you die. Instead, I was afraid of having my life cut short when there was still so much that I wanted to do. Thankfully, after three hours of off road maneuvering, running into a local who “thought” he might know a road out, taking a chance and driving through a river, we were able to escape and get off the mountain, away from the fire. The entire Fresno area had been evacuated, so we had to drive 2 more hours until we could find an available hotel.

The next day, my sister Kira, and her fiance came up from San Diego to be with us at home. As a network chiropractor at Twin Waves Wellness Center, my sister worked on me to help release all of the terror that was inside. Her body work helped me process everything and I ended up sobbing uncontrollably and screaming the most blood-curdling shriek as I let go. The process reshaped a horrific and harrowing experience into something beautiful. Afterward, we all had so much adrenaline that we jumped in the ocean, got mai tais and celebrated being alive and being together. That night, while we were on my deck looking at the stars, there was a big and beautiful shooting star that fell for what seemed like ages. With my dad’s love of the cosmos, I knew that it was the sign I had asked him for during the fire. My mind instantly jumped to this Enya song (the only artist that we both ever agreed upon) called “Fallen Embers”. I ran to look up the lyrics and they go like:

Once, as my heart remembers
All the stars were fallen embers
Once, when night seemed forever
I was with you

Once, in the care of morning
In the air was all belonging
Once, when that day was dawning
I was with you

How far we are from morning?
How far we are?
And the stars shining through the darkness
Falling in the air

Once, as the night was leaving
Into us, our dreams were weaving
Once, all dreams were worth keeping
I was with you

Once, when our hearts were singing
I was with you

The song completely mirrored my experience in the fire. As we listened to the song, almost every verse ending with, ‘I was with you’ I knew that was my dad telling me he was with me during the entire harrowing event. I was with all of the people who had passed on. The Creek Fire solidified two beliefs: your loved ones are watching over you and you only have one life to live. Don’t just put your head down and work, work, work just so that you have a big salary and material things--life is too short to be unhappy. Fill your heart up, connect, love, do what makes you happy and laugh endlessly.

Thank you for reading this story from the Transcend Collection. Life contains so many obstacles and it can be challenging to keep going. No matter the resistance you may face, the power rests in you to chart your own path. Our Transcend candle includes stories of growing through grief, outrage and struggle and stepping into one's full self.

We donate 10% of revenues from our Transcend candle to The Loveland Foundation, an organization committed to showing up for communities of color.