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.

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 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.

Thank you for reading this story from the Belong Collection.

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