Authentic Traditions

So whether you know it or not, today is the second day of Kwanzaa. I blogged about it last year and expressed how it feels a bit contrived/made up yet I still see a lot of value in the Kwanzaa principles (Nguzo Saba).

Well, this year, I took a book out of the library on Kwanzaa and even though we don't have a Kinara set up or anything, we're going through each day of Kwanzaa. Today's principle is kujichagulia or self-determination. Or course, if you know me, you know this is one of the biggest principles I'm trying to engender in my own life, i.e. living my life on my own terms and it would be a tremendous blessing if I could pass this principle on to my children.

Anyway, as I share these principles with my children, I still can't shake the feeling that Kwanzaa doesn't feel true to me. I am not African-American. My parents are relatively recent and voluntary immigrants to the United States. I know the geographic location where my family hails from. And I ache for authentic traditions.

My parents, being the staunch Christians that they are, made it a point to avoid all traditional celebrations and holidays. In fact, there are no pictures of my parents' traditional wedding (I don't think they had one) and I'm pretty sure my mother was not pleased that my cousin had her traditional wedding with "all that unnecessariness". I can't say that had we been exposed to our ancient traditions, I would still embrace them today but I feel like a part of who I am is missing.

This is complicated by the fact that although I understand my mother tongue of Igbo, I cannot speak it with any fluency. It makes communicating with my grandmother, who only speaks Igbo, a serious challenge. I feel like she is a treasure trove of information, history and wisdom and I am cut off. I've googled to find an organization of my dad's village people have here in the States. I know that folks are celebrating our traditions but I feel awkward. I don't really know anyone having lived in the States all my life, I don't speak the language and since I'm married, I technically am not from the village my father is from anymore but from the village my husband is from. Since my husband is American, technically/traditionally speaking, I'm from whatever "village" in America he comes from. In fact, because of this I could really only be an honorary member of that organization to which I linked above.

It's kind of frustrating that I should have a direct connection to my history and culture along with the traditions and celebrations but I don't. Do I try to forge one with my strangers from the village my dad comes from? Or do I just suck it up and embrace Kwanzaa as my own? After all, every tradition was made up/started sometime. If we really get into it now and take it seriously, it will be a real tradition for our great-great grandchildren.

What's in a name?

Recently I have been contemplating changing my name. Well, maybe not changing it but adding a new first name.

I've been meaning for some time to blog about the difficulties that present itself when your name is totally foreign and, at that, difficult for many Americans to pronounce. It's like a running joke--any time someone pauses or gets a quizzical look on their face, it's my name they are trying to pronounce.

And now you're like, "Chi-Chi isn't hard to pronounce."

Well, Chi-Chi is only my nickname. My given, formal name is really a mouthful. Even the hubby can't get it out without stumbling and we've been together almost 7 years.

And I love my name, I do. It's elegant and full of meaning. It sounds beautiful. But practically speaking, it is a handicap. Since most people can't pronounce it easily, I'm often forced to give my nickname which often gets chuckles or makes people think of a stripper or a little cute kid. Or I have people call me Ms. (My last name), which is sometimes formal and stuffy.

If I were to change my name, it would still be something Igbo but something a bit more pronounceable such as Chioma or Amaka. But I don't know . . . re-naming myself doesn't feel genuine. I know a few African-Americans who have changed their names to throw off the name the slavemaster forced them to take and re-connect with their African roots. I get it. But changing a perfectly good name for convenience? I don't know.

And Igbo people do not name their children lightly! For Igbo people, an name is really a prediction and a prayer. My mother almost died giving birth to my baby brother who was born prematurely. The names they gave him reflected the fact that God did a miraculous thing in that both of them are alive till this day. And my name, which means God abides with me, is a testament to the fact that when I was born, my parents had only been in this country for only a few months. They knew no one and could rely on no one except for God. My middle name? "The one God has given me". My parents lost their first child, a son. In Igbo culture, names are extremely important. Very significant.

I suppose that even with a name like "Chi-Chi" most folks still do take me seriously. But I also realize that I do work hard to make sure I am taken seriously right off the bat. I don't giggle along when folks laugh and I'm quick to say it's a nickname which generally prompts the giggler to ask my real name. Then all the giggling usually stops.

Well, my name is really, really long as it is since I chose to hyphenate instead of drop my maiden name. I mean, how long can a name really be? But it would pain me to drop any of my names. And it would be a huge dishonor to my parents.

So what's in a name? Plenty.

Connecting the Youths to their Roots

One of the biggest things I wish my parents had done was to do a better job of connecting us (me, my brother and sister) to Nigeria and our Igbo culture and heritage. The older I get and the longer I live in the U.S., the stronger the sinking fear that there will never be a strong connection gets. I have gradually stopped emphasizing certain things like Nigerian Independence Day (October 1), staying current on happenings in Nigeria, even putting the kids and myself in traditional attire. It occurred to me the other day that this disconnection doesn't have to be although I am at a loss as to how to connect and stay connected. As it stands now, I have very little communication with my extending family in Nigeria and most of them are strangers. I wouldn't even really know how to arrange a trip to visit and with my limited Igbo speaking skills, I wonder how hard it would be (although most of them speak English). But I'm determined to give my children the gift of Igbo heritage and culture and really thinking on ways to make this reality. I think the best first step would be a trip. In thinking of Nigeria, I remember some of the not so positive things I saw but overwhelmingly I remember its beauty and potential. I would like my children to experience it.

As fortune would have it, I was in the children's library yesterday (hiding out from the scorching sun) and my eyes fell upon this book: Chidi Only Likes Blue by Ifeoma Onyefulu.

To say I was thrilled to find it would be a huge understatement. This book of colors uses elements of traditional Igbo life to illustrate all the wonderful colors in a little Igbo girl's life. The story is so cute and the photographs (I was bowled over that there are photographs and not illustrations) are full color and fabulous (Ms. Onyefulu takes the pictures herself). Definitely pick this one up at the library. I am most assuredly going to purchase it (it's in my Amazon.com cart as I type this).

P.S. Note the hairstyle of the little girl (named Nneka--one of my favorite girls' name) on the cover. I wish I had a picture book like this when I was a little girl. My mother would send me to school with similar hairstyles and I remember wishing so much that I could just wear cornrows like the other Black (African-American and Yoruba) girls (or have long flowing hair like the White girls). I didn't like being the only one but alas, my mom didn't know how to cornrow. Books like this really do build and affirm the self-esteem of young Black girls.