There has been many an article written and published about a burgeoning cultural anxiety in the United States of America. I’d read a few of these articles, and have come to disagree with the sentiments expressed by these authors. Because cultural anxiety is a euphemism for what these people are experiencing.
A significant number of white Americans, having witnessed the unlikely ascension of a black man to the American presidency in 2008, and sensing a loss of influence in our society, decided to cast their ballots for Donald Trump, the lumbering avowed racist, serial rapist, conman, and buffoon who spoke to their irrational fears.
After three years of monitoring the Trump presidency through reading, — I cannot watch the man without retching — repeatedly shaking my head at his boorish behavior, marveling at his ignorance and stupidity, and watching him fail over and over again, I’ve arrived at one inescapable truth. For many white Americans, cultural anxiety and white supremacy are inextricably linked. And it’s an inverse relationship, you know, like riding a psychic teeter totter. White cultural anxiety increases when the traditionally privileged majority senses a chipping away of their absolute power.
I am a black man with a culture; African American. Recent happenings within my cultural sphere have kept cultural anxiety at the forefront of my thoughts. And you want to know something? I’m not satisfied with how the writers and scholars have presented information about the topic as it relates to people of color. It should be more of an expansive and relative term, encompassing more than just a focus on white fragility.
One afternoon, I sat down in front of my desktop computer and googled the term “cultural anxiety”, and was shocked to see that there were one-hundred ninety-one million pieces of information on the topic. I scrolled down the length of the first of countless pages, and came across many articles that discussed white people’s fears of becoming displaced by people of color. However, there were no articles about people like me, a first born and first generation American born black man who is a direct descendant of a Nigerian immigrant with inextricable ties to other Nigerians in Africa and the United States.
I’ve thought of cultural anxiety as a piece of amorphous, wet, brown clay on a white platform. In my head I imagine a faceless individual wearing a white apron across a torso. This person is kneading and shaping the clay with drenched hands in an attempt to formulate a concise definition for the term. Still, my mind is unable to form a definition that I would feel comfortable unveiling to an enraptured audience.
I can present a picture through writing though.
January 10, 2019
I was sitting on the sofa couch opposite of my mother, holding a cell phone, staring down at petrified images populating YouTube. My mother, sensing that something was very awry, grabbed the remote control from on top of the coffee table, and pointed it at the flat screen television. Television news anchors were suddenly robbed of their voices. I raised my head to look at the television screen.
“Are you mad at me my dear?” she asked.
I turned to face my mother. “Mad at you?” I asked. “I’m not mad at you. Why would I be?”
“You’re my son. I can always tell.”
“I’m not mad at you, momma.”
“Then what is wrong?”
I gnashed my teeth together. For I knew that if I decided to reveal any information about how I was feeling right then, she would be emboldened by the pinpoint accuracy of her instincts. And that would require me to talk more, which I really did not feel like doing.
“There’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. I promise.”
Of course I am lying.
Momma sighed. “Okay. We’re doing this for your own good.”
“Yep, I know.”
*****
Shortly after my dad died of cancer six years ago, my mother encouraged me to become a formalized member of the ATU (Amaigbo Town Union), a group of Nigerians in Denver who meet every quarter to reestablish communication and plan for future functions. I resisted her entreaties at first, but momma gently kept on insisting until I gave in.
I accompanied my mother to my first ever meeting in October, 2014. Other than the time I spent at the Cracker Barrel in Lincoln, Nebraska, I could not remember a time when I’ve felt more out of place. Everyone at the meeting, including my mother, was fluent in Igbo, the language of my people. As an addition, I was not well versed with the customs, so I wasn’t prepared for the opening prayer and the distribution of the kola nut, ceremonies that are meant to formally welcome everyone to the proceedings. And as the meeting proceeded forward, as the other attendees leaned in closer to communicate with one-another, and the laughter bounced off the surrounding walls, I remained situated on the periphery, hoping not to be seen or heard.
I kept coming to these ATU meetings despite my anxiety. My learning was slow. First I crawled, then I walked; although I remained unbalanced, my mother having to guide her nearly forty-year old son by the hands. I’d learn something new and my spirits would be lifted, before being grounded after receiving a gentle scold for an offense.
I was approached by a man with glasses at an ATU inauguration ceremony two years ago. He extended a hand, which I took, and chatted me up. He asked for my name.
“Eze is my name,” I said.
“That is a good name. That means king, yes?”
“Yes it does.”
“So where are you from?”
My stomach starting doing back flips. “I’m from Amaigbo,” I said
“Okay, but where are you from?”
I squinted up at him. Hadn’t I already answered the question in the way that I was supposed to? “Amaigbo.” I said it louder.
He made a motion with his hands to cut off the conversation. “That’s okay. That’s okay.”
As he walked away, I slumped forward, deflated. I wouldn’t see him for the remainder of the night, but his face had been imprinted in my memory. I imagined him and another individual tittering about the man who didn’t know where he is from, and questioning the necessity of my appearance. As I left that function, I promised myself that I would not become entrapped again. I’d tell the next Nigerian person that I’m from Denver, Colorado — I was born in Denver — and absorb the inevitable correction.
January 19, 2020: Late Afternoon
A tall, lanky, preteen girl, with no shoes responded to my knocks on the screen door.
“Good afternoon,” I said. I’m here to pick up the rice.”
The girl twisted the doorknob, and pulled the door open as she stepped backward. “My mom’s over in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
The girl’s father was sitting on the living room couch. He turned to face me as I approached.
“Hello. How are you?” I said.
He smiled and said, “I’m doing very good. Yes, very good.”
The kitchen was situated off to the left. There was no partition to stop the heat and aroma from wafting to the living room. A young Nigerian woman was standing behind the stove, stirring some wonderfully scented concoction in a green pot. She looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon sir.”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m here to pick up the rice.”
“So she sent you again.”
“Yep.”
She pointed to a large white and blue cooler. “Your rice is in there. Make sure to keep the bag open.”
I went to flip open the lid. Inside was a large see-through plastic bag filled with sweet smelling jollof rice. I inhaled deeply, felt the warm aroma massage my nostrils, and grinned from ear to ear. I could smell the spices. A whiff of pepper, some sage, and perhaps some salt. My mood was lifted, at least for now.
“It’s ninety dollars, right?” I asked. I dug inside my right pants pocket, pulled out my wallet, and flipped open the fold.
She nodded.“That’s right.”
After I loaded the cooler full of rice into my car, I drove to the local grocery store to pick up an order of fried chicken, and then drove home.
Mom made sure that the house was in immaculate condition, wiping down everything within sight, vacuuming floors, and closing cabinets. Were pictures of my deceased father arranged properly? Momma had approached each photo to make sure.
The fruit and vegetable salads were resting on top of the kitchen counter; with the napkins, plates, and cutlery situated just to the right of the aluminum basins. Mom had wiped down the coffee table and hid my medications in the cabinets. Extra chairs had been placed around the periphery of the living room space. She instructed me to place the fried chicken on the remaining open area of the kitchen counter. The cooler of rice was positioned against the base of the counter.
The meeting was slated to start at 5:00 pm, but mom and I knew that we were living our lives in conjunction with “Nigeria time,” on this day. So, we expected our guests to start arriving at about 5:30 pm.
The first knock on the door happened at 5:40 pm. By then, the sun had descended beneath the horizon. I lumbered — I weigh 250 pounds — over to the door, and opened it. A black man with a mustache was standing on the concrete porch area, his face bathed by the light. He stepped onto the threshold. “Hello, Eze,” he said. He reached out his hand.
I took his hand into mine, and exhaled deeply, relieved because I actually, finally recognized this man after so many misfires. I made ready to address him by his first name.
“Hello Jude,” I said. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Jude, looking as if he’d just been slapped in the face, maintained his grip on my hand.
“Eze,” he said. And then he said something to me in Igbo. I could not understand one word of what he’d just said, but I instinctively knew that he was scolding me, and as a guest at the house that I was paying for.
“I am your senior,” Jude said. “Remember, you are supposed to address me as your Uncle.”
My heart dropped. Way to go Eze! The meeting hadn’t even started yet and I was already making mistakes. Perhaps a harbinger of things to come?
“I’m sorry Uncle Jude,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I was able to recover from my foible, as I was able to start the meeting off with a competent presentation of the Verdi drink, a symbol of welcome to everyone who was attending the meeting. And fortunately, the rest of meeting went off without too much of a hitch. I sat on one of the chairs that was situated along the margin, and wasn’t asked to do very much. I did my best to follow the agenda.
*****
If you’re one of those white Americans whose fear of ascendant non-white Americans has you worried, I feel no sympathy for you. Most of you live in all white, English speaking neighborhoods in suburbs and small towns. Your neighborhoods are not being “overrun” by the black and brown people. In fact, I’m going to assume that a lot of you live hundreds of miles away from states — Texas, California, New York, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, Virginia, etc. — with significant amounts of “minority” representation. You’re not expected to navigate intercultural dynamics within your own homes, and no one is asking you to learn another language in order to fit in. You’re lives are no where near as complicated as that of a son or daughter of an immigrant.
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