Race and the Ugandan in America

He is dark, 5ft 7 inches. On most days he’ll wear a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As I watch him walk to the bus I think, there goes my baby – my Japadhola/Mufumbira/ Etesot. A Ugandan boy who holds no grudges for his ethnicity. In the world we live in, he is a “Young black man!” - not the description I would use for my son, but like the police here would say – “he fits the profile.” Can one tell that he is not an angry black man when he walks into a store with a hoodie? In moving to America I exchanged one set of issues for another.

We are Ugandan and proud. The “black” label is foreign even though it’s the color of our skin. Having grown up among fellow “blacks” there was no conscience for skin color. People were referred to by their title, name or gender – judged by the content of character, family background (sometimes tribe) and one’s status in society. Yes we studied slave trade in history, it was a despicable era but not a problem we owned. Tucked away in landlocked Uganda, I left the stories of slave trade in the history text books and the exam room when the examiner said “put down your pens”. Now, living in America I see the after effects - the struggle for justice and fair treatment.

As my son inches up to his dad’s height, as his voice deepens and he begins to feel his way around searching for independence and individuality, the issue of safety comes to the fore ground. My mom held my hand as I crossed Kampala road, she said, make sure to look both ways before you cross. She said, don’t stay out too late and choose your friends wisely. Make sure to lock the doors and draw the curtains. My brothers were cautioned not to throw stones and to be careful when climbing trees.  These are some of the issues my parents grappled with when raising us. Today my concerns are, “perhaps you shouldn’t wear that hoodie, okay, at least don’t cap it over your head. What if something happens and you are in the vicinity?” As the kids grow older friendships shuffle and narrow to mono hues. There is the unconscious influence of society. The adage birds of the same feather flock together comes home to roost.

The concept of color and its implications is still foreign in my sons developing mind but the media does an impressive job of placing it front and center. Hash tags like black and proud and black lives matter flood social media and we make an effort to put it in perspective because you see even though #BlackLivesMatter might sound like a joke, here it connects a race.

One day my son asked, “Daddy, where do we come from?” His dad begun to explain the migration of the Nilo-tics and the Nilo-Hamites across the river Nile valley in East Africa. An awareness of his parent’s origin not only fascinated him but satisfied a curiosity and a need to belong. I watched as his chest popped out, he squared his shoulders and listened with intent fascination.  I later learned that it informed his response when the question was paused to him by classmates. Growing up I visited grandparents in Serere and Kumi often enough that in hind sight my parents addressed the question of our identity subconsciously. The next time he asked “Daddy did either you or Mummy’s parents travel out of Uganda?” or “Were any of my grandparents famous?” It was important to give a detailed response.

Color and race in America are sore spots. At one point it was a distant issue but when a fellow Ugandan gets caught in an altercation with the police and loses his life, I realize it’s not far any more. It could be my husband or my son and so we master the safety rules.  When stopped by police – keep your hands in plain sight, follow instructions, don’t make sudden movements, and obey the law. 

Ahh! This is panda gari American style. 

(Panda gari is Swahilli for - "Get in the car". It was a term used by soldiers during the 70's to arrest people en mass - some were not seen again).