This is great. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Sudanese Americans do not fit neatly into the existing racial classifications of the American society.
I always knew I was black. My childhood was the scent of coconut oil hair cream and the taste of bean pie after Friday prayers in a Bilalian mosque on Chicago’s south side. I knew the words to Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika and called Harold Washington my mayor, even though I lived in the suburbs.
My parents had immigrated to the United States from Sudan in the late 1970s and raised my sister and me to be comfortable in our skin. I spoke Arabic at home and English at school where it seemed no one else agreed that I am black.
Outside of the box
When my father registered me for kindergarten, the school administrator told him that we had to select a box to designate our race.
My father – raised in a post-colonial Sudan…
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