Every morning I woke up, looked in the mirror, and  saw the same thing. The same dark, nappy hair. The same dark eyes. The same dark skin. The same as everyone else. Yet, when I walked down the halls I was met with, “Ahhh man here come Timmytopee black ass.” When I raised my hand in class, “Timmytop always wanna raise his damn hand.” In the lunchroom, “Why yo skinny ass ain’t eating nothing Tommytoupe.” I went home to the same nigerian music blasting from the T.V. The smell of jollof rice coming from the kitchen, while my dad is on the phone laughing at the top of his lungs. I woke up the next morning and looked in the same mirror i always do and am met with the same hair, same eyes, same skin. I wondered what made me so different from Trevon, DeAndre, and Terrell. I looked the same as them, talked the same as them, and sounded the same as them. I was a black boy, just like them. 

I was ridiculed for reasons I couldn’t understand. I doubted everything I did. I thought that maybe my skin was too dark, my hair too nappy. I raised my hand less, afraid of the attention it would draw. I wore hoodies all the time, in fear of revealing any part of my skinny body. I walked down the halls with hesitation in every step. “Am I walking weirdly? Did anyone notice me walk by? What are they laughing about? Are they laughing at me? What did I do? How do I stop? Am i sweating to much?” I felt like a stranger in my own body. 

I spent the next year like a ghost. My grades tanked, the relationships I built crumbled, and my parents were worried out of their minds. They decided it was best I got transferred to a new school. A new environment.

I walked into class on the first day, hoodie on, already thinking of what things these kids will say to try to mock me. I walked to my seat. Silence. Why was no one saying anything? The teacher asked a question, the hands of three kids that looked like me shot straight up. One answered, and I waited for the class to laugh at his expense. Applause. Another question. Another hand. Another answer. More applause.  I was confused. Why were they being praised? The teacher calls for attendance. “Temitope Adegbenro” No laughter, no snickering. The same name that I was ostracized for only a year ago, got no reaction from these people. 

I walked down the halls with the same dark, nappy hair I always had. The same dark eyes as usual. The same dark skin I saw every time I looked in the mirror, but I felt like a different person. For a majority of my life I looked for sanctuary in sameness. I spent all my time focusing on what made me like everyone else and never stopped to think about what separated me from everyone else. I realized that my uniqueness was not something to run from, it was mine, apart of me forever, and I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. 

I was born in America, but my heritage is Nigerian. However, I never felt like a “pure” Nigerian. My whole life was spent in America, learning its culture and traditions. My parents tried to teach me about Nigerian culture, but it didn’t mean as much to me as it did to them. I wasn’t born in that country, so I had no real ties or connection to it. What I realized was that, despite which side I identified more with, there was a difference between being “African” and African American. For a long time I felt torn between the two, like I had to be one or the other. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope between the two hemispheres of my identity, until I began to understand that I wasn’t supposed to choose. Being Nigerian, but being born in America are what make me who I am.Being Nigerian didn’t make me any less black. In fact, it gave me new perspectives that only I could offer. I began to feel like I wasn’t walking on a tightrope, but a bridge between two worlds. 

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