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I Grew Up African — But America Makes It Hard to Be Black
Where I’m from, color means little. That made my transition to the United States a chilling one.
This time last year, I was free to travel anywhere I wanted in my native Cameroon, and no one blinked an eye. All I needed was my identity card and the privilege of my first name. Kamga is the most popular name in the Bamileke tribe, historically situated in the French-speaking part of the country; with my name, there was no doubt I could speak French. I could walk into a room, board a cab, order at any restaurant — choose who I wanted to be, whenever I needed to be, without question. Bilingual on paper, French en réalité.
In my corner of the world, I was accepted anywhere and everywhere.
Yet as I grew, my life experience began to diverge from that of my parents’ generation. Spending months at a time in a boarding school will do that. Watching anime and How I Met Your Mother, having the internet to back you up when debating issues, and finding similarities between your friends and the cast of Friends will do that.
In a country where high-speed internet remains a luxury, I still had podcasts like This American Life. I lived a life of ideas and dreams. I came in contact with startup founders and techies in the…
