Where are you from? Common question for Black US travelers
“What part of Africa are you from?” is one question I didn’t anticipate talking about with strangers abroad. But about five years – three stints living in Europe – and 15 countries later it’s my most asked question.
I was 20 years old and studying abroad in Granada, Spain. All I wanted to do was learn Spanish, drink wine, eat tapas and travel. Yet the more I traveled across Europe, the more people asked me about my roots. And for years, I could not pinpoint what to call it.
As a Black American woman, I’ve been in conversations about racial ambiguity amongst Black people. It often links to deeper discussions about colorism, biracial identity, and pretty privilege.
But unpacking my ethnic ambiguity as someone who I do not know attempted to place me in an African country based on my body, while seemingly ignoring the global history of the transatlantic slave trade that brought my ancestors unwillingly to the United States, was perplexing.
Being ethnically ambiguous feels odd and, at times, uncomfortable. In my
travels across Europe, I’ve even had people debate and argue with me, insisting I couldn’t be from the U.S. because I am Black. They would look at my nose and say I had to be Nigerian, or because I speak Spanish, I must be from a Latin American country. I later learned I was not alone – this was common for many Black Americans.
“Even with our passports in hand, they’re like you’re not American enough,” said Kay Kingsman, the travel blogger behind The Awkward Traveller.
As a racially and ethnically ambiguous Black American woman, Kingsman experiences ambiguity on both sides. “In the United Arab Emirates, they assume I am Arab, like Lebanese or Jordanian. In Europe, they just assume I’m from Africa. When I travel in the Middle East, they think I’m Middle Eastern and don’t believe my passport is me.”
Kingsman understands her ambiguity while also acknowledging the privilege of being a Black American traveler. She recalled a specific incident in France when a person did not help her until she spoke English.
“When people are pleasantly surprised that I’m American, it borders on privilege because you’re treating me better because you know I’m American instead of African,” she said.
Alexa Moore, the travel blogger and content creator behind Lil Ms. Awkward, had a slightly different experience.
“For me, it’s never been country-specific. And when I tell people I have no idea (what my heritage is), that doesn’t make sense to them,” she said.
To reconnect with her heritage, Moore took a six-week sabbatical traveling through West Africa in early 2020. She visited countries such as Benin, Ghana, and Togo.
“I remember when I was in Ghana, I thought maybe I’ll blend in, but people know immediately. So yes, we kind of blend in, but at the end of the day, no, we don’t.”
We talk about our Blackness as a race and ethnicity for many Black Americans. After being brutally disconnected from our ancestors’ heritage, Black culture in the United States is something we created.
The questions can be frustrating and uneasy, and we can’t ignore the privilege of a U.S passport. But being a Black American traveler is a unique diaspora identity that inspires curiosity and bonds us no matter where we go.
Though we may never name the African country or tribe we come from, no matter how many DNA tests we take, how we see and call ourselves is most important. Traveling is one way to learn, grow, and reclaim the freedom of movement our ancestors did not have the privilege of experiencing.
“It’s insane the things you learn about yourself while traveling,” Moore said. “You can appreciate your upbringing, culture and identity, even more, when you learn about other people.”