Why I Call Myself Afrikaans
It's sad that this would be my problem: my naiveness and newness to thinking about race has made learning about my progressively-discovered privilege a fairly shame-ridden, ridiculous activity of late. I don't mean that I've only recently gained awareness that race exists or that it creates issues worthy of much attention - I've been blogging and talking about race and ethnicity, particularly in South Africa, for years - but I have only in the past year or so actually begun to step into real awareness of my own whiteness and how it's shaped my perception of society.
I've had a very long commitment to the idea of humbling oneself to those with heavier burdens, those object to oppression, those you might've hurt (with or without intentionality). Particularly with regard to social class, I've always been very embarrassed and hyper-conscious of my biases, the advantages I'm privvy to, how I talk and eat and live. It's never been something I've had any idea what to do with, always something I've had a lot of guilt and self-hate for feeling bad about. I spent a lot of time in middle school, in particular, wishing I could do something for, or even simply think about, someone impacted by real need, someone not being coddled by that unnaturally nurturing, insulating environment. Don't get me wrong - I'm incredibly thankful for my education. I would be nothing I am without my time at Bear Creek and Calvin. But at Bear Creek in particular, there was always this sense of hypocritical ironic fatality to me: that I just had to accept and push away the thought that we were spending thousands upon thousands of dollars on our education while learning about Christian principles of selflessness and justice and charity.
I am up to my neck in privilege. Race privilege and class privilege that are extremely closely intertwined. I also have the privilege of what I might refer to as an intersection of neuro-typicality and a generally kind-looking appearance, such that people tend to like and trust and believe me far more than they would if I were even a little bit uglier, awkwarder, darker, or less classy than I am. I have so much privilege that I'm able to live outside the gender binary without feeling almost any direct discrimination. My life is fucking great. And I've never had any idea how to give some of that away without seeming so self-congratulatory that even I want to puke.
The other day, I was listening to a radio program about Afrikaans identity in South Africa. Many people, especially around Johannesburg, have begun to shed this identity label even if it describes them perfectly because they don't want to be associated with our people's racist past and legacy. People don't want to seem connected to Apartheid - they don't feel the connection, either. They don't identify with the insular, faith-centered atmosphere; the misogyny and complimentarianism; the classism; the paternalistic, jack-assish reputation that our people have. I get that. I feel the guilt. I feel the distance. I'm living with that stain.
But people's justifications as they called in! The conversation was so rooted around attempts to become One South Africa, like becoming part of the new nation means to pretend we don't know where we came from. No one's hiding anything. This is the language we speak and the culture we think in - it's "colorblind" bullshit to pretend it doesn't still affect the way we tick. All of these things we're trying to distance ourselves from are built into our framework, and it does nothing to ignore it.
I've talked at length before about my pride for my Afrikaans identity. How deep a connection I've developed to South Africa and my history and my culture because of my risk of separation from it, growing up in America. I am in love with these things for a different reason than most South Africans: because I've felt the power of being identified as "just American" by other people, of losing that part of you, of losing that beautiful expression or that beautiful cultural flourish or that beautiful way of living and thinking and breathing. I feel out of place identifying with and becoming nostalgic upon contact with other African students, but it happens, and I long for a part of me that isn't often recognized to become visible.
That is only one reason I identify as Afrikaans. I also find it sad that white people get to pick and choose how they identify, while people of color everywhere are labeled things without their consent. I find it stupid that many of my Latin American, African, Asian, and Indian friends are immediately pegged as "immigrants" when they sometimes have less connection to their countries of origin than I do; that I could tell people I'm anything I want to, because whiteness is water. I realize that I'm exercising the same degree of power choosing an Afrikaans identity that I would if I choose a German- or French- or Dutch- or British-ancestry identity or an American identity or simply a White identity, but it feels to me something with more integrity not to shy away from what's most influenced me simply because I have the power to decide I'm something else. I have always been Afrikaans - that is how I was raised, and how everyone in my family for generations has been raised. It isn't something I can erase, so I don't want to pretend I have.
I want my identity to make people wary of me, to make them want to listen to me closely, to call me out, to find stupid things I'm saying stupid and tell me off. I am terrified of being considered such a "white ally" that people just gloss over idiotic things I say because... I'm off the hook. I am not off the hook. I come from a beautiful tradition, but an ugly tradition - one I am proud of, because it is me, but one scarred by the most disgusting stains of injustice. People have called Afrikaners white monsters - whether or not that's true, I feel like I have so much privilege that it doesn't even hurt me for people to hold that as a standard against which to judge me.
There is no point in running away from the past, because the past is part of our present. I am Afrikaans because I am responsible for my identity. I want to be accountable for my past. I want to represent the messy reconciliation at work between black and white and brown everywhere. I want to be continually reminded of my place in this struggle as I attempt to learn and seek justice for those from whose oppression I benefit continually. I want to be reminded how much I have to learn, and how much my community has to learn. There is no point in trying to step forward without acknowledging and compensating for the chains pulling us back.
I've had a very long commitment to the idea of humbling oneself to those with heavier burdens, those object to oppression, those you might've hurt (with or without intentionality). Particularly with regard to social class, I've always been very embarrassed and hyper-conscious of my biases, the advantages I'm privvy to, how I talk and eat and live. It's never been something I've had any idea what to do with, always something I've had a lot of guilt and self-hate for feeling bad about. I spent a lot of time in middle school, in particular, wishing I could do something for, or even simply think about, someone impacted by real need, someone not being coddled by that unnaturally nurturing, insulating environment. Don't get me wrong - I'm incredibly thankful for my education. I would be nothing I am without my time at Bear Creek and Calvin. But at Bear Creek in particular, there was always this sense of hypocritical ironic fatality to me: that I just had to accept and push away the thought that we were spending thousands upon thousands of dollars on our education while learning about Christian principles of selflessness and justice and charity.
I am up to my neck in privilege. Race privilege and class privilege that are extremely closely intertwined. I also have the privilege of what I might refer to as an intersection of neuro-typicality and a generally kind-looking appearance, such that people tend to like and trust and believe me far more than they would if I were even a little bit uglier, awkwarder, darker, or less classy than I am. I have so much privilege that I'm able to live outside the gender binary without feeling almost any direct discrimination. My life is fucking great. And I've never had any idea how to give some of that away without seeming so self-congratulatory that even I want to puke.
The other day, I was listening to a radio program about Afrikaans identity in South Africa. Many people, especially around Johannesburg, have begun to shed this identity label even if it describes them perfectly because they don't want to be associated with our people's racist past and legacy. People don't want to seem connected to Apartheid - they don't feel the connection, either. They don't identify with the insular, faith-centered atmosphere; the misogyny and complimentarianism; the classism; the paternalistic, jack-assish reputation that our people have. I get that. I feel the guilt. I feel the distance. I'm living with that stain.
But people's justifications as they called in! The conversation was so rooted around attempts to become One South Africa, like becoming part of the new nation means to pretend we don't know where we came from. No one's hiding anything. This is the language we speak and the culture we think in - it's "colorblind" bullshit to pretend it doesn't still affect the way we tick. All of these things we're trying to distance ourselves from are built into our framework, and it does nothing to ignore it.
I've talked at length before about my pride for my Afrikaans identity. How deep a connection I've developed to South Africa and my history and my culture because of my risk of separation from it, growing up in America. I am in love with these things for a different reason than most South Africans: because I've felt the power of being identified as "just American" by other people, of losing that part of you, of losing that beautiful expression or that beautiful cultural flourish or that beautiful way of living and thinking and breathing. I feel out of place identifying with and becoming nostalgic upon contact with other African students, but it happens, and I long for a part of me that isn't often recognized to become visible.
That is only one reason I identify as Afrikaans. I also find it sad that white people get to pick and choose how they identify, while people of color everywhere are labeled things without their consent. I find it stupid that many of my Latin American, African, Asian, and Indian friends are immediately pegged as "immigrants" when they sometimes have less connection to their countries of origin than I do; that I could tell people I'm anything I want to, because whiteness is water. I realize that I'm exercising the same degree of power choosing an Afrikaans identity that I would if I choose a German- or French- or Dutch- or British-ancestry identity or an American identity or simply a White identity, but it feels to me something with more integrity not to shy away from what's most influenced me simply because I have the power to decide I'm something else. I have always been Afrikaans - that is how I was raised, and how everyone in my family for generations has been raised. It isn't something I can erase, so I don't want to pretend I have.
I want my identity to make people wary of me, to make them want to listen to me closely, to call me out, to find stupid things I'm saying stupid and tell me off. I am terrified of being considered such a "white ally" that people just gloss over idiotic things I say because... I'm off the hook. I am not off the hook. I come from a beautiful tradition, but an ugly tradition - one I am proud of, because it is me, but one scarred by the most disgusting stains of injustice. People have called Afrikaners white monsters - whether or not that's true, I feel like I have so much privilege that it doesn't even hurt me for people to hold that as a standard against which to judge me.
There is no point in running away from the past, because the past is part of our present. I am Afrikaans because I am responsible for my identity. I want to be accountable for my past. I want to represent the messy reconciliation at work between black and white and brown everywhere. I want to be continually reminded of my place in this struggle as I attempt to learn and seek justice for those from whose oppression I benefit continually. I want to be reminded how much I have to learn, and how much my community has to learn. There is no point in trying to step forward without acknowledging and compensating for the chains pulling us back.
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