If you didn’t read Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie this summer, you have no excuses—classes don’t start until Wednesday. Now is the perfect time to read Adichie’s novel, a story of cross-continental love, hair-braiding, and race in America. Aug. 28 in particular is an especially apt time to pick the book up because this Wednesday is the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington.
The reverberating echo of Dr. King’s determined “I have a dream” has the same effect. But Americanah asks an important question: Has Dr. King’s dream really been fulfilled?
We did get rid of Jim Crow, so our legal system is supposedly desegregated. Yet the Supreme Court’s recent choice to strike section 4 (b) of the Voting Rights Act was a step backwards towards de jure racism, and incarceration rates by race suggest stark inequalities under law. On top of that, Trayvon Martin’s death and its repercussions—much like the issues painted in Americanah–make me ashamed of how ubiquitous racism still is in the United States.
Americanah tells the tale of Ifemelu as a Nigerian immigrant. Fascinating are both her experiences as a black woman in America and her stories from Lagos, where she left her family, friends, and the love of her life.
Ifemelu is bright, gutsy, kind, and just flawed enough to be lovable. Her narration is casual. It’s enthralling. Her small Lagos apartment—filled with her mother’s religion and father’s depression—is just as compelling as 13 years’ worth of American addresses, shared with insensitive roommates, adored cousins, and finally “Professor Hunk,” her “Black American” boyfriend.
Her Nigerian ex-boyfriend, Obinze, is almost as good as Ifemelu herself. His accounts of working illegally in London and the discomfort of “hustling” back home only to become the stereotyped Nigerian man expected to bring bags of cash on every trip abroad—at least according to the U.S. Customs officer—are riveting.
Ifemelu and Obinze’s stories—so real but so rarely told to an American literary audience—come to life through Adichie’s lush descriptions. What stays with me now are the posts Ifemelu shares from her blog Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known As Negros) by a Non-American Black. As a black woman, Ifemelu finds herself treated like any other “American Black” even though she was not raised here. And yet she possesses the keen, critical eye of a newcomer. Her blog—and Adichie’s book, in part—are about sharing the experience of race with “American Blacks” and with people like me.
I am a white woman. In fact, I’m unusually pale, blonde haired, blue eyed, and thus don’t face many of the problems Ifemelu encountered. I have white privilege, and Ifemelu addresses this very privilege head on in her blog: “The Appalachian hick guy is fucked up, which is not cool, but if he were black, he’d be fucked up plus. She asked Professor Hunk: Why must we always talk about race anyway? Can’t we just be human beings? (crossover99.com) ” And Professor Hunk replied, “that is exactly what white privilege is, that you can say that.”
Maybe this is why I have never felt comfortable talking about race. In all honesty, it’s simple, convenient, and shockingly easy for me to go through my day without ever thinking about race—mine or other people’s. Instead, I’m free to think of everyone as “just human beings.”
When reminded of race, as Ifemelu points out, many of us with privilege are quick to skirt the topic: “If you are having a conversation with an American and you want to discuss something racial that you find interesting, and the American says, ‘Oh, its so simplistic to say it’s race, racism is so complex,’ it means they just want you to shut up already. Because of course racism is complex … What is simplistic is saying ‘It’s so complex.’”
But I don’t want that. I don’t want to simplify, box up, and put aside race, which I can so easily do as a white person.
Americanah forced me to see ongoing racial tensions in a way I never have. I still don’t know how to talk about race. I still don’t know exactly what it’s like for Ifemelu, or my “American Black” friends, or the 40 percent of young black men without high school diplomas who are in prison today. But I know this inequality is there. I want to learn more, listen more, read more, and I refuse to oversimplify. On Wednesday, I will commemorate the March on Washington by listening, learning, and adding to that united sea of humanity in our August heat. As Ifemelu says, “Sometimes people just want to feel heard. Here’s to possibilities of friendship and connection and understanding.”
