What Black History Month means to me

I am a first-generation immigrant to Canada from Nairobi, Kenya, East Africa. I came here when I was 17. This means I was born into privilege. I was born middle-class, black, to two parents who were both there for me, in a country dominated by people who looked, acted, talked and thought like me.

I was neither too light nor too dark and my privilege was unknownst to me. I didn't receive the nicknames associated with the colour of my skin that some of my dark-toned friends did. When I walked the streets or spoke, no one asked me where I originally came from.

To boot, my parents' tribes were dominant (Kikuyu, Kamba) and this added layers to my relationship with the world. I was born and grew up in the capital city, went to good private schools, lived in a nice place, and never quite considered my future beyond the assumption it would be great. I had no hindrances and this gave me implicit bias.

The first time I knew I was black and that my skin tone had political and economic nuances was during my first few years in my new home in London, Canada. Because I didn't know or identify with the words and language being used, I dismissed the people or laughed at the jokes.

It was also a survival tactic - to keep pointing out what was wrong was to lose the few friends and work acquaintances I'd made. To rock the boat at school or work was to become some of the words I'd heard levelled at me - angry black woman, entitled and ungrateful immigrant.

Some were hard to laugh at or ignore but I did. Pig noises from passersby, the sudden, "the room are taken" or "the job position is taken" or "Oh! I thought you were French or something from your name, Julia Katsivo, I didn't know you were black!" Yes. "I want someone else to serve me." This last one came from the elderly home I volunteered in my first few months in Canada because I missed my grandparents soooo much. "I don't like black coffee" was another code I learned in a different volunteer capacity. In each instance, I was switched with another to accommodate the requests. For the first few years, I allowed it - I smiled, I laughed, and I said something to make everyone else around me feel better about the situation.

I am often the only person who looks like me in the summits I speak in, conferences I attend, groups I join. I'm often the only person my colour in my friendship groups. I am often many people's first personal experience with a black person. I am often pushed by industry leaders to either join melanated circles or represent by speaking exclusively about my experiences. I did not sign up to be the spokesperson for black people. I too am learning - because black history is different for all black people. A case in point is how different we experience our blackness between my sister and me - she was born here, a generation apart.

Black history for a first-generation African in Canada can look like this:

1 - Sell everything in the mother country to meet the financial requirements for immigration

2- Denounce your mother country. In early 2000, the Government of Kenya sent my family a lovely notice advising we had to choose a Nationality and could not be both. My heart broke into a million pieces as I wrote and signed that I chose to be Canadian. "I will always be Kenyan" was what I swore under my breath. This has now changed and dual citizenship is allowed

3- Forget the Queen's English and learn Canadian English and the differences between American English. Repeat, explain, reframe yourself each time you speak because no one understands your words, your accent or both. Try house or job hunting with your new-found impediment

4- Get a job. This one is painful. You are fortunate and grateful for the job and yet you weep when you get it. Because it has nothing to do with all your hard-earned credentials, work experience and life experience - because you got all that from Africa and even though it was good enough to answer the call to apply for immigration, it is not good enough in your new home. Your first job, and maybe for the next decade, will break your heart.

I learned how to work from the ground up from my mother. This beautiful amazing woman with a Ph.D., the first female director of Kenya's medical research, the first woman in so much during her career in Kenya, a titan.

Here in Canada, I watched her strip down her resume, take down all the accolades, high-powered moves, graduate and post-graduate degrees - so she could get a job where her peers were interns. She did it with soooo much grace and went to work as though she'd never had a job before, no sign of bitterness. She kept her eye on the ball and sure enough, earned her rightful place. This is where most people say, Yeiii! Happy ending, the Canadian dream!

Here's the thing.... the years it takes to build up are years in which one is unable to save for retirement, save for a rainy day, take your children to Disney or buy a cottage. Not enough has been placed into CPP or EI for when it's truly needed. Buying an actual house means 30 more years of working and most immigrants don't qualify or have the money to buy a home until their mid or late 40s. So working beyond retirement years is not a choice or option - it is the way.

For most first-generation immigrant children, missing out on classmates' birthdays, prom parties, and other "normal" growing up experiences is the norm - because there is no budget for that. Calling or visiting the mother country is out of the question (especially when we first came here in 1997) and when a connection is made, the experiences are so different and vast.

How do you explain to a clueless yet loving relative's "You're so lucky to be where you are" Because yes, you are fortunate, but there is a price and you had no idea it included feeling lost and not quite knowing who you are or what you're doing anymore. "When will you send money?" How do you explain that the job you got is what you could get and that you're far away from any sense of security or stability?

There is no way to account for the loss of income and security and the amount of catching up that has to be done. I've heard the comments that poor planning leads to working beyond retirement. I know from my experience that that simply isn't true but coming from privilege, life can look like a straight line, black and white, either is or isn't.

The networking, alliances, associations made in high school and carried through the university years are lost too. There is no time for thinking too far ahead when you're busy trying to learn a new language (Queen's English is out remember), learn a new culture, assimilate in the workplace, make some money to contribute to the home, babysit the younger siblings, and try and find yourself because you were plucked from what you once knew and where you felt you belonged.

Graduate school and try to get into the workforce. Answer the questions every day, "Where are you originally from?"

The one statement that's stayed with me was a woman at work. "I saw the news. You must be so happy you're here and not there." It took everything in me not to ball my eyes out. She was talking about the 1998 terrorist bombing that took place in Nairobi amongst other places that year. I lost loved ones, my beloved country was shaken to its core. The closest I can come to describing how I felt when I watched CNN unravel the news was how Canadians and Americans felt watching 9-1-1. No, I wasn't happy I wasn't there. I was devastated that I was so so so far away - how can you explain that to someone who's only ever been in one place?

5 - outside looking in

This becomes the way of life. No matter the integration, the job title, the friends, the house, the new way of life - there is an unease that hovers above, the way one feels when they're a permanent guest in someone's house. Case in point, I've been here for 23 years. In that time, I've participated and contributed to my country through volunteerism, engaging local communities wherever I am, creating events for local entrepreneurs etc and at each interaction, "Where are you from" always comes up or the back-handed compliment, "You don't sound like you have an accent" or one of the faves, "You speak English really well."

6 - miss out here, miss out there

Life goes on and one of the hardest things to go through is watching life go on 8,000 miles away. People getting married, having babies, dying, being buried. Shared moments or experiences, the things you grew up taking for granted (my siblings and I will laugh together into old age, I'll be there as my cousin's maid of honour....) you get to watch it from far away. And when it's your turn, the same distance precludes your loved ones from joining you and they too - watch your life and the moments they thought they'd share with you - from far

7 - you pay the price for future generations

I am learning that the fruits of migration are eaten several generations later. That what we do and how we do it is not for us, much as we thought it was. It really is for the future - for our children. Much the same way our parents made their moves out of love, thinking only of us and our future.

Just like my foremothers and forefathers fought to rid Africa of its unwanted guests. For the future, for their children.

First-generation African immigrants, we press onward. For the future, for our children, for a better history.