Embracing my Mixed Heritage as a Daughter of the Diaspora
Connecting Ethnic Origin with Colonial Legacies through Genealogy
I’ve finally answered a long-held calling to learn more about my ancestral roots through genealogy.
A couple of months ago, I opened an Ancestry account and began to piece together my family tree using international registration records. I also took a DNA test, which I received last week.
The results of this endeavor have been eye-opening, fascinating, and also…a bit depressing and anti-climactic.
I know my ethnic background—or at least, I always thought I did. My father is 100% Nigerian, and my Mother is half-Panamanian, half-Jamaican-a 1st generation American from New York.
I grew up connected to all of these places. My Father taught me basic Igbo phrases and etiquette; my grandmother recited the Spanish rosary 3 times a day in between her novellas on Telemundo, and during holidays our table was filled with spreads of Okra Soup, Arroz con Pollo, Jerk Chicken, Platanos, and Rum cake.
On random Sundays, Mom would bundle my brother and I into the car for day trips to Queens to visit her family. I always stood in awe of The City, its grandeur and endless possibility running through my veins like magic highways. New York, the late immigration point of my Mother’s lineage, has always felt like home.
Growing up, I never gave my ancestry much thought. Despite my multicultural heritage, my Father always beat into my head that I am 100% Nigerian. This was for two reasons: Firstly, Nigeria is a patrilineal society, where children are categorized by their father’s blood line. And secondly, my Father is a narcissist, so he sort of regards his children as mini-me’s. During early childhood, my disconnect from American identity was so profound that I refused to recite the pledge of allegiance in school.
Dad also made sure I got to experience “home” by forcing me to attend a Nigerian boarding school for two years. Ironically, it was when I went to Nigeria as a teen that my ethnic differences became even more pronounced—which I will get into later.
My Mother is mixed. Obviously. Both of her parents are mixed too. So, my Mother’s background is the result of intergenerational mixing.
Until recently, I thought it was simple: My Grandmother is Panamanian, and my Grandfather is Jamaican. Latinas are a race of people who have light skin and dark curly hair. Jamaicans are black. Half of my ancestors are from these groups. Easy. Dunn.
It wasn’t until I learned the history of these categories that I realized that no, Latina is not a race. People of any ethnic origin can be Latino. In fact, “Latino” doesn’t describe anything other than being from a region of the Americas that was colonized by the Spaniards or Portuguese.
And no actually, Jamaicans are not originally African, they were Indigenous Taíno Indians. “Blacks” were brought to Jamaica on slave ships from West Africa in the 1600s, after Indigenous Caribbeans were expended and exterminated—an atrocity that long predates American slavery. Many Panamanians also have Jamaican lineage.
So you mean my ancestors were slaves?
That was primarily what I sought to understand. What forces created my Mother, and what created me? And how does this place some of my lived experiences into context?
Yesterday, I came across an essay by
called, “White Culture Has No Culture: What Racism Really Is, and Why So Many White People Don’t Understand It”.That piece was rich in resonance for me, as it so clearly articulated some of the mixed feelings I had about what I uncovered in my family tree and DNA test. It’s also what inspired me to share my story.
I would like to share a visual journey of what I have discovered about my heritage through travels and research, the clarity and self-awareness I have gained from genealogy, and how I am retaining connection with my roots in the wake of family estrangement.