Personal Narrative: I Am African

When I was younger, I used to be so mad that I was African; everyone used to make fun of me. It all started when my “friend” Keyonna came over to my house one day doing a group project. She found out I was African she said “Ew you’re African” I said yes. She continued to insult me, saying that Africans stinks and they’re ugly. That moment I asked myself why am I African? I was so embarrassed. I was only in elementary school so you can image how I felt at the time. The next day she went back to school and told everyone that I was African. The students started to make fun of me, calling me an “African booty scratcher”. I went home crying to my parents about how kids were making fun of me because I was African. I was so confused at the time because I didn’t know it was a bad thing to be African. A couple of months later it was summer time. I was so excited that I didn’t have to see those kids again because I was moving to a new school. My phone started to ring I ran

I love the sound of African music; the beat always makes me want to dance no matter what mood I am in. The food is amazing. Watching my grandmother, mom, and aunts cook from scratch on the holidays really made me realize that I enjoy being African. Waking up with my eyes burning from the pepper is terrible, but it was so worth it. My mother used to yell at me to help me for not helping prepare meals, but I do not like cutting onions, or blending peppers. It made me sick to my stomach, but I always wanted to learn how making African food. My mother and grandmother remind me what I was missing out if I wasn’t African. They made sure the mix our culture and the American culture so my brothers and I can have the best of both worlds. Being African is a part of me and I would not trade it for the world? This was a learning experience for me. Being myself is the best thing that I could have ever