In 24 years, my identity has been molded by three continents, seven countries, eight cities, and two villages. As the daughter of a diplomat, I’ve always seen my peripatetic lifestyle as a privilege. It wasn’t until a few years ago, triggered by a drunken conversation with a group of friends at the Doc Watson’s Bar on the Upper Eastside of Manhattan, that I even considered my assorted consciousness.
We had been exchanging stories about life in New York City when someone said: “No one in New York is from New York. We leave our tiny hometowns to come here, and we made it! It’s a struggle but at least we made it.”
Having always lived as a foreigner, the romance of having a hometown was lost on me in that moment. A Hometown is a place left behind that you always carry with you. A point of reference for how far you’ve come in life. It’s where your roots are; a place you go back to, if need be, to pause or restart your life. A Hometown is somewhere you were dying to leave but will always miss. Going back is a nostalgic trip down memory lane, not a life changing adventure. From Amman, Jordan to Baltimore, Maryland then to Montpellier, France, and many others, I had left behind homes that weren’t hometowns. And never looked back.
That night as I parted ways with my friends, I was hyperaware that ‘hometown’ had no meaning for me. I walked past the usual crowd of young, affluent Upper Eastsiders spilling out from the overcrowded bars and onto the sidewalk, where they huddled for warmth and cigarettes, all the while accepting that I did not share in the sentiment of ‘arrival’ that New York gives you because I did not have a hometown to run away from.
By December, I had left the unforgiving New York chill for the warm, dry, 84 degree weather of Dakar, Senegal. I had never lived in Senegal, but held a Senegalese passport and a stereotypical Senegalese name, so I found myself in an odd position: not a foreigner, but not local enough.
When people asked where I was from I would respond, “Senegal.” They would smile broadly and kick off the conversation in Wolof. Then I would interrupt and apologize that I did not speak Wolof fluently. I would try to save face by clarifying that I’m Sérère, one of the six ethnic groups in Senegal, and can speak Sérère. But still, they would ask why I don’t speak the dominant local language. I would try my best to explain.
“Actually, I only moved to Senegal about three years ago. Yes, the accent… no, I’m not American, my brother is. I went to high school in Jordan… it was fun actually. Haha no, I’m not Kenyan, I understand Swahili because I but grew up in Nairobi… Because English is my first language.”
Disappointed, their expressions would switch to a tight-lipped smile and they would politely nod in understanding.
It stung a bit in the beginning, I’ll admit. The impersonal “oh you’re not really Senegalese”, the foreigner tax at the market (everything was 2000 CFA more expensive for me than for locals), or being referred to as “toubab” (white person/westerner). But there were moments when I felt deserving of the passport I carried. Like the validation of meeting a Sérère person and being able to converse confidently. Or being asked for directions and actually being able to help. This tug-of-war between validation and rejection poked holes in the sense of self I had built up over the years.
Experiencing home as a native-foreigner I wondered, for the first time in all my travels, who was I? I wondered about the transformations I went through in order to assimilate to the different cultures. ‘Is that who I am,’ I thought, ‘or is that who I was in that particular country?’ Going home to Senegal helped me make the distinction between the two. I had never stopped and reflected on my travel experiences because I was never in a space where I belonged. Home is part of the journey of finding yourself, yet it is the most overlooked aspect of traveling. This realization was like waiting, watching the ripples of the water calm down, and finally seeing my reflection clearly.
By my second year in Dakar, I was very comfortable answering “Where are you from?” My multi-level answers, I discovered, were not so unique. I had found a group of millennial Africans who had lived or studied in Europe and/or America. Like me, they took on multiple identities as they navigated the demands of tradition and modernity. Speaking fluent French or English but peppering their speech with Wolof words. Posting one Instagram photo sporting the newest Adidas sneakers, and in the next photo wearing a Boubou (with the caption ‘Swag’). Being a vagabond is second nature to us. We were always born in one place, went to college in another place, then moved to another place for five years, and currently live in this place but spend Christmas with the family in yet another place.
Their connection to Africa was absolute. I admired how rooted they were. Even during time spent in other parts of the world they created their own communities, like Little Senegal in Harlem, NY, and Little Ethiopia in LA. That was another aspect of travel I had overlooked: the anchor. Taking parts of yourself on the journey to find yourself. Travel is always marketed as “become or discover a new you,” but I found that building upon foundational identity allows for more versatility. This discovery provided guidance and comfort that however travel morphs my identity, I will always be grounded within myself and not dependent on a location for validation.
I’m grateful for this little red passport. It can facilitate my curiosity, but always pull me back home. I can flip through it’s pages and admire all the travel stamps, but ultimately find comfort in the large gold emblem of the Republic of Senegal.
***
Bringing You the Bigger Picture
Many people like you read our stories to learn about the world beyond Top 10 lists or ‘where to go’ style articles.
Through our travel and food stories, we want to draw attention the bigger picture: to history, politics, social issues, and context. Our publication is free from advertising, so we can set our own agenda. Our readers are not limited by a subscription fee or membership, so they can read thoughtful stories about travel no matter where they live or what they can afford.
We try to include a wide range of opinions and diverse voices, including from emerging writers around the world. Every contribution we receive from readers like you, big or small, goes directly toward paying our writers. This support enables us to keep producing the stories you love – but we must maintain and build on it in order to exist in a world of clickable lists. Support Curiosity Magazine from as little as $1 – it only takes a minute. Thank you and don’t forget to #beabettertraveler.
