This story is syndicated from The Black and White, the newspaper of Walt Whitman High School in Washington, DC. The original version of the story ran here.
It was a typical day in seventh grade, and as the bell rang loudly over the speaker system, I walked toward my history class, unsure what topic we’d be discussing. I found my seat and directed my attention to the board. In huge, bold letters on the slideshow, it read: “THE HISTORY OF SLAVERY IN THE U.S.” I sighed, knowing what was soon to come— ignorant jokes, pointed stares and uncomfortable questions.
At first, things seemed fine. No one looked at me strangely as the teacher began. Then, my classmate turned his head and asked, “Hey Dinah, how does it feel to have grandparents who were slaves?”
My face burned hotly. My mind flooded with shame, embarrassment and humiliation. I also felt utterly confused. At the surface level, this was blunt racism. But pushing past those thin layers, there was a hidden underlying issue: cultural erasure, the suppression of a cultural group’s heritage driven by dominant cultures through neglect.
To my white classmates,“Black” and “African American” are synonyms, but they actually hold important literal and historical distinctions. An African American is a Black individual with American ancestry, primarily descended from slaves in the U.S. Black American, on the other hand, is a term used to encompass a global identity, including individuals of African descent from various regions.
As a child of two proud Ethiopian parents, I am a Black American. Still, throughout my life, classmates and teachers have often put me into a box that wasn’t my own. My grandparents were not slaves, as my classmate offensively implied. I grew up with traditional Ethiopian values and beliefs: respecting my elders, having religious faith, and most importantly, modesty. The external world, though, constantly expected me to embody an identity that didn’t fully represent me.
In my freshman year of high school, this tension became clearer when I joined my school’s rowing team. At first, I saw no issue with the jokes my teammates made about my race. In fact, I played into their stereotypes entirely, laughing when they called me their “Black queen” or saved my contact name in their phones as “My favorite slave.”They made constant jokes that pointed me to a culture they assumed was mine. In all honesty, I always laughed with them. I was grateful to belong, and accustomed to brushing things off as a cost of that belonging.
As I’ve grown older and started to think more seriously about my identity, I’ve realized that the treatment I once tolerated wasn’t so harmless. Going along with these jokes didn’t protect me or my friends — it encouraged the cycle of racism and of cultural erasure. It encouraged people to see only one version of “Blackness,” while erasing the individuality of people like me.
It all came to a head when my team and I traveled to Canada for a rowing regatta. On the van ride, my teammates wanted to blast rap music from the speakers. The girls started playing “Not Like Us” by Kendrick Lamar, a then-trending song that included racially-targeted language like the N-word or the term “slaves.” Every time the artist said the N-word in the song, my teammates would say my name in its place. Though American culture has unfortunately associated that slur with Black people, people in Ethiopia rarely use or mention it. Its meaning exists almost entirely within American history, not my own family’s background.
As they continued singing, I awkwardly smiled with them, but when they sang Lamar’s line, “Homie still doubled down callin’ us some slaves,” as “Homie still doubled down callin’ us some Dinahs,” a light switched on in my brain. I realized the situation had escalated from microaggression to definitive racism, and I felt hurt. What made it even more confusing was that the insult wasn’t just racist—it singled out the wrong person. They were mocking me not for who I was, but for who they incorrectly assumed I was. They were making a mockery of a culture that was not mine, and that I had no right to excuse offensive language toward.
That strange disconnect—people attacking me and misidentifying me at the same time—just felt wrong. I also recognized that my silence enabled that behavior to continue, and even if I didn’t immediately process their words as an attack, the disrespect was real — it contributed to a culture that disregards African American background, identity and dignity. My laughter and agreement had only hidden the weight of the issue. In that moment, I realized that I needed to educate my peers not only on why their racist remarks were unacceptable, but also how they were factually incorrect.
The Black American community is powerful and has represented and continues to represent a long history of struggle and resilience — strengths that I deeply respect and admire. However, being Ethiopian means I carry a different cultural perspective alongside that larger racial identity. When people make the assumption that I share the exact same experiences or struggles as all African Americans, it unintentionally erases the unique history and challenges that the community has faced in this country. It undermines generations of systemic oppression, resistance and civil injustice that are specific to African American life—experiences that I empathize with, but are not my own to claim.
Although teaching American history is essential, schools can start broadening their approach to teaching Black history, educating students not just about African American narratives, but also the stories of Afro-Caribbean, African immigrant and other diasporic communities. Teachers can invite and encourage students to share their cultural backgrounds, not just on heritage days or months, but as a part of routine learning. Students can practice curiosity without assumption: asking, listening and understanding before labeling.
My experiences have taught me that being a Black American is only one part of who I am. My Ethiopian identity, with its own traditions, values and history is just as important, even if the people around me have to squint to see it.