A Girl Who Wouldn't Change Her Roots for Anything, by Lily Girma

Winter-Spring 2007

I  grew up far from my land. Lily the “ferenji”. That was my nickname at home when I was a kid. After all, I didn’t eat wot, it was too spicy; or injera, it was too bitter. I was too afraid to speak Amharic, but that was because I was constantly teased for it (how cute she sounds, say it again!), and I didn’t get the jokes, or even the “terets.” Slowly but surely, I started to believe I probably was “ferenji.” I would secretly pray that one day, being different wouldn’t seem so terrible.

I grew up in the beautiful country of Cote D’Ivoire. Our family left Addis when I was just nine months old. From kindergarten through part of high school, I was surrounded by francophones – there, I studied, breathed and lived the French system. My friends were kids from Cameroon, Ivory Coast, Lebanon, France, Italy, and Spain, to name a few. Everything about me was certainly different – from my taste buds to the systematic way in which I blurted “Bonjour” every morning. But at home, I was always thrown back into the Ethiopian world.

 My parents were born and raised in Ethiopia. Conscious of keeping me and my siblings firmly rooted in our culture, they’d brought our nanny along with us from Addis. Between her and my mother, I picked up Amharic in no time, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time and was afraid to speak it. They chatted quickly, but I caught on more than they ever realized. As young as six, I developed a thirst, a yearning to belong to my culture. So much so that I was elated when, the summer I turned thirteen, my cousin and I sat out on the veranda while she taught me the Ethiopian alphabet… a-bu-gi-da…But still, I felt something was missing.

Later, at fourteen, my father gave me the opportunity to study in Europe, and so I ventured to England, where I was then suddenly surrounded by British girls at an all girls’ boarding school in Bournemouth, a small town south, by the Channel. I was one of two black girls in the entire school – the other being from Zambia. Everyone knew us, and there was nowhere to hide. No French culture to belong to, much less an Ethiopian one. I was completely out of my comfort zone. But it wasn’t long before I had a British accent of my own. The only thing I missed was home, and my life in Cote d’Ivoire. No, I definitely wasn’t an “Addis Ababa Lej.”

To my surprise, moving to the US and in particular the Washington DC area brought me closer to my roots –  and emphasized the identity issue I was having. Eighteen and going well into my twenties, I had only one question – where was home for me? Ethiopia? Ivory Coast? What was I – Ethiopian?

Francophone? African? Universal? Did I have to be something? I mulled and mulled over the question, one that my dad asked me jokingly one lunchtime in Abidjan, watching me eat rice and beans while he dug into his wot -- “Liliye, what are you exactly – French? Or maybe West African?” Years later, it was haunting me, and there was no getting away from it. Because here in the US, more so than in Europe or Africa, where you come from often defines whom you spend your time with; at the very least, the pressure is there to stick to your own. At first I only made ferenji friends, from various countries. That was all I knew… When we were out and about, it was often met with disapproving or curious looks from fellow Ethiopians –Is she or isn’t she…. Ethiopian? “What are you doing with them?” one guy asked me once, pointing to my eclectic group of friends. I felt singled out, resentful.

Over time though, I shifted a little toward my own kind. You could say that a piece of me still wanted to find out and try. The yearning was still there. But it was no piece of cake. Frustration came when I couldn’t relate to stories of Addis or to schools – it seemed like you were always asked what school you belonged to. But there were none of those common denominators for me! My habitual “No, I grew up in Ivory Coast” would be met with a surprised “Ooh…” followed by a smart “So you’re a ferenji!” followed by… silence. I just wasn’t “one of them” and soon, the interest would wane. Being in a long-term relationship with an Ethiopian guy for the first time also was no walk in the park. Sure, he moved to the US during his teenage years like me, and had many foreign friends, but he was never teased for it, because he was raised in Ethiopia, and had the right balance of both worlds. I, on the other hand, would get constantly teased – “Lily and her ferenij guadenoch!” his friends and siblings would tease. Puzzled, I gave up and thought I will never belong. I decided that I wasn’t typically Ethiopian, but I was African.

 

My big change came when I visited Ethiopia for the first time, at the age of 28. And also for the first time, it didn’t matter to me that I didn’t grow up there. It didn’t matter that I didn’t always get the jokes or know the lyrics to all the Ethiopian songs. It didn’t matter that I  didn’t know what Arat Kilo was or all the neighborhoods by heart. And it didn’t matter who decided to think I was a “ferenji .” Because there, in Ethiopia, I realized I was Ethiopian to my core, even if I’d grown up overseas– I spoke my language, I knew the culture, and I felt at home. No one could take that away from me. I felt happy, never out of place – surrounded by people who looked just like me. For the first time in my life, I was not a foreigner or a ferenji in a foreign country. Strolling in Addis with my first Ethiopian boyfriend … I was fully assimilated!

On a more serious note, I understood better, after that summer, my roots and the reasons for the quirks and nuances of our amazingly complex culture. My sense of belonging and pride were always there, but it took a visit to cement those feelings, to make me realize that at the end of the day, I was not a “ferenji.” I was different maybe, and more complex than most, but no less Ethiopian.

 

My difference, I came to realize, is my blessing – it helped me open my mind and adapt to other cultures, or speak any one of a handful of languages whenever it suits me, not to mention my own. Finally, I realized that I didn’t have to split up my world into two – the “ferenji” and the Ethiopian – or balance anything out; and I didn’t have to explain. I was just me, Lily the Ethiopian girl.

Lily Girma is an attorney in the Washington, DC office of Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher and Flom, LLP. Lily writes fiction in her free time, and is passionate about travel, fashion, music, and children and women’s causes. Lily can be reached at ethiopienne@yahoo.com