Elizabeth Tadesse

December 2002

Elizabeth Tadesse is a soft-spoken, intelligent young Ethiopian artist whose elegant manner of dressing matches her profession.  Unlike most other Ethiopian artists who use bright colors (gold, red, green and blue), she uses colors that closely resemble the nature that she loves. 

Almost all of Elizabeth’s artwork portrays the hardship and plight of Ethiopian women.  She depicts Ethiopian women carrying babies on their backs while doing household chores, carrying well-fetched water or wood for cooking on their backs, under aged girls being forced to marry against their wills, or simply women looking despondent and helpless. So we decided to know more about this talented independent minded and equally determined young artist. The following are her answers to of our questions.

Mela: How did you decide to become an artist? 

Elizabeth: When I was just a little girl I always scribbled on papers so my sister older sister Thsehay, who was watching me very closely encouraged me to go to art school and learn more about the field.  I did this and graduated from the Addis Abeba Arts School in Ethiopia. Unfortunately, in Ethiopia artists are neither respected nor supported by the society at large.  Subsequently, after I received my diploma, the biggest challenge was getting materials to do my work.  However, that problem was solved when I started to work with eight other female artists.  Among them were one American and one Norwegian.  These two women had chances to travel outside of Ethiopia often returned with art materials that helped us tremendously.

Mela Were they giving you these materials for free?"

Elizabeth: No! No!  These materials were not free, but they gave us such a reasonable price - one within our reach - that we did not mind paying."

Mela” Why is that all of your artwork focuses on women and girls?

Elizabeth: This is because in our society women/girls are at the bottom of the social spectrum. They endure constant hardships, not only in their homes but also outside where they are expected to do back breaking chores whenever needed. They are given no voice in matters that affect their lives or that of the community in which they live.

Mela: Do you have any agency that could promote you artwork?

Elizabeth: No, I don’t have any agency, I am my own promoter. So far, I had exhibition in City Hall, at the National Museum, at the Italian Cultural Institute, at the Alliance Ethiopian Francaise in Addis Ababa, Tanzania, Athens and at Kishnev in Moscow. I am so hopeful I will have a big one in the United States as well.

Mela: How are you able to do all this under difficult situation as a female artist? 

Elizabeth: I am sure of myself and very optimistic by nature, and I don’t get discouraged if things don't go my way.  If things don't work the way I expect them to, I don’t give up.  I will try another

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method until I get what I want. I am very independent person I do what I want to do and it was not always an easy thing to do particularly for a woman, but that does not stopped me from doing what I needed to do. I traveled all over Ethiopia by myself because I wanted to know my own country before I began to travel abroad.

The most outrageous thing I did, by Ethiopian standards, was when I went to an all men's Ethiopian local bar “Tella Bet” (It is a place where local beer is served and where day laborers, almost all of them low-income men, get together at the end of a hard working day.)  I don’t drink but, as an artist, I have a curious mind and I wanted to see and hear what was going on in the community.

Mela: Wasn’t this a place where women were not allowed to?

Elizabeth: That is true but I dared to follow some men I knew and sat among all those drinking men. Obviously at first they were all shocked, but after awhile they got used to me.  In fact, since I was the only woman, I became someone special and they sort of liked me. What I liked the most about this group was that their conversation was candid.  Unlike the people that I met on a daily basis, they told it like it was.”

As for her future, Elizabeth is so optimistic that she not only believes that someday her artwork will be shown everywhere, but also become an Ethiopian wedding gown designer.

Mela wishes Elizabeth the best in her artistic endeavor.

The Importance of Public Defenders in Our Country

December 2002

We are all given inalienable rights as citizens of this nation.  We all get to vote, speak our minds, and have the right to a fair trail in a court of law.  Our system is based on beautiful ideals including "innocent until proven guilty", " it is better to let ten guilty men go free than to find one innocent man guilty", and "justice for all".  Unfortunately, there are huge disparities between the economic classes leaving many people who face trial unable to afford proper representation in the court system.  The public defenders are appointed by the courts to defend those in need for free.  Everyone needs proper representation and their economic situation shouldn't factor into their right to a fair trail.  It is a noble act that these defenders are doing by providing their legal expertise, but it is usually looked down upon. Often the job is simplified by letting criminals go back onto the streets.

The idea that prosecutors are "the good guys" and defenders are "the bad guys" is a widely shared misconception in our society.  The stereotype illustrates prosecutors as always putting away the rapists, murders, and drug dealers while keeping our neighbor hoods and citizens safe.  The stereotype continues by expressing that defenders let criminals out on the streets, defend their dangerous wrong doings, and threaten society.  These extremes are elementary as we all know that prosecutors are not always "right" and don't always get the "right" people.  Many people forget that everyone deserves a chance before a court, and it is the burden of the government to prove guilt.  It is the defenders that give the helpless defendants this chance to be heard against charges that are only alleged.  It is unfair to blame defenders for higher crime rates or helping "criminals escape from the system".  These noble defenders are assuring citizens of their rights - rights that have the potential of being stripped away by the system.

Immigrants are also in need of public defenders in this country.  Many people come to this country and have run-ins with the law and need the assistance, guidance, and representation that these public defenders provide.  The language barrier is a huge obstacle for many who have just come to this country.  In the court system, without this free representation, many immigrants wouldn't know what to do or who to turn to. They need a fair chance against false allegations and charges.  Everyone in this country is supposed to be presumed innocent until the government proves beyond a reasonable doubt otherwise. 

 

I want to become a defense attorney and have had the opportunity to intern at the Federal Court where I met judges and many defense attorneys.  It made me feel proud to see that people who can't afford legal assistance do have some chance.  As an intern, I had a chance to meet three individuals from the Public Defender's office.  These three individuals, Leo, Catherine and Tamara, gave us all examples of their own hardships and challenges in being public defenders.  They explained to us the lack of recourse and the harsh federal guidelines that sometimes prevent them from doing the best possible job for their clients.

Each of them told us specific stories about when they have had to viciously fight to get justice to open its eyes but still have not succeeded. Despite all these hardships, they were all energized and proud that they could defend people assure fair representation at no cost.  Their strong sense of helping and wanting to provide assistance to those who have become involved in the criminal justice system is very inspiring.  They are here to fight for the individual who is being charged.

It is important that everyone in this society get representation because our justice system cannot work if we solely rely on the police and the government to arrest people and claim that they are guilty.  This system assures us that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, and this needs to be reemphasized.  Charges are just allegations and everyone has the right to be defended.  Defense attorneys make this possible and provide the citizens of this nation a sense of freedom and worth by working for them.  It is extremely important to have these public defenders around because they give balance and justice to our system by searching for the truth.  If it weren't for them, there would be higher prison rates, more innocent people wrongly convicted, and we would have a society that looks similar to that depicted in the movie Minority Report.  Defenders do public service by working for people in need, and for that they should be celebrated and congratulated.

Bare Foot on Golden Street

December 2002

Every so often I hear stories from people who have had the unfortunate luck of sponsoring a person who refuses to work because he finds his new life in America, and the jobs he is asked to take, beneath him.  These stories seem to abound especially this past year as the pool of “acceptable jobs”, whatever they are, has become smaller with the US economy.

I find it striking that, even with so many Ethiopians living in the west, we still have not been able to debunk the myth of the gold paved streets of America.  I believe I know why this is the case.  It is simply because we, those residing in the west, have failed to inform our family, friends and relatives in Ethiopia about how hard we have to work to live here.  For some reason, we also feel the need to continue the myth of the golden streets.  Maybe this is because that was what we dreamed of ourselves before our pilgrimage to this land, and since we are not in the business of ruining others’ dreams, we keep our mouths shut about the whole business. 

I recently found out that a person I know who just moved to America about nine months ago sent pictures of her brand new Honda Accord home.  I found this out during a routine family call to Ethiopia.  Of course, everyone in Addis Ababa was happy for her and pleased she has managed to do so well in such a short time.  I would have been pleased for her, too, had I not known for sure that the girl did not own a car at all.  In fact, it took the girl in question over six months to get a job.  Her job search was a harsh and grueling experience for her since she had that shy Ethiopian girl demeanor that says, "I am not going to talk to you unless you talk to me and the whole time I am going to look at the floor."  Americans don’t seem very fond of this attitude. 

Why would anyone take the time to take a picture of someone else’s car and send it home claiming it as his or her own?  This is because those of us here feel we have to feed the giant golden American dream monster who has diamond studded teeth.  This monster resides in the consciousness of seemingly every Ethiopian, and we think we must keep it alive with our success stories.  It does not matter whether we made up those success stories or not.

I use the word “we” liberally here because, of course, some of us are exceptions.  I have been working on being the exception for awhile now.  Most of the time, this seems to backfire.  The last time I went home, for example, a friend of mine who went home with me and who is from the same neighborhood spent her entire savings to buy gifts for a lot of people who live in our area.  I didn’t do this and ended up looking like a seriously greedy person even though I knew that I had needed to save my money in order to avoid a financially disastrous first month upon my return to America.

I also had the unpleasant experience of boarding a minibus in Addis and giving the wrong amount of money to the attendant.  When he asked me what the hell I thought I was doing and demanded more money, I apologized and told him I just arrived from abroad and did not know the correct fare.  He asked immediately where I came from and I reluctantly told him.  He looked at me up and down, and said, “puhleese…you?…from America?” in the most mocking manner only Amharic seems to afford.  I apparently did not look anything like what I am supposed to when coming for a visit from America.  I didn’t exude the aura of a person whose feet have touched America.  I know the ‘netela’ and flip-flops I had on did not help. 

After the minibus experience, when I made mistakes, I resigned saying I was from Sudan.  People seemed to find that believable.  I am sure there were members of my own family who doubted that I went to the “real” America.  The fact that my address is in North Carolina, a state with which even people in the US are barley familiar, only fuels the suspicion.  My point is that those of us who live in the west have gone too far in displaying consistent images of what people from here should look like.  We have conformed so closely to the expectations of our families, friends and relatives in Ethiopia that when an individual does not fit the mold, she is treated as counterfeit.

When I found out that a girl whom I know for a fact does not have a car has informed her friends and family that she has bought one, I decided to say few words in regard to this part of our Ethiopian-ness.  Are we really so afraid of what others would think of us that we are willing to live up to an American myth we know is a lie?

When I first arrived in the US, life was very hard for me.  I had to learn to support myself.  This meant I had to feed, clothe, and shelter myself and on top of that have extra money for school fees.  I was only seventeen.  As an unskilled worker, I could only do low paying jobs that did not require complicated skills.  I also had to take jobs with the most scheduling flexibility so I could fit them between and after my classes. 

The jobs that worked best for me were jobs such as babysitting, cooking, cleaning houses, mowing lawns, doing laundry, and feeding and walking dogs.  So, I spent the first five years of my American life changing diapers of strangers’ babies, scrubbing bathrooms kneeling on cold tiles, mopping floors for hours at a time, ironing, folding and putting away clothes and making beds in so many houses I can’t even begin to count.  I had a series of houses I cleaned, a series of children I babysat, and a series of household pets I fed, groomed and walked.  To add to my income, I also mowed lawns and flipped burgers over a hot grill.  My jobs taught me what it meant to sweat through life both literally and figuratively.

Although there were times when I did not enjoy to the spoiled kids I babysat or disliked  the biggest houses I had to clean, overall, I believe my experience was a positive one and I grew tremendously from it.  In fact, I distinctly remember walking on the stage to accept my first bachelor degree, and feeling it was not only a Business Administration degree but also a certificate of my experience in life and the great length I had to go to get my education.  There is no doubt that I had to work extremely hard to survive and make something out of myself in America.  I find no shame in relaying this fact to my family and friends in Ethiopia.  No one should.  There is a level of pride and self-respect that comes only with working hard.

So, yes, I am testifying that there are no gold paved streets in America.  When an individual moves to the US, he should know that his decision entails endless sacrifices such as separation from family and friends.  Life here can be a lonely road.  In order to make these sacrifices worthwhile, a person must be prepared to work hard, probably a lot harder than what his mind could ever conjure up when thinking of hard work.  The great thing about America is that, in most cases, it allows you to see and enjoy the fruits of your labor.  The American dream does exist, but it sure as Hell does not come true for those who wait for it twiddling their thumbs.  And it certainly does not come true overnight.

Yemisrach Kifle

Our story, by Laura Cranium

December 2002

I would love to tell you our story: 

My story begins with my new husband and family. I have now taken steps to recapture  control of my life and have chosen a beautiful man to share it with. We have our troubles but he is my friend and equal in every way. We have two heavenly boys, Thomas Ioan and Nicholas Dumitru. Even our eldest son, Tommy, helped the  healing process. His little voice came through to me while in the womb saying to the voices in my head “Hey, stop criticizing my Mommy!” I know that sounds weird but it’s true!  I still, to this day, have to look in the mirror occasionally to know that I'm not hideous, but lovely. I go to a weekly therapy group to convince myself that it wasn't my fault…that I actually was a victim of emotional abuse. Even though the facts stare me in the face! I have to hear the other women tell me their story, a story that sounds exactly like my story, to chip off the large block of doubt on my shoulders. Betsy, the leader of the group called what I had the "Stockholm syndrome," a case where the victims end up loving and defending their captors, no matter how cruelly they were treated. Whatever it was, it really made me lose all sense of reality for a painfully long time. Only by the grace of god (in other words, love), did I recover enough to fight for myself.

I would love to tell you how I met my new family and at the same time put to paper the story of the man who almost succeeded in obliterating me from my own body.

Laurent is a bright spirit… full of optimism.  When I met him I was a robotic shell of who I once was.  I saw his eyes and was immediately affected.  A seed of awareness started to grow but verrrrrry slowly and unconsciously.   It all started six years ago when I met my ex-husband Florin at a symphony  rehearsal.  I was in the beginning of my senior year at Johns Hopkins University's Peabody  conservatory.  I heard Florin as I walked by the room where he was rehearsing on his instrument.   He was just warming up and I  heard two notes... but the vibrato he played with was like a violist.  The  whole reason I played the viola was to make that sound.  Then he quickly  played a scale.  It was like a string of pearls... perfect in each note.  I  watched him through the whole rehearsal and remember feeling reverence  as my stand partner told me of the  world prizes Florin had garnered for his musical ability.  He could manipulate the  emotions of his audience very well, and in turn mesmerized me under his  spell;  like a spider who weaves a web around his prey without the prey  knowing about it until it's dead.  I even had a dream to predict/warn me.  But that was the only message from my intuition/soul because I had lost contact with my inner being and my own powers of consciousness through lack of self-confidence. Why, you ask? Because I was extremely over-protected and controlled as a child.

My music world was all-encompassing and my gentle, trusting nature, combined with my sheltered  childhood, made me vulnerable to him and crushed the tiny ego I had succeeded, on my own, to  form.   As a teenager, my parents had been so proud of my talent that their praise  was more powerful to me than my own praise... my own needs... my own  desires.  I lived to please their ideal of who they thought their daughter  was.   They were my religion.

I had developed a strong inner-fantasy world. A world where I could lose myself for hours in the forest or meditating through painting - but not  through real-life interaction with people.  I was seen as an outcast but I didn't notice. I didn't fit in with other kids my age because I was essentially a 40 year old teenager. My parents spoke through my words. My parents spoke through my clothes... clothes they dressed me in so I would be accepted by the world and loved. Clothes they thought would protect me. I was dressed like a doll each morning.  I won contests and fame for my music, art and beauty. My world was fine until I left my home and started to  interact with real people, with lovers. I was ready for the wolves and they attacked. How naïve I was.  Whether in Italy or on Cape Cod, grasping but fleeting lovers wanted something for nothing. I kept giving without a clue as to what I was giving.   My parents' lack of openness about sex made me feel dirty about what I was doing/experimenting with. I had no voice of my own.  Only my parents voice echoed through me. And that was a joke...  especially in the bed of a lover. You can't fool yourself so much as to think that you can speak with your parents voice while in bed with a lover.  

Then, four years after I left my home, I let this spider (Florin) into my personal space to do with my mind and body whatever he pleased. I didn't think I could do a good job of anything in my life so whatever he said had to be better than what I thought.  So many times he did wrong things in  front of me, through me, to me... and it just made me sadder and  sadder... until I got angry.   I got so angry and I had no one to take it out on except myself, then eventually my closest friends/family and his family  (because he had no friends). To this day, I'm still trying not to be angry.  This is how it happened.  

First, he told me to get rid of all my friends because they were what was causing my lack of confidence. That was the first step in my destruction: isolating me from anyone who might support my interests.  My friends were people I chose with my tiny ego (sense of self) and were the beginning of my interaction with the outside world.  My best friend, Helen, was a serious source of strength for me so he especially hated her. He told me she was sick for wanting to know too many details of my life. I didn't really know if he was right so I believed him.  I couldn't go dancing with any male friends or to the parties/café outings like I used to.  He used information about me from my past (the various men I had relationships with) to make me feel dirty and ashamed.  So any sensuality I felt had to be suppressed. He accused me of having feelings for my friend Antonio but I really didn't … except he was the first male friend I'd ever had, but I was in no way attracted to him. No matter how logically I explained this to him, he wouldn't budge. It was either him or Antonio, so of course I chose him.  The joy  went out of my eyes and even people who weren't my friends at school  noticed.  I was gray all winter and looked at no one.  He didn't even want  me to look at men in the streets.  I know that's normal in some relationships but the more I gave up, the easier it became for him to control me more and for me to lose more control of my life, my feelings and my strength.  Then he told me to dress a certain way, to show dignity instead of passion. Then it happened. I was gone. I had completely disappeared.   My arguments with him were passionate but he used his crafty mind to manipulate and  get his way.

Eventually, no fights were winnable. When my professor put it to me straight to try and save me, I felt a shred of doubt. My professor was more than just a teacher, he was like Helen, a best friend.  When I confronted Florin about what Paul had said, he, again, made me choose between Paul and him.  This time, I was really torn and my logic made real sense. So, he came up with a plan. He knew he had me in the palm of his hand so he threatened to leave me. Leave me? When I couldn't live on my own!  Think on my own!  That was a fate worse than death itself. Nothing scared  me more.

He had me feeling so small that the thought of living life without him seemed literally impossible. Who would love me?  I didn't have my parents (my religion) around. What would I do without the constant guidance (religion) of Florin Croitoru? I would just simply die of loneliness and weakness. No one else could possibly love a hideous/loathsome/weak creature like me.  I didn't have friends (because he said my friends controlled my life) my family was the enemy (because he said they controlled my childhood.)  I was beyond petrified.  Irrational fear and emptiness were overwhelming me.  I felt so completely alone and helpless.  No strength at all.  No religion – faith in myself - at all.  So… Florin abruptly left for Romania. He was a cunning one! Of course I blamed my professor and Helen for getting too involved in my personal life. When Florin returned thirty-two hours later I welcomed him back with hysterical joy. Him and only him in my life. I could be "happy" now. Can you imagine? He took a 14 hour flight back and forth just to terrorize me to prove his point.

Don't Rock This Boat No More

March 2002

Don’t rock this boat no more

Please don’t rock this boat again

For we’ve drifted long in these troubled waters

Now we just can take it no more

The memories we hold are too painful to bear

But we take comfort in this new hope of peace

Though strong winds of anger threaten ugly tides

Land is in sight and we now sail in shallow waters

We’ve felt this boat rocked from time to time

We’ve felt the fear, the sorrow and pain

We may not like the ones who steer

But it’s a chance we’ve got and one we’re willing to take

So go my friends and tell all people

Tell the angry ones to hold their peace

Tell the weeping ones, we share their pain

Tell the confused ones to watch and wait

Tell them that no one must rock this boat again

Let out sailors join in and help us sail

Let our builders make ready to rebuild our land

Let our teachers get set to teach our children 

Let our doctors care for and treat our wounds

Saah Charles N’Tow, Rhode Island

THE SOURCE OF LEISURE TIME

March 2002

If one looks back from the present surroundings of modern woman with its heated houses, kitchen appliances, and modern gadgets of all types, and compares this to the distant past when woman’s only environment was a cave with an open cooking fire before it, and a few simple tools of her own design to aid her in her work; it would seem that the change in women’s lives has been tremendous.

But in looking a little closer at this picture, and especially as woman we realize that although her surroundings have changed, the nature of her work and her role, have not. She still attends to the hundred and one physical and psychological details that go into living, and making life comfortable for those around her. The preparation of food, the care of clothing, the cleaning of the house and tending of children are still the occupations that engaged the majority of women, most of the time.

In speaking of the majority of women, I deliberately don’t concern myself with the upper middle and upper class women whose situation might be different, and who are certainly a minority among women. The situation of these women has been dealt with at great length, and often with the subtle implication that their lives are typical of all women’s lives. This is hardly the case, but from popular literature, movies, and social analyses by male academics, one gets the overwhelming impression that everyone in the United States is upper middle class.

In my opinion, this mistaken impression doesn’t completely stem for the near-sightedness of authors, academic, etc., who can’t see beyond their own position on the social scale, and so take their position to be the universal one. This impression that they tend to create is probably just as much a calculated effect that arises from a desire to portray the situation of women as an oppressive, improved "you’ve come a long way, baby" and not in need of any change. But any way, I’m tired of hearing about the lives of the affluent minority, and popular conceptions aside, its highly questionable that the middle class woman leads the free and unencumbered existence that’s attributed to her.

“The reform-oriented groups and activities are comprised mostly of white ‘career’ women (as opposed to the majority of women who takes on a second job outside the home only out of economic necessity and tend not to deal with conflicts and issues that don’t touch on these women’s lives. Most of these women (or their husbands) earn enough money that they can pay others to do what is their primary job as women – to maintain the home and the people living in it. They can afford to pay for babysitters or childcare centers, and sometimes, even for a housekeeper. They are thereby freed from the most oppressive ties to their role as women. As unpaid house workers.”

Lisa Leghorn, “Where are we going?”  Dec.1973

On the surface, it appears that for the majority of women, their traditional tasks have become much lighter and require much less time to accomplish because of the use of modern appliances (for those who can afford them all). This view, I believe, is another mistaken assumption that prefers to ignore the fuller picture of the kinds of changes that have place in women’s lives. Although it’s true women have many household gadgets now, social custom has demanded additional tasks from women, for which these application were designed.

No cave woman was ever depicted over an ironing board; iron in hand, for hours on end. Yet it’s a task that consumes many hours of modern woman’s time. It might be a labor that is unnecessary to the basic welfare of human beings, but men, who don’t have a woman to do, ironing for them, will often pay to have this task done for them; thereby indicating that they believe it to be a necessary requirement of modern life.

When a woman prepared skins for clothing, or sewed by hand, she never had a button to sew on, socks to darn, or ironing to do. Neither did she have: windows to wash, curtains to hang, or lunches to make before the morning rush.

Even though the necessity for some tasks no longer prevails, new necessities have arisen to replace the old ones, and woman’s tasks have often been multiplied to meet new social requirements. In more complex cultures, the standards for cleanliness, nutrition and child –care have became much harder to maintain. Throughout all social and technological changes, the nature of woman’s work has remained basically the same. Through her performance of this work, woman has freed the hands and minds of others from the necessary and tiring tasks that are required for day-to day survival and for some degree of living comfort.

In freeing others from the hum-drum necessities of life, women have placed at the disposal of men and children – leisure time – a wealth of leisure time to be spent with some choice, beyond the hammering necessities of everyday existence.

The amount of time woman has saved for others, to be spent by others, has been paid for at great expense to herself. Historically, women, both as a sex and as individuals, have paid dearly for this time they’ve lavished so freely on others. Women have paid this leisure time for others with hard labor and sacrifice and these products of their labor has been used by men and children as if it were their natural right.

Women have paid for this leisure time, not only with their labor, but also at the cost of the advancement of their sex, on both personal and collective level. While men and children used time for personal growth, education, socializing and planning beyond immediate needs, women were chained to the demands of the physical requirements of life.

What this has meant is that men have been given the time to pursue politics, governance, invention, war and genius. As the popular expression goes, “Behind every great man, stands a woman.” It is little wonder there are so few recognized women geniuses, etc.

That time (a product of woman’s labor) is a very valuable possessions, should be self –evident, especially in this society where “time is money”. As some man, who had the time to think about it, once said, “Time is absolute gift in life.”    

By Betsy Warrior

A Culture to be Learned: A Personal Journey through Ambiguity

March 2002

As Ethiopian-American youth, many of us have experienced the same joys and pains of bi-culturalism. We can look into each other's Semitic eye and cry about such an experience; we can laugh with our brown, violet-tinted thick lips and laugh about such an experience; we can sing and dance eskista together in celebration of the joys and pains of living between cross-cultural boundaries.

We know there is something about us-our perception, our language, our modern views-that separates us from our parents, the traditions, and the old, old country they speak of nostalgically as "back home." 

My Father's memory, aged photos from family albums and traditional Ethiopian cultural pieces used to decor my house, are the only concrete elements I have contributing to my own notions of a country, which, seems both so distant, yet so intrinsically a part of me. 

My role as an Ethiopian-American is so ambiguous at times.  The images I know of Ethiopia are at once vague yet at once, so grandiose, for it exists for me essentially as an object of my imagination. Therefore, isn't part of my identity also a vague my imagination; open for interpretation?

When one looks at me, Ethiopians or Americans, I'm sure they are baffled.  Being an artist, I've always equated the way I am perceived by others, similarly to the way one interprets an abstract work of art: the beholder is confused, entranced and struck with the sudden question of whether the image is something with which they can identify or rather, must work to figure out.

Being of both mixed race and culture, I have deduced that it is hard for many Ethiopian-Americans to identify with me, call me one of their own reflect of culture with me.

Just as being an Ethiopian immigrant is a separate experience than being an Ethiopian born American, being an Ethiopian / white/American is a completely separate experience than being just an Ethiopian born American.  As the Ethiopian community, now comes the question of who can be considered truly Ethiopian? 

Must they possess fluency in the native language, being able to conjugate Amharic verbs, communicate with the elders in the sacred language, and carry the rhythmic flow of conversation-skillfully rolling the tongue in sounds unique to Ethiopia? Or, must they be able to cook authentically -being able to name Ethiopian spices correctly, make decent wat, and roast coffe beans without burning them? Or, must they look Ethiopian -possessing light brown skin with a gray tone, thick and beautiful purple tinted lips, and a large forehead covered in curly, dark and soft

hair that is not typical of many Africans?

Or must they be proud- possessing so much faith in their history, culture and people that it extends into an air of superiority, debasing the validity of other people's pride

May be, I've come to learn a true Ethiopian must not need to question such things. If one knows who he or she and he/she is comfortable in his/her identity, it does not need to be worn in the form of pride.  I will admit that my Amharic is rusty, my wat is not the best tasting, and yes I've have burnt my Buna beans on several occasions.

 But the fact remains that I am Ethiopian. 5o%. 100%. Whatever. Maybe my children will be 25%Ethiopian or may be more, depending on whom I choose to marry. When I meet other Ethiopian-Americans I wonder if they feel a sense of pity for me-some sympathy for a poor mixed girl who does not know herself.  Perhaps, to them I am a misunderstood abstract piece of art.  However, contrary to popular belief, I do very much know my self and my culture. 

 Becoming comfortable in my identity came after I had stopped searching for definitions of a true Ethiopian, of a true anything.  As Ethiopian-Americans, this is a factor I would like to point out to those raising children in an American Society:

   We must be aware of what it means to be American, and what it means to be Ethiopian.  This applies to everyone, whether or not you are mixed and whether or not you are a full blood. I feel there need to be an acceptance among the community, a decreased emphasis on expected standards, and an embracing of many types of Ethiopians and cultures.

Yes, Ethiopians are a very proud people but we (that includes my self) must also

be open to learning, shifting, adapting, and thriving as Ethiopian-American culture. 

This means that when you confront someone like me a "half-breed", you are not tempted to respond with the need to teach me so much about my culture, my language -myself.  Rather, you will look at this abstract piece of art and say, "How much I have to Learn."

My father was the first of our family to migrate from Ethiopia to America-and there are many who share and have voiced a similar experience.  We know this because they are our parents.  Or, perhaps you are an Ethiopian immigrant yourself and know of this experience first hand. But I know this: my lack of knowledge in language and international experience no less decreases my substance as person of culture. 

I have a country to visit, an extended family to meet, and a language to become more proficient in-but this, is a personal experience I must fulfill myself.  Look at this piece of art, and become excited in its ambiguity-its inability to be defined. 

Look at it and ask of its culture, its experience its wanting to know more. Look, ask, but don't assume. Perhaps you too, will have much to learn: my culture is currently under going its evolution and my journey, which, is yet to be completed, still carries a story-maybe not as impressive, but holding the same impact as the physical journey of an Ethiopian immigrant from one country to another.