By: Denise Kyeremeh (’23), Staff Writer
Last year, my family hosted a traditional Ghanaian engagement ceremony for my cousin at our house. The future groom and his family brought gifts and words of good intentions to the family the he wanted to marry into. As it began, everyone in the room announced their names and where they were from in our language, Twi. I leaned close to the door so that I could make an escape if necessary. I contemplated whether I should stay in eyeshot of others, where someone could have easily called me out. I was hopeful though, because just a few weeks earlier my mom had told me the correct way to say my full name. So, I stuck around, heart beating as the people closer to me began to speak. Finally, the last person gave their introduction and the emcee began to move on to the next thing.
“Wait,” a family friend said, “Denise didn’t go yet.”
All eyes turned to me. I confidently said my full name, the way my mom had taught me a few weeks earlier.
“Ye fre me Denise Nketia Kyeremeh.”
“And where are you from?”
In that room, there was no right answer. Was I denying my Ghanaian ancestry by answering Maryland? I had only visited Ghana twice, each time for just a few weeks. Was I say I was from my Dad’s hometown of Techiman, a place I had barely been? Or should I mention the town my where my grandparents live, even though my mom herself didn’t grow up there?
The answers couldn’t come fast enough so I turned my palms to the ceiling, shrugged my shoulders and with the Twi word for here. But no one heard my response over the laughter and questions already headed my way.
For the rest of the party I laughed off comments from the guests asking me if I really didn’t know where I was from. I tried not to take it personally, but it stung. Questions like that are never be easy to answer because, as a first-generation American, I constantly exist between the American culture I was born into and the Ghanaian identity I was raised with. I often feel like I am never enough for either group. No one expects much from you when you’re younger because you’re still learning and evolving, but the expectations start piling on after entering adulthood.
You can’t speak the language? You don’t know how to cook the food or eat it properly? You’re not marrying within the culture?
These questions poke at the uncomfortable reality that many first-generation Americans have to deal with: living with a dual identity. American norms and practices are so strong that they usually require immigrants and their families to assimilate in order for them to be accepted into society. One consequence of this is the loss of language many first-generation Americans suffer.
According to the National Institute of Health, “children of immigrants are more likely to lose their first language than remain bilingual.” Pressures to speak English exclusively cause children of immigrants to lose the ability to speak their first language. My parents never forced me to speak Twi at home and didn’t even realize that my siblings and I had lost most of our Twi. The loss of language stirs feelings of guilt and regret on both sides. If they could, my parents would make sure that I was fluent in Twi and if I could go back, I would urge my younger self to fight for fluency because one day I would wish I could wholly communicate with the relatives that I already lost so much time with. Now, I am trying to gain my ability to speak Twi again, just to strengthen that connection with Ghanaian culture.
While the loss of language is significant, the absence of family is one of the hardest parts of being a first-generation American. Though some first-generation Americans are fortunate enough to grow up with relatives around them, most of my family lives in Ghana. Every trip to Ghana has reinforced the isolation of not being able to laugh with cousins on a regular basis or be known by grandparents. My Ghanaian family and I are separated by more than just physical distance but cultural differences as well. There are things I will never understand about being Ghanaian because I was not raised there. I only carry the pieces my parents brought with them when they immigrated. Fortunately, this experience unites all first-generation American kids, decreasing how isolating it can be.
Now that I have the autonomy to choose my own community as an adult, I find myself desiring to have my own strong Ghanaian-American community. I get excited when I meet people who share that identity, especially if they’ve struggled similar senses of loss that I have. The power of being understood in our complicated identities gives us the ability to mourn well the pain we endure daily while still celebrating the beauty of our culture with joy and excitement.
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