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Texture Black: Reflections on Alex Haley's "Roots"


I was a child, a very little child when I was first introduced to the true Black history. Born and raised in a little town called Metahara in Ethiopia, I didn’t know much about the rest of the world than what the TV had to offer. I felt as I was one of the richest since we had a TV, the only TV of the neighborhood. In reality, my father was a mechanic for the Metahara Sugar Factory while my mother was a merchant at a local market, at least she wasn’t a housewife. Those two, the strongest people I ever known, believed that I have some artistic skills that they let me watch everything on TV so that I could learn from the city people and become one of them. It was then when I was exposed to my first Black experience. I believe it was in summer 1999, every Thursday nights and Saturday afternoons the Ethiopian Broadcasting Corporate started streaming a show called ‘The Roots’, a true story which made lots of people gather and crowd our living room in front of the 21” TV screen. Even though we didn’t know English to understand what the title of the show was, we simply used to refer it as ‘Kunta Kinte’, after the name of the main character. But obviously we did understand what was going on. Before I got to watch this show, before I saw what I wasn’t supposed to see, all I knew about Black people was what I knew about Ethiopia; how brave and heroic we are, how our fathers defeated white people at the battle of Adwa, the deep religiousness and rich culture we have. With this in mind, Kunta Kinte’s life history was something new for me, something that challenged my beliefs towards being Black. The show was so riveting that we never blinked an eye and never missed a part.

At first, of course it was a happy start; it began from Kunta Kinte’s birth, his youth in West Africa, it showed how brave he was; the story was all yellow until he met some strange white men. Henceforth, the mood of the show changed; so did ours. We broke down as we watched Kunta being hunted like an animal. It was mentally agonizing to watch him being chained, forced onto a ship, and crossed the ocean. White men wearing suits, pointy shoes and hats, gathered around the none-clothed, bare footed, dark skinned men and women. We learned that men and women were being branded and sold. Even though I couldn’t understand what slavery was at that age; I understood the dehumanization, felt the torture. Certainly, I cried my eyes out not only because he was being persecuted but also because I knew Kunta Kinte was not going to see his mom ever again, however, I didn’t let anyone see my tears for fear that my dad would forbid me from watching the show.

Fast forward, Kunta was given a new name now, Toby. But my friends and I were not happy about it, not because he lost his identity, as my mind interprets it now, but because his original name sounded funny for our tiny ears. Toby was not following the rules and was rebellious. Deep down in my heart, I hoped his contumacy would get him home someday. I thought if he just left at night and could make it to the sea, he could swim back home. And yes, as I hoped, he ran away, he tried to escape albeit his landlord sent dogs after him; sad that he was brought back. In effect, he was beaten, tortured, and lost a foot. After several unsuccessful fleeing attempts, I watched Toby gave up, got married, had a child, and grew old. The show would continue to seven generations of Kunta Kinte; it showed all the way to the mid-20th century. Despite that Kunta’s decedents were enslaved too, I didn’t feel bad for any of them except for him. But why him only?My brain neutralized the inferiority and submission of Black people to white folks; what resided in my heart was Kunta Kinte’s pain and nostalgia.

Watching that show every Thursday night, my little brain started to explode, I could never sleep, a zillion questions knocked my mind but never left. I wished to see how his mother was taking the situation, I asked myself; ‘did she cry every day? Toby is old now, why don’t they take him back before he dies? What if that was me in his place? What if they come and take me? How am I going to survive without my mom?’ Then I would start crying. Why did the white people do that? But why? There must be a good reason. I would contemplate for nothing to come out of my unripe intellect. Then I wished I could understand English so that I would understand why. I made a wish, ‘when I grow up I will go to a university like my uncle, I will learn how to speak English, and I will ask those white men why they separated Kunta Kinte from his parents?’ My diminutive mind tried to make sense of it. If they had to take him, why didn’t they take the whole family? Despite deferring my questions for a later age, I was still looking for possible answers.

As I grew older, as I started picking some English words, the white men started bribing me through Hollywood. I was exposed to many uncensored gangster movies where all the Black men wore head wraps, big chains, carried guns, walked in a funny way, and looked angry when they talked. I started to get scared as a scene about the dark Black neighborhoods came on. I couldn’t understand the cause but I knew they would fight and at some point I would hear the ‘F’ word, I at least understood that. They are so rude, I would say, and they don’t respect their elders. Then I began to scrutinize again. Kunta Kinte was much disciplined and much more respectful; this is what my African people are metamorphosing into, from Kunta Kinte to a gangster. Now, my relatively bigger mind wasn’t questioning only about why white people estrange the poor boy from his families, thereupon, it was also about how they were able to hold onto such an aversion that they fail to make sure Black people have a smooth life too.Years gone by and I am at that age and status I sake to be. But instead of people, I asked books.

Scanning through African Americans lives, all I can see is the roughness, the pointy sharp edges, the bumpy, lumpy, rocky texture. It was no fluke that Black people were compelled to undergo this frenzy path. However, many groped towards the even and leveled side and made it. Indeed, all Black people have to be venturesome so that they can fuel up the languor and euphoric feeling Kunta Kinte lost ever since he was dragged to travel west.

My no more little brain doesn’t have the answer it hoped to have; white people did what they did not because God told them, not for the cotton, the tobacco, or the sugar farms, not to civilize nor to educate, not because they felt superior; it’s just for no reason. By all means, no potential reason could convince me why one human being would brutalize another one. The reality hurts to the extent that I wish to be a child again, sit in front of that 21” TV, enjoy watching the first chapter of Kunta Kinte’s life, imitate his moves, talk about him with my friends, tell how he killed the Tiger to those who missed the scene, and afterwards the only TV of the neighborhood breaks down before I get to see the next chapter.

Metages Aleme Tekabe, a 2nd year nursing major student. Made in Ethiopia, Africa. Just a Golden girl in the process of becoming a Diamond.


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