How it started

My parents left their home in Nigeria and landed in Canada just a few years before having me, making me, by definition, a second generation Canadian. Growing up as a Black second generation Canadian was super confusing. It was confusing because I was caught between two worlds — the world of my parents, and the world that existed outside of my house; Canada, and more specifically, whiteness. But I think a more significant portion of my confusion came from the fact that I was desperate for a sense of identity, and while others seemed to be able to so easily define who they were, representation of Canadian-born Black people was seemingly nowhere to be found. And so began my great search for identity.

First I tried to be as “Canadian” (read: white) as possible. This meant not learning Yoruba, forsaking Monday nights where my mom routinely cooked farina, and getting creepily into hockey (like memorizing the heights and weights of every member of the Calgary Flames creepy). All of these endeavours naturally made me feel less Black, but at the time, the benefits far outweighed the consequences. At times, I tried to lean into the Nigerian side of me, but my lack of embracing the culture when I was a kid coupled with the fact that I spent the majority of my life having never stepped foot in Nigeria, made me feel like a complete poser.

Growing up as a Black second gen Canadian, the only example I had of Black people who weren’t recent immigrants were Black Americans. So there I sat with two different ways to be Black. I could participate in the “Black Culture” (a.k.a. the portrayal of African American identity) that I saw on TV, the hallmarks of which were AAVE, hip hop, hilarity, and tragedy. Or I could be an immigrant. I tried to be both, and it didn’t work, because I wasn’t either.

My friend Sheridan (a Black second generation Canadian) and I often talk about our experiences growing up in Canada. Sheridan’s experience is quite different from mine, as she grew up in Edmonton among many other immigrant and second gen kids. However, themes of confusion and isolation are present in both of our stories.

“Your parents can’t help because they don’t know what you’re experiencing,” Sheridan told me. “And even though I was around a lot of other kids with my experience, we were kids, and we didn’t have the language to talk about what was happening…it makes for a lonely experience.”

Later on, when I asked Sheridan what it would have meant for her younger self to see Canadian-born Black folks represented (whether through media, literature, the education system, etc), she said “I would have avoided a few identity crises for sure.”

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