A blank page
(Prepared remarks to address to the African Leadership Academy Class of 2011 – June 16, 2011)
A blank page. That was how I conceived of the start of my two year journey at African Leadership Academy. Despite the authenticity of stories I used to construct a persona wiser than I myself believed, and despite the half-truths I deliberately stretched to lead you to believe that my time on this earth hovered around thirty years, the reality was that our shared commencement of experiences at ALA was just as significant a beginning for me as it was for you. See, you came to ALA in search of an ideal school that superseded conventional wisdom, while I followed my idealism. You came to ALA in search of a deeper and broader African identity, while I followed my global citizenship. You came to ALA in search of transformative leadership for Africa, while I followed my mere intrigue in the question. Nevertheless, our intertwined fates led us to this place at this moment in time, and while no speech of mine can vivify all of the challenges you faced in your two years here, what I can do is highlight some of the dilemmas I grappled with as a recent college graduate and hope that when you soon find yourself similarly faced with a blank page in life, you’ll be more akin to a painter standing in front of a blank canvass, guided with a vision of how she will ennoble it with her own work of distinction.
In order to find the solace of reason to be able to etch my blank page with meaning, I had to first turn the page on a daunting chapter in my life. It was only two months before coming to ALA that I had completed one of the most rigorous academic experiences in the world. In May of 2009, I left Yale with an incomprehensible diploma, an average GPA, and grave concerns about the value that I had gained from the most intense four years of my life. Having finished with nothing more than a diminished sense of self-worth and few transferable skills, the questions I pondered were similar to some that may haunt you in the coming months: what was the worth of that experience? Did I make the right decision in going there? Would it not have been better to have remained where I was before, even if the countless accolades that I received only affirmed mediocre achievement? One analogy that weighed heavily upon me then was that of a runner in a marathon. Imagine that you are a runner and you finished the race toward the middle of the pack, only finding out after the fact that, given the cards life dealt to you, even if you had trained constantly for the past twelve months, you would never have been able to compete with the top-ten runners. The thought can be so unsettling that it calls into question your entire sense of motivation. I keep some form of a journal, and I remember writing at the time,
“It makes me wonder, what does the runner do once the race is over? He rests, of course, but how does he train again? How often does he reconsider his path, his steps? When he laces his shoes for his first jog after the race, does he question why? I’m not referring to the winner, who’s filled with exuberance over his latest victory, but instead the one who struggled and (maybe) finished in the last pack. Does he question his worth? Does he question his passion? Was his mistake inherent in pursuing the glory of the marathon, rather than the mundaneness of the morning jog? Or did he know that he wasn’t destined to win? Did his fulfillment rest in his placement on the podium? Or did his achievement arrive with his first step across the finish line?”
I eventually resolved that even if he had been nowhere near winning the race, it was far better for the runner to have run the marathon since he ultimately became more disciplined in and conscientious of the skill needed, and I decided to leave the other questions unanswered, choosing not to allow truly probing questions to succumb to the expediency of my frustrations at the time.
And so began the blank page. The first thing I did was add a stroke of black. From the exterior, black was the most apparent manifestation of who I am – an unmistakable child of the African continent. And though it may seem laughable here, it wasn’t until college that I had even begun to actively embrace this most salient identity. Growing up in the United States, black wasn’t just a box ticked in the diversity section of an application, but rather was a label running deep with paradoxes. Outside of the black community, the designation connoted a limitation of life aspirations and the presupposition of intellectual inferiority; whereas inside of the black community, questions of authenticity always emerged if you didn’t “talk black” or “act black” or attribute every minuscule problem that face black America and Africans to either systematic or active discrimination dating back as far as slavery and colonization. It wasn’t until college that I encountered dozens of Africans and African Americans willing to add nuance to this discussion. And I came to Joburg and found the same – in scores of students from all over Africa and in similarly educated African and African American colleagues and friends – all of whom provided a reaffirmation of that black identity – a “black-firmation,” if you will. But at ALA, the stroke of black had to run deeper. For me, it doesn’t just symbolize an identity, but it bookmarks the abyss I found myself in upon arrival. Before we began to teach you, the leadership “curriculum” handed to us at the time was little more than a blank page. Hence, for me, the black stroke earmarks the countless cups of coffee I drank in order to research and structure a two-year curriculum. But for you, as two-year veterans of the African Studies program, I trust that the sort of questions you’ll grapple with regarding your African identity will be very different from mine. Nonetheless, let me urge you: if anyone you encounter ever suggests that, because of your background or origin, your ideas do not deserve the same degree of intellectual equity, do not entertain them. Let me repeat: do not.
I picked up that formerly blank page and, in addition to the stroke of black, found it covered with a tint of green. This tint was also twofold, denoting both my status as a greenhorn in the world of teaching and also the increasing proximity to my Nigerian heritage. Despite my very limited teaching background, I entered the Academy as the youngest member of the faculty – quite literally – and, after getting extensive guidance from some of the more experienced teachers like Ms. Holland, Ms. Davis, Ms. Gater, and Mr. Rubin, I ending up finding myself leading the school’s flagship department. Now, I’m not telling you this story to boast any accomplishments – I know I certainly could have dealt without the gray hairs it caused me – but rather, I tell you this story to underscore the ALA’s founding belief in the power of youth. I never imagined that I would be doing this in my early 20s, and armed with what we’ve taught you, I can only imagine what you’ll be doing in yours.
Now, overlaying that black stroke and green tint is a sprinkle of pink. And the pink is really interesting because it’s an aspect of my identity that I rarely speak about. But in addressing you today, I knew that I could not stand before you as one of the few openly gay members of the staff at-large and not discuss an aspect of my identity that seems to disturb, unsettle, and confuse so many of you. When faced with this dilemma of whether or not to reveal my sexual orientation to you, I found myself torn between the seminal readings examples of Don Manuel and Socrates. The Don Manuel in me is saying that it’s better off if you don’t know, as you may not be able to handle it, and the revelation itself could destroy the foundation of the relationships we’ve built over the past two years. But the Socrates in me sees it differently. The Socrates in me says that you deserve the opportunity to interrogate your beliefs when faced with what you may consider to be an unfavorable fact. See, for too long, we’ve danced around the issue. It’s easy to give little thought to our perspectives when we demonize and mystify a group that stands no closer than at arm’s length. But when the face that you begin to associate with that group is one that some of you hate, many of you respect, and all of you know, it completely alters the paradigms of the debate. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, the suspicion is out of your mind, you may be wondering, “What advice can be derived from this?” Well, I’d recommend that you embrace your hidden identities and perspectives, even if they sometimes leave you on the fringes of society. One way to challenge the society around you is by raising difficult questions that force people to see flaws in their logic. And if the mind is unwavering, then I would advise you to appeal to the heart, as sometimes emotions are more powerful than intellect in convincing others to tolerate those of a different religious backgrounds, to uphold the freedom of expression of those of a different political persuasion, and to stop the condemnation of those with nothing more than “a naturally occurring variation in the human condition.”
A stroke of black. A tint of green. A sprinkle of pink. These colors symbolize three distinct aspects of my identity that have not yielded, despite the opportunity for me to create a new persona upon moving here. In essence, the convergence of these three colors, for me, represents an identity reclaimed. These three colors also signify my impact while at ALA – the stroke of a clear structure for our two year curriculum, the tint of having set my own standards of excellence, and the sprinkle of sensible questions that push toward sound reasoning. These are the ways in which I have ennobled a blank page with my own work in spite of the weariness and fatigue of my last marathon. Class of 2011, you are at a very similar point to where I was two years ago. You sit before me today because, regardless of whether or not you won the race, you have successfully completed the marathon, and for that, I commend you. But as you leave this place and as you begin to navigate the ambiguity between given identities and chosen ideologies, societal mores and individual rights, failed promises and hazy expectations, I implore you: never leave any page as blank as you find it.
NJNious
