Chinua Achebe and Finding The Language For My Experience
Chinua Achebe
When Chinua Achebe passed away, my thoughts immediately took me to the fifth grade book fair. There, I found the cover of a book I found interesting. Knowing nothing about the actual book, reading level, or histories behind it, I decided to buy it for what was probably five bucks from my school’s library.Shortly after the book sale, we had African dance classes for the semester. The volunteer dance teacher, a curly-haired Black woman, took one look at my book and yelled, “Can I borrow that?!” Not knowing the value of the book (or the rarity of its cover), I said, “OK …” She promised that, after her travels, she’d bring it right back.
So gullible.
I got back a version of the book with an abstract of a rooster on it. I was so disappointed because I expected the actual book I purchased back in my hands. So, instead of reading it like I wanted to, I left it on my bookshelf for the better part of six years.
When I finally re-opened it, I did so to discuss a historical perspective about Blacks in America, and my new-found understanding of my African roots. I didn’t have the language for the nudges of covert prejudice I felt on the street and in school, but I knew Chinua spoke to it in this book.
Shortly after turning in that book report, my social studies teacher, a brawny white man who pretended not to