![]() ![]() It gave me access to a glorious national history: but this time I had no words. I was well-versed in deflecting with broad sweeps of accepted leftist histories and resistances. It also provided the necessary fulcrum on which I could quickly change the conversation. ![]() Most of my life since childhood had been spent hiding in and finding identity in politics: It was a place of certainty when others spoke about their community identities and customs. (This, even as I identified as black since childhood.) ![]() My body-response to the question of who I was ethnically and historically was an enduring, free floating shame, buoyed by the constant references littered throughout my life that, historically, I was neither black nor white, I was a “nothing”. It was a non-answer, but equally baffling was the immediate, deep sense of shame I had about myself. I mumbled something about being from a mix of different communities. Yet this time, I was speechless.įloundering, I grasped at half-sentences, well aware that people around were starting to stare. By Karen Williams Follow question from the Pakistani government minister was not unfamiliar to me: “And what are you, are you a Zulu?” It was my early days in Islamabad and the official’s gentle ribbing was a common question. ![]()
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