Autoethnography

Today is the anniversary of Namibia's independence! Hurray I went to the stadium, there was a free lunch as well! Yesterday I wrote this reflection

Owa za peni?
Where are you from is the question – posed in Oshiwambo. Except no one has ever asked it to me in Oshiwambo – that language of my father and African ancestors – it is always in English. Even if I strike up the conversation in Oshiwambo, my interlocutor, man or woman, boy or girl, usually smiles in delight (or amusement) at my greeting and proceeds in English “Where are you from?”

She asked me this – the waitress at the restaurant – one day. I was not at a table but I was organizing a table, a language table where people can meet and talk that language, just like we had at Princeton. I told them about my idea to have this Spanish language table to help the students learn to speak the language. After all was said and done the question came “Where are from”. I answered Namibia, as usual, but of course I could not get away with that. I explained how I was Bulgarian and Oshiwambo, how I wanted to learn my fathers language.

The waitress told me what I was bluntly “you are Bulgarian.” I asked why, in shock, pondering whether my rudimentary Oshiwambo precluded me from being Oshiwambo. But then I found out that was not what she had in mind “Your mother carried you in her arms and she Bulgarian, so you are Bulgarian. I am Herero and Owambo, but since my mother is Herero I cannot consider myself to be a Owambo.” I understood. Identity was matrilineal and so I was the tribe of my mother.

It is so interesting that I am now learning Oshiwambo, the Oshindonga dialect to be precise, using the manual meant for American (Peace Corps) volunteer teachers in Namibia. In it the grammar is systematized and the language taught in the context of an outsider. There are pedagogic dialogues between “Zach” (a run of the mill Zach) and a Saima (a common girl’s name in Oshiwambo). It is as if I have to appropriate my own culture through the eyes of a foreigner. I am not American – though people often ask if I am here – but I probably know more about their mass produced digital culture than my own. That’s why the Oshiwambo I can sing the song “Imbilo yaayiyambi” meant for US volunteer teachers, written in my book, because I know the tune of “Oh my Darling Clementine”. All the same I do know the tunes of some Oshiwambo songs – partisan songs – but those are fewer than the traditional – quintessential – American songs I know. This style of the writing in this blog post is also imbued in this Princeton, college educated, self reflective, attention grabbing way of writing.

I guess I must be at the leading edge of globalization, such that I have been able to receive Americanism (through the media) and participate in American ways of life – notably learning, that idea of deep learning called paideia by the Greeks, which Cornel West and other professors propagate at Princeton.

Owa za peni?

Onda za ko Namibia no Bulgaria (I am from Namibia and Bulgaria).