Personal Narrative: My Ethiopian Culture

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Without fail, Ethiopian women age fifty and over will all gravitate towards the same perfume: Chanel N°5. For the thirteenth time that afternoon, I found my face and cheeks squeezed between old black hands, each finger glittering with my tribe’s traditional rings. My lips had bunched like a fish’s, forcing me to inhale so deeply that I could taste the perfume coming off my Great-aunt’s neck on the back of my tongue. My family and I had gone to a picnic held by the Ethiopian community in our area. For the first time in my life, I was around hundreds of people just like me. I quickly turned my community into an extension of mysef. Strangers were my friends; other kids were my siblings; adults were my parents. My blissful mood shifted instantaneously. …show more content…

From turning down the tinny traditional music playing in my mother’s car to responding to my parents in English more frequently. my gradual alienation from my roots made me feel closer to the people around me. Growing up as the only African-American girl in a majority Asian city, I was a minority among minorities. I believed that to fit in, I had to pay a tax that cost me my connection to my Ethiopian heritage. It is impossible to pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but I eventually realized ignoring my ethnic identity to be “accepted” was counterproductive. Perhaps it was when I first truly noticed the tint of the henna paste on my grandmother’s hand. The dark red lumps were drying in half mounds on her fingertips. From this special shade, a pigment blacker than the melanin in her skin would soon remain on each of her wrinkled, storied fingers. Or maybe it was the crackling sound of the green coffee beans getting roasted in preparation for the coffee ceremony. The smell of the thick gray smoke collected onto my clothes and in my hair, having been passed over my head in custom. It may have even been the lingering soapiness of the Chanel perfume on my

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