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144 pages, Paperback
First published January 4, 2012
I am black, and obviously it shows. So the blacks I meet in Paris call me "my brother". Are we really? What do an Antillan, a Senegalese, and a black man born in the Xth arrondissement have in common, if not the color to which they complain of being constantly reduced to? I forget of course the genealogy they have forged, that of misfortune and humiliation - slave trade, colonization, living conditions of immigrants ... Because beyond the skin, what brings them together, are their sobs. I do not dispute the suffering that the blacks have suffered and are still experiencing. I challenge the tendency to erect this suffering into signs of identity. I was born in Congo Brazzaville, I studied in France, I now teach in California. I am black, with a French passport and a green card. Who am I? I would have a hard time saying that. But I refuse to define myself by tears and resentment.And despite the harshness and honesty of his writing, which I applaud, I cannot shake the feeling that Mabanckou made it a little too easy for himself. More often than not he generalises what Africans feel, and condemns them for it. Without failing to recognise his own privilege. Sure, he was born in Congo-Brazzaville but his living situation today and his standard of living (being a college professor in the US and a laureated author) doesn't resemble that of the average African in the slightest. His opinion comes across as condescending and extremely paternalistic. I got the feeling that he was judging his fellow countrymen for being stuck where they are, not acknowledging the fact that he was one of the few lucky ones who "got out" by means of education.
