by: "S"

I love my father. He has more than his fair share of that unique characteristic known to Ethiopian parents, where sacrificing an arm and a leg for one's child is the minimum requirement for raising a kid. If only our poor ferenj counterparts knew the delights of a mother smothering her child with love. Forget about moving out of the house when you are eighteen. Heck, you along with cousin Alemitu, nephew Mamo, and those two kids that belong to your father's friend's uncle, who died and left them orphans (only they ended up with you because your dad's friend had 20 people in his household, while yours had only a measly 15), all of you were staying put until you got married. It's the truest form of communal living. But I digress.

I love my father. He came from nothing…correction (that's the ferenj mentality, where the measure of everything is material, soiling my thoughts), he came from a family rich in love. Everything else he has, he has sweated and toiled for, and what he has achieved is no small feat for the son of a poor farmer. I am here because of him. There are so many of us here in the USA living lives that our grandfathers can't even begin to comprehend, and all because our fathers got us here. No, we didn't get tortured during the red terror fleeing for our lives, not knowing if we were going to get out alive or not, and no we didn't cross through the Sudan or Kenya during the big drought or the years that followed, and no we didn't marry our poor cousin and come here as the dutiful spouse to wait for that heavenly piece of paper called the Green Card, nor were we the lucky recipients of DV, nope none of this. We are the proud accomplishments of our fathers who made it big, and sent their kids to the US of A…where else could they study?

Ah, and now the sad part. Most of us got hooked on life here, and the dreams of our fathers…dreams where one day we would come back with pomp and glory, displaying our hard-earned diplomas, riding in chariots to go and take up the responsibilities of running that family business (into which our father's blood has gone for the better part of his life)…well that's what they remained - dreams. So are we to blame that we got so assimilated into a culture, one that we partially felt like we already knew (all credits go to all those American movies that our fathers rented every Friday afternoon), that it no longer made sense to us to go back to a place that we felt would never understand us? Are we to blame, or is this partially our fathers' doing, in their quest to create the perfect scholar who had all the advantages that they never had growing up?

Again I digress.

My beef isn't with why we stayed, or that we are the lucky ones that live the good life; my beef is with those who forget who got them there. Let's just say my beef is with their denial of everything that might somehow connect them to a not so glamorous part of their life. That poor relative, who did cross through the Sudan, they swear is no relative of theirs, how could she be with all that neqisat on her neck, not understanding that tattoos are all the craze in the US. The mother, who they don't introduce to their Sunday brunch friends because she can't put two words of English together (they forget that even heads of states have translators). Pretending that an ox is something they've seen on discovery channel, when all those visits to grandfather's house had given them ample opportunity to get acquainted with the ox the cow and everything else that was on the farm. And the Amharic that they can't seem to remember, not understanding that knowing a different language is an advantage.

That gleaming Porsche summarizes life for them with the compulsory white girlfriend in the passenger seat, driving to their moderately big house up on the hill. Oh, and who could forget our own group of anorexic Ethiopian women, waiting for that modeling contract that they are sure their beautiful Ethiopian face (shhhh, don't say it too loudly, I'm an American), and their perfect 10 bodies, (that being bones sticking out from every angle of vision), is going to get them. You can't complete the picture without mentioning those poor disillusioned kids running around with stockings on their heads, I wonder if the dumbness that oozes from them is partially due to irreversible brain damage caused by…oh, those darn stockings again! If not that, then it must definitely be all the bleaching agents for their hair.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not criticizing success, nor living the good life. There are a lot of exemplary Ethiopians who are extremely successful and living it big, and more power to them because they stay connected to who they are. I criticize the denial of the root of your success. Especially when so much has been sacrificed for you, and me, to get where we are. Embrace your ityoPiawinet; you will be the better for it. Go ahead and drive that Porsche, even have your white girlfriend, but don't be scared to put Aster on in your CD player and let your girlfriend experience a part of you. Better yet, get yourself a real habesha sister, so if you have a sudden relapse of ferenjitis, she'll kick your ass back in gear. And by all means go to Sunday brunch at the Ritz, but for Chrissakes, take your moms along, she didn't come just to mamoq your bet all the way from Addis. As for all of you running around with stockings on your head, I'm sorry, but I have no words…., just, don't you have mirrors at home?????

Seriously though, for all of you out there pretending that Ethiopia is a country you discovered on a map during geography class, remember that the blood coursing through your veins is the same Ethiopian blood that coursed through your ancestors'. Your great, great grandfathers', who kicked some Italian butt, and gave us something to be proud of, your grandfather who farmed the earth with an ox that resembled more an anorexic dog than any member of the cattle family, and still managed to feed his family. And your father, who went barefoot to school, and against all odds, achieved everything he dreamed of and more. And it is the same love of family and dedication that your father got from his family and bestowed upon you that got you here. Think of that and let it add a bit more shine to that beautiful Ethiopian smile, and be proud. I think of these things and thank my father and my grandfather and everyone who got me here, and know how truly blessed I am. I love my father.