Between Worlds: Navigating Identity as a Black International Student in America

 

"Where are you from?" For some reason, this question bothers me anytime I am asked. It took me months to understand why that question made me uncomfortable, why it felt like a subtle reminder that I didn't quite belong in the spaces I was trying to inhabit. As a Black international student in America, I’ve discovered that identity isn’t just about who you are, it’s about how the world perceives you, and how those perceptions shift depending on where you stand. Back home in Ghana, I was simply myself. Here, I am a collection of categories: Black girl, Foreign and International student. Each label carries its own weight, its own set of expectations and assumptions. Garnette Cadogan's experiences as a Jamaican immigrant in America mirror this sense of constant categorization. He writes of being perceived as a threat because of his Blackness, despite his personal identity as a curious walker and an explorer of cities. Like Cadogan, I have come to realize that how I see myself often matters less than how others see me.

Walking through campus, I exist in multiple realities simultaneously. To some, I am African American until I speak, and then I become a curiosity. To others, I am immediately foreign, my presence requiring explanation. These interactions are a constant negotiation of identity, similar to Cadogan’s navigation of New Orleans and New York streets, where he adjusted his behavior and even his attire to avoid being seen as a threat. The dining hall, the library, the student center – these aren’t just places anymore. They’re stages where I constantly calibrate how I present myself. In class, my perspective is sometimes treated as representative of an entire continent, as if Africa were a single country with a single story. The assertion typifies Kwame Anthony Appiah’s critique of racial categories, which often lump diverse experiences into broad, misleading labels. Like Appiah, I feel the weight of these imposed identities and find myself choosing my words carefully, aware that my comments might be taken as speaking for all international or Black students when really, I can only speak for myself.

 

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The most challenging part isn’t the big moments of cultural disconnect – it’s the small, daily negotiations. It’s deciding whether to correct someone’s pronunciation of my name or let it slide. It’s weighing whether to share my opinion in class discussions about race in America, knowing my viewpoint as an outsider-insider might not be welcome. Like Cadogan, who dressed in an “Ivy League style” to signal respectability and counteract stereotypes, I sometimes feel the need to perform versions of myself to fit into spaces. Yet this performance is never seamless, as the lines between my identity and others’ perceptions remain blurred. Appiah’s reflections on whiteness underscore the arbitrariness of racial classifications and their historical ties to power hierarchies. These labels may offer a semblance of order, but they fail to capture the fluidity and complexity of real human experiences. This tension often leaves me feeling caught between cultures, unsure of where I truly belong.

        What I’ve learnt is that there’s strength in this liminal space. In the international student organization, I’ve found others who understand the complexity of straddling multiple worlds. I’ve discovered both connections and differences that have enriched my understanding of the African diaspora. These communities have become my anchors, spaces where I don’t have to explain or justify my presence. Cadogan’s reflections on returning to Jamaica after living in America resonate here; he describes the relief of being “one Black body among many,” freed from the hyper-visibility and suspicion he faced in the U.S. Similarly, these communities provide me with a sense of belonging that transcends the limitations of racial and cultural labels.

        Perhaps the most important lesson has been learning that I don’t have to choose between identities. The very experience of being between cultures has created its own identity – one that is fluid, adaptive, and uniquely mine. In public spaces, I am learning to carry this multiplicity with pride, to let my presence challenge assumptions about what it means to be Black, international, and a student all at once. Appiah’s insight that identity is not just personal but deeply embedded in societal structures is a powerful reminder that my individual journey is part of a broader narrative. When people now ask me where I’m from, I give them the complicated truth: I’m from a journey between places, between identities, between ways of being. And in that journey, I’m creating my own space to belong.

           As I continue my academic journey in America, I’m learning that my perspective as a Black international student isn’t just valid – it’s valuable. It offers a unique lens through which to view both American culture and my home culture. The discomfort of existing in public spaces as someone who doesn’t quite fit the expected categories has become a source of strength and insight. Cadogan’s observation that walking as a Black man often means “tiptoeing” rather than meandering captures the vigilance required to navigate identity in these spaces. Yet, like him, I continue to walk – to carve out spaces of freedom, understanding, and belonging. This constant navigation of identity and space isn’t just my story – it’s part of a larger narrative about globalization, migration, and the evolving nature of identity in our interconnected world. For those coming after me, I hope sharing these experiences helps illuminate the path and validates their own complex journeys of belonging.

 

References

Cadogan, G. (2016). Walking while black. Literary hub, 8, 2016.

Appiah, K. A. (2020). I'm Jewish and Don't Identify as White. Why Must I Check That Box?. The New York Times Magazine, 14-L.