bluephobos.com

My daddy named me Obiajulu. The name comes from the Ibo ethnic group in Nigeria. By the way, my father’s name is Daniel. He must not have taken into account the difficulties many Americans have when pronouncing a native name. I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve heard, “What the hell? What kind of name is this?” granted the name of the speaker might be Dequanasia, Tayquan or Shasqueela. To make it easier for them I said, “Just call me Obi.”

Over time, people kept asking me for the meaning of my birth name. It means my heart is comforted. The usual response was in the ballpark of “Oh, that’s beautiful. You should use the whole thing.” I thought, “What for? You’re just going to me for the short version.” Besides, I didn’t think the meaning suited my state of being due to the life I was living.

However, the shortening of my first name proved to be a big mistake for the year was 1981. Unbeknownst to me, a box office smash entitled “Star Wars” had appeared in movie theaters just two years earlier. “Everyone” and I mean everyone saw the movie, except me. It was my luck that one of the leading characters was named Obiwankinobi; or something like that. Whenever I reveal the beginning portion of my first name, I am destined to hear “Oh, like Obiwankinobi?” My mental response, which is now my verbal response, is “No…like Obiajulu.” My verbal ability allows me to get at least that much out in a concise tone. For to this day, I still hear people saying that movie character name and to this day, I still have not seen Star Wars. And I’m tired of explaining my name.

I’m tired of answering the same questions, such as “What does your name mean?”

The usage of the character’s name on me wasn’t close to being the bulk of my problem. Yet, it was indeed frustrating to know that other African American children, who had no appreciation for the darkness of my skin, now had further ammunition during daily tease and taunt sessions. It was bad enough children in my first grade class named me Buggerboy. A nasal problem forced me to constantly wipe my nose, sometimes erratically. And still, I offered my enemies candy if I thought they might like to have some.

Teachers felt they had innate connection to me because they knew my mother was also a teacher. Nonetheless, they did nothing to help the situation. The teachers also called me Obiwankinobi. To make matters worse, they called me by that name in the presence of others students. “What’s the matter, Obi? You got a problem with a little teasing every now and then?” was supposed to negate the fact that they, the teachers, had acted out of line. And things got worse.

None of the other students actually knew where I or my family originated. However, in the black community and yes, in the latter portion of the 20^th century, blacks put other blacks down for being too black; dark. Two specific ethnic groups were ridiculed the most: Africans and Haitians. The most ridiculous epithets were called out. They called me African Booty Scratcher and Haitian Booty Scratcher. Used interchangeably, it begged the question “Is there really a person designated to scratch certain types of ass?”

In the midst of their verbal assaults, they didn’t need to hit me. However, a dream was fulfilled. I got my revenge in the middle of the schoolyard during one recess in the third grade, mid semester of the Fall, 1983. “Massacre” or “Bloody Carnage” would’ve and could’ve been a suitable title for the event that took place. Ian tormented me every other day in the first and second grade. He had it coming. No one ever bothered me again – until the fourth grade, in classroom 4-305 which seemed more like the House of 1000 Flying Fists.

My attention deficit caused a failure to mention a tragedy endured in the midst of misery. On Saturday, April 23, 1983, a green taxicab (I only know the color because I was told months later) flew through an intersection near my house. There was neither a traffic light nor stop sign at the corner of Maple Street and Albany Avenue.