I learned the history. I knew the
names. I knew the events that took place. Vasco da Gamma and the Cape of Good
Hope, the Ivory Coast, and, of course, the infamous slave trade. I remember
sitting on a wooden school bench as my teacher recounted stories of the slave
trade. He told of how prisoners of war were sold to the white man in return for
guns, powder, and gold in the midst of civil wars. He told of brothers selling
sisters, sisters selling brothers, and fathers selling sons and daughters, when
in essence, they were selling their own souls. African history can be so
frightening to a fourth grader. I was young and innocent.** I was also naive,
but those childhood attributes began to fade as I grew up. I gained more of an
understanding of what had gone on and why. I realized that times had changed,
and that the people, traditions and customs of our cultures had evolved as
well.**
I immigrated to Texas from Uganda to
live with my father in 1987. The move came as a culture shock. To a 12 year old
from the lush tropical landscapes of the Nile valley, America was an amazing
mass of concrete and steel. It was an assault on my senses. Where I was
accustomed to grass, trees, and cultural homogeneity, I was now faced with
concrete, skyscrapers, and a rainbow's worth of "new" people and the
whisper of the valley winds muffled by the constant hum of traffic on LBJ
Freeway in Northern Texas. The night sky was robbed of its twinkled brilliance
and in its place was the incessant blinking of turn signals and the muted glow
of streetlights.
America was very different for me back
then; but now it has become a place I can call home. The bulk of my
"cultural acclimation" took place in Junior High and High School,
where I came in contact with a variety of cultures, made friends, and dug into
the American way of life for the long haul. I can't say that it was the best of
times, because they were not. For me high school in America was a very lonely,
confusing experience. I found myself without a social safety net, without a
group of peers with whom I shared a common bond. I was not particularly welcome
in the black community. Other than being the subject of ridicule, I never felt
that I had much in common with the black population in America. I found it odd
that I had nothing in common with the American black population other than the
color of my skin. I found out later that it was because I lacked the inborn
animosity** too harsh If reviewed by a different
audience, revise to something like bias** towards white people that had
been perpetuated through generations of the black experience. I got to feel the
ghostly itch of the social scars branded by the slave trade of so many years
ago, and later aggravated by the civil rights movement. I lacked the Angry
Black Male (with a chip on his shoulder) perspective. My accent set me apart
from the local vernacular, ostracized me the moment that I opened my mouth. It
took me a while to settle into friendships; I felt marooned on this empty
island of life with no one to turn to. But instead of fighting for acceptance,
I decided that it was better to just be myself. I was in a new country with
plenty of chances to define myself on my own terms. I became a member of
several extra-curricular clubs and organizations, bent on taking full advantage
of my right to do so. I gained experience and exposure to the American
democratic process by running for Student Council, as Secretary. I later
expanded my political participation by joining the Young Republicans. We held
meetings to discuss local and national election proceedings, often debating the
very issues hotly debated in the National Presidential Campaigns of 1992. At
UNT, I joined the Progressive Black Student Organization, partly as an
initiative to actively participate in the black community. I decided to discard
my fears and get more comfortable with where I was.
In time, I also grew accustomed to my
new family. I learned to call my new siblings true brothers and sisters, I
learned to play with them and most importantly, I learned to trust them. We
went to school together, suffered the same disappointments, and relished the
same joys. We cried, we laughed, and we yelled and screamed together. They were
family, where everything begins and ends: one sister; seven half-sisters, five
half-brothers; two stepbrothers, and two stepsisters. Seventeen. There were
varied interests and a collage of temperaments; they were the proverbial mosaic
of physical and spiritual existence. To an outsider, it's the modern-day clan,
the extended family motif gone awry. To me, it’s a legion of peers, my own
private fan club. They push, they prod, they interfere and intervene; but most
of all, they inspire. Their diverse
geographical distribution is also a plus. Culturally, I never lose sight of
where I have been. My brother, Isaiah, in Uganda, is a constant reminder of
where I am from, while James here in Dallas reminds me of where I am headed.
Interestingly, my siblings serve as my
creative triggers, often surfacing in many of my creative and artistic endeavors.
As an artist, I have used my family as a creative pulse in many of my projects.
After a trip to Uganda one year during my undergraduate studies, I organized an
exhibit with a world-renowned commercial photographer, Stewart Charles Cohen.
The exhibit, held in celebration of African-American History Month, was held at
UNT's Art Building. It was a photographic, collaborative success that
highlighted the cultural wealth of the people of Africa. In effort, it was
meant to elevate the culture beyond the Hollywood-generated image of an AIDS
and hunger-stricken continent, full of wild animals. It was my exercise of the
freedom of speech. I finally felt the freedom to freely express my opinion,
undeterred and uncensored. One student reviewed the show, stating that [my]
"photographs heavily emphasized the people and cultures in Africa...The
people are seen by Teddy to have a new found sense of hope.... He has respect
for the 'true' African culture that is not manufactured by product and
entertainment marketers...." Featured, were images taken of my siblings
and other family members in Uganda. Some of the imagery centered around the
remnants of war, particularly the devastation created in the wake of Uganda's
infamous dictator, Idi Amin. Such a show would not have happened during his
rule. It felt good to have the freedom to contribute creatively to the
enhancement of African culture.
My
family also played a huge role in my collegiate and post-collegiate athletics
successes. As a student athlete, I competed to succeed both on the field and in
the classroom. I was recruited and awarded an athletic scholarship by the
University of North Texas. It was a huge accomplishment for me, because I
entered my senior year of High School resigned to the fact that I would have to
get a full-time job and go to school part time. Armed with a scholarship, I
entered my freshman semester with a sense of accomplishment. It was a
challenge, juggling my academic obligations alongside a heavy training
schedule. After a jittery first year, I began to excel both academically and
athletically. I received several awards and recognitions for my efforts. I was
named Male Scholar Athlete and received the John D. Muchison, Sr. Scholarship,
two years in a row. I also managed to get on the Dean's List for four
semesters.
Meanwhile, on the fields of
competition, I took on the challenge of the decathlon on the UNT track team
because I felt untested with just doing the hurdles and high jump. The combined events competition offered a far
greater challenge, thus a greater reward in personal satisfaction. Once I got
used to the rigorous training schedule of the new event, I broke the school's
decathlon record that had stood for five years. I set my sights higher by going
after Uganda's national decathlon record. The crux of Uganda’s athletes is
centered on long distance running. Facilities are unavailable to support a
multi-disciplinary event like the decathlon, so it was a blessing to train in
the United States. I knew it was a goal
that would take me a few years past graduation to accomplish. In order to
achieve my goal, I had to balance several priorities: working, training, the
rigors of competition, and family obligations. What proved to be most difficult
to handle was the psychological torture that I had to endure after suffering
relentless season-ending injuries. Three years in a row, my season was cut
short because of devastating injuries that ranged from pulled muscles, to sore
tendons and repeated strained hamstrings. My confidence took a beating as well.
This year's season performance was a welcome confidence builder. After nine
attempts at finishing a decathlon injury free, I broke the Ugandan National
record in June and participated in the All-Africa Games in Nigeria this summer.
I was able to finish both competitions and without a hint of injury.
**Closing
paragraph need to restate you’re thesis**
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