My father and his best friend grew up in Apartheid South Africa. My father is of colour and his best friend, who I fondly refer to as Uncle Kimon, is white. Growing up I heard endless stories of the trouble these two used to get into. Them going to “whites only” beaches, or Uncle Kimon picking up my Dad’s girlfriends from their houses, so their parents wouldn’t think they were going out with an Indian boy.
Although Kimon was considered run of the mill ‘white’ on paper, in reality, his parents are Greek. Because of this, people couldn’t quite place him. With his dark, almost-black hair, straight nose and olive skin, no wonder people couldn’t place him. To them he was Portuguese, or Italian, even ‘coloured’ at times. It isn’t any wonder then why, when asked, “Well, what are you?” Kimon got tired of explaining. Eventually he started giving the same answer each time.
“I’m a citizen of the world”
Knowing him, it was said as a joke or a rather cocky remark. But I like to believe that my dear Godfather accidentally stumbled on a rather timeless piece of wisdom.
Before anything else we are human. Once we are born all sorts of labels get placed on us, none of which we decide on or even ask for. Growing up in South Africa gives you a particularly unique perspective on the subject. My Dad’s side of the family gets labelled as “Indian,” my Mum’s as “white.” Both my parents look like they are from the Mediterranean.
Inevitably I get asked the same question as Uncle Kimon, “Well, what are you?” (A question, it must be noted, is not considered rude if you are well acquainted with someone where I come from.) I have a few responses to this question:
- “I’m Indian” (an answer reserved for the simple minded folks I meet)
- “Why does it matter?” (reserved for those who really believe they can know everything about me if they know the answer to this one question)
- “South African” (reserved for people who insist I must be from somewhere else even though I’ve already insisted that I am, indeed South African, and on some occasions, shown them my ID)
- “Human”
“I’m a citizen of the world.”
-Uncle Kimon
People don’t seem to like the 4th answer much.
People tend to look at their fellow human beings as things; objects that need to come with a “Made In” label. I’ve been told I’m Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Brazilian, German, Arab, Greek, Lebanese, Turkish, Egyptian, British, American, Australian and Persian. And I’m sure my mother must be exhausted from giving birth in all those places at once. The airline tickets alone must have cost a fortune, never mind the visas.
Thinking about it now, I don’t need to show anyone my label, no one needs to know what fabric I’m made of (It would definitely me satin, just for the record) or if my colour runs out if you put me in the washing machine (It doesn’t, olive skin will always be olive.) In fact, I don’t need to be put in the washing machine at all, I’m perfectly happy with a warm shower like everyone else.
I’m not “Made In,” I’m “Made, on,” I’m made on Earth to be precise, And definitely a Citizen of the World. Though I don’t think the government would be too ecstatic if i wrote that on my passport, it might cause a few problems at customs.
Thank you to Sheldon, for your never ending support. Check out his site, like and support!
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And another thing 