by No article published today. Sometimes you need a day to just exist without performing. Being the only West African immigrant woman granted citizenship during Trump’s second term comes with expectations I never asked for. Every piece I write is examined not just as satire, but as representation. As if I somehow speak for all immigrants, all Africans, all women who dare to critique the country that finally let them in.
I don’t want to be a symbol. I want to be a writer. But I don’t get to choose what people project onto me. My byline carries weight I never requested: immigrant, African, woman, satirist, citizen by the grace of an administration that hates people who look like me. Every article is filtered through those identities whether I intend it or not.
Spent the day reading comments on my previous pieces. Most are positive, some are hateful, and a few are from other immigrants saying “thank you for saying what we’re all thinking.” Those ones hit hardest because they remind me why I do this. Not for the Americans who consume satire like entertainmentfor the immigrants who recognize themselves in my words and feel less alone.
My therapist (yes, I have a therapist nowbecoming American means medicating your trauma with copays and cognitive behavioral techniques) asked me today what I’m running from. I told her I’m not running from anything. I’m running toward something: a version of myself that gets to be honest without losing everything. A version that can critique power without being destroyed by it. A version that’s free.
But am I free? I have citizenship papers that say yes. I have a platform that pays me to be critical. But I also have the knowledge that one wrong word, one piece that goes too far, one joke that offends the wrong person, and I could lose it all. Not my citizenshipthat’s permanent. But my career, my platform, my voice. Those are contingent on staying in the acceptable range of criticism. Funny enough to be interesting, critical enough to seem brave, but never so dangerous that I become a problem.
That’s the tightrope I walk. That’s the immigrant experience in miniature: performing authenticity while monitoring yourself for anything too authentic. Being yourself while constantly calculating which version of yourself is safe to show.
Tomorrow I’ll publish something funny. Tonight I’m tired of being funny. Tonight I’m just tired.
# 681
