 I never embraced my identity as an American because I never felt proud to be American. I grew up watching whiteness glorified and placed on a pedestal. In school, the popular girls never looked like me. And when I went shopping, clothes were not designed to fit my curves. And on television and magazines, everywhere I turned whiteness was the standard of beauty. So I tried to mimic beauty standards that were set by white culture failing miserably because in case you can't tell, I am a black woman. And what I didn't realize back then as a young black girl was that I was being conditioned to hate my black features because I didn't see myself reflected in conversations about beauty by the society that I grew up in. And in my professional life as a scientist in training, I again didn't see myself reflected in society's version of science. And people questioned my ability as a researcher and how I show up in academic spaces. And I remember one time when I joined a research lab after being introduced as a highly skilled biochemist with ambitions of pursuing a PhD, a colleague said to me, you don't look like a scientist. I mean, why do you wanna get a PhD? I don't know, you just don't seem very sciency to me. And I remember thinking the worst part about that encounter was that they didn't even say that maliciously. They were genuinely perplexed and confused that I, looking the way that I do, wanted to be a researcher. And so it begs the question, what does a scientist look like? If I'm in the lab doing scientist, I am therefore a scientist and I look like a scientist. So thankfully, I never doubted my ability to become a scientist because I was raised by a black mother with an earned PhD in organic chemistry from the Georgia Institute of Technology. And despite the challenges I faced as a black woman scientist, whenever anyone questioned my place, it didn't really phase me because I'd already seen it done. In fact, growing up, I actually thought it was normal for black women to get PhDs in the sciences, which is, yes, very laughable now. And when I started college at Georgia Tech, I quickly, quickly learned that that was not the case. And I often reflect on the fact that my mother, who was born and raised in Nigeria, was a young child before the civil rights movement and before Georgia Tech desegregated in 1961. And for me, it's still shocking to think about that today because of how recent that history is. When she started her PhD program, she was, of course, the only black woman and person in her program. And almost 40 years later, I am one of few, if not the only black woman and person in many academic spaces as well. And as I subconsciously internalize these experiences, watching American culture disregard the humanity, the beauty, the intelligence of black people, you can understand that I had absolutely no desire to claim this country. And so I pretty much ditched my American identity entirely when I joined the African Students Association in college and I made friends with people who were unapologetically proud to be black. And as I integrated into this community, I saw myself reflected in people who were highly educated, resilient, warm and welcoming and wearing our beautiful Ankara fabric. They walked as if the world's existence depended on their every step. And their self-love and the confidence were absolutely contagious. And I fell in love with my own Nigerian culture. And for me embracing my culture meant rejecting America's flawed standards of beauty. It meant acknowledging and celebrating the beauty of my people and having unwavering pride in my origin. And so from then on, whenever anyone asked me where I was from, I probably stated that I was Nigerian as my own acts of revolution against the American culture that rejected me. So if we fast forward to a few years later where two unsettling experiences occurred that forced me, literally forced me to claim my American identity. The first was when I moved to Belgium as a Fulbright research scholar. And when people asked me where I was from, I'd answer, I'm Nigerian. And they'd look at me puzzled, hearing my American accent with my American passport after explaining that I was born and raised in New Jersey, I realized that saying I'm Nigerian as an international scholar meant something entirely different in this context. It implied that I was born and raised there, which simply isn't true and isn't an experience I can relate to. So for the first time in my life, I began telling people I'm American, but I'm Nigerian American because that qualifier was always needed for me. And then the second experience and probably still the most unsettling experience to this day is when I applied for the Paul and Daisy Soros Fellowship for New Americans. Twice, I didn't get it by the way, but this fellowship celebrates the contributions that immigrants make to American society. And it honors the fact that America thrives because of the immigrant community and the positive impacts that they've made. And so I was so excited to apply because the mission embodied everything that I stand for and it encompassed my family history. And so I sat down ready to crush these essays, like yes, let me tell you how amazing immigrants are. And then the first essay question reads, tell us about your experiences as a new American, whether as an immigrant yourself or as child of immigrants, how have your experiences as a new American informed and shaped who you are and your accomplishments? How have my experiences as a new American informed and shaped who I am? That's easy, hasn't been anything good. But the part that caught me was, and how has this shaped your accomplishments? And I'm like, there's nothing positive about my experiences of being American and accomplishments are a positive thing. So I really had to pause and reflect as someone who was born and raised here, there had to be some good somewhere and I had to figure it out because I had to write a whole essay about it. And by definition, I am American. So I had to dig deep and think really, really hard. And it brought me back to my mom's story. During the Civil War in Nigeria, a consequence of colonialism by the British and global white supremacy that continues to exploit the African continent to this day. My grandmother fought ferociously, working extra jobs to pay for tutors so that my mom could continue her education because schooling was disrupted by the war. And as a result, my mom became the first in our family to go to college in an environment where oftentimes women were not encouraged to get an education. And women were seen as second-class citizens and expected to support and uplift the men in society where men would question, what do you need to go to college for? Or grad school, just get a husband alone, take care of you. And she loathed being in toxic and patriarchal environments and that men were elevated in society for no reason at all other than existing. And if you know anything about my mother, she challenged anyone who questioned her place by excelling, getting into the most prestigious college in Nigeria, the University of Baden and then getting into Georgia Tech for her PhD program. And she used her opportunities in America to become a respected scientist, educator and advocate for marginalized groups around the world. And she used her resources to improve her communities which are all traits that I've proudly inherited. It's because my mother challenged oppressive climates as a Nigerian woman that I was raised to challenge authority when people are mistreated and to be outspoken about issues that I care about. And so I use my own challenges to advocate for and uplift others as well. For example, as a Fulbright scholar, I co-founded Fulbright Noir, a platform to support black American ambassadors navigating anti-blackness overseas. And as a grad student, I've dedicated most of my extracurricular work to increasing representation of women and black scholars and STEM. And if I witnessed someone being unfairly treated, it doesn't matter what or who is involved, you can ask anybody that knows me, I'm gonna be the one to speak up. And if challenging institutions and authority figures when they're wrong or being unjust isn't the most American thing I can do, then I really don't know what is. So as I reflected on this essay question, I realized that my unwillingness to identify as American is a paradox. I owe my opportunities, tenacity, outspokenness, and ability to create positive impact in my communities to America. And while this certainly does not negate my negative experiences as a black woman in this country, from racism, discrimination, police brutality, you name it, I am actively working to embrace the fact that my story is American and my mother's story is American. And when being American includes being a black immigrant who actively works to dismantle patriarchal and racist structures and uses their voice to uplift others, then I can be proud to say I too am America. So if I can leave you with one message from my story, it would be this, remember that your story and your history matter and that you have power and agency to improve your communities. So hold space to honor the truths about America, the good and the bad and know that you are a part of the good in this country. And that is always something that's worth celebrating.