american cultural imperialism and my psyche? curios, suspicious, unmasked
Its curious. i haven't written or opened this blog in over a year and i'm looking at my past writing style with curious suspicion. Style might not be the word but my voice in earlier essays sounds uncomfortably american. i'm embarrassed to realise that my many years of consuming american popular culture, often without much thought, has implanted an identity i have no business embodying. I chalk this up to my childhood of course. My siblings and i raised one another. We were home alone for most of our childhood while my parents worked ridiculous hours at low-paying jobs, leaving us with triple-locked doors and a TV that played too many american children's programmes. Regardless, in those pockets of time my pan-African father was around, he instilled pride in our culture and black africanness. He would remind me of our setswana heritage and had a policy that we should leave the english language we were taught in school at the gate. As soon as we entered our home, setswana...