Oyster Knives

I am very good at music.

Every time I read Pedagogies of Crossing by the water life throws me illustrations of the themes of the book. This morning I'm sitting by the pond, reading, listening to the birds and the artificial fountain when I see two elderly men walking along the dirt path, they are very light skinned but not quite American White (though they'd probably be read as White in Jamaica). As they approach me, one all but shouts in my direction “I just bet my friend here that you are African, real African, not African American”. 

I respond, “I'm neither from the continent nor am I African American, I'm Jamaican”. 

He says, “Well that makes you African”. 

Never one to shut down a conversation with elders regardless of how random, and curious about where this is going, I ask, “What do you mean by that?” 

He says, “It makes you more African than African Americans”.

            I respond, “Well I'm not entirely sure I'd say that. We do have very similar histories of forced removal and enslavement”. 

Then he says, “But you're very good at music!” I resist the urge to slap my palm to my forehead and somehow manage to hold on to my stupid polite smile. 

            The friend who has been quiet all this time repeats “Yes, good music! Good rhythm!” Then gaining some confidence says, "I'm from Africa....but I'm not Black". 

The more talkative one jumps in again. “Yes, people think Africa means Black but not all the people are Black. Some are very light. He's from Algeria, I'm from Lebanon". 

Realizing that this is about to dissolve rapidly into a discussion of who gets to be African and what it means to be African and how that differs from Blackness that I don't have time or energy for - I was reading after all - I respond simply “well, it's a large continent” and turn my eyes back towards my book. 

Having completely missed my timid hint, he settles himself in for a long conversation, asking what I'm doing here (as in why I'm in the US), what I study and why, and suggesting I talk to his friend, presumably because he's African, maybe because our fields are ever so loosely connected. By this point the friend, clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable, begs him to leave me to study, thanks me for my time, and leads him away, leaving me to wonder how exactly one looks continental African from halfway down the dirt path when there's also such a clear investment declaring that African need not be black. Why does my Jamaicanness make me magically musical, and why is this musicality inherently African? And why is there this underlying assumption that my Jamaicanness makes me more African and thus closer to Algerians than it does to African Americans with whom I have shared roots and routes?
“…sentience soaks all things. Caresses all things. Enlivens all things. Water overflows with memory. Emotional Memory. Bodily Memory. Sacred Memory. Crossings are never undertaken all at once, and never once and for all”(Alexander 2005).