My sister, agnes, was visiting from Harvard law school, and we were strolling the streets of Koreatown that summer of 1989. I was a doctoral student of economics at USC. Bored, we entered a video store and were excited to find "Coming to America."
"What do we need to rent a movie?" Agnes asked the cashier.
For The Record
Los Angeles Times Saturday February 07, 2004 Home Edition Main News Part A Page 2 National Desk 1 inches; 44 words Type of Material: Correction
Professorship -- The author biography with last Sunday's magazine essay on confronting racial prejudices incorrectly identified writer May Akabogu-Collins as a professor of economics at Cal State San Marcos. She is not currently on the school's faculty; she formerly held an adjunct professorship there.
For The Record
Los Angeles Times Sunday February 08, 2004 Home Edition Main News Part A Page 2 National Desk 1 inches; 48 words Type of Material: Correction
Professorship -- The author biography with the Feb. 1 Los Angeles Times Magazine essay on confronting racial prejudices incorrectly identified writer May Akabogu-Collins as a professor of economics at Cal State San Marcos. She is not currently on the school's faculty, but formerly held an adjunct professorship there.
For The Record
Los Angeles Times Sunday February 22, 2004 Home Edition Los Angeles Times Magazine Part I Page 8 Lat Magazine Desk 1 inches; 39 words Type of Material: Correction
The essay "Coming to Black America" (Feb. 1) incorrectly identified writer May Akabogu-Collins as a professor of economics at Cal State University San Marcos. She is not currently on the school's faculty. She formerly held an adjunct professorship there.
"Just a minute. I go ask," she replied, and she disappeared to the back. Just then, another clerk approached and said something in a thick accent. It sounded like: "Sorry, only Koreans."
Agnes and I wondered if we had misheard. Then the owner appeared, not looking thrilled to see us. "Credit card and driver license," she announced. Agnes heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out her wallet. After scrutinizing her American Express card and license for what seemed like a minute, the owner declared: "One hundred dollars cash deposit and you leave license here."
By this time Agnes and I had the scent: Only Koreans.
Growing up in Africa, my impression of the black American was of a lazy, uneducated, ghetto-dwelling, dependent, disruptive and accomplished criminal. Upon arriving in America in 1980, I was surprised to find black American students on a college campus. Racial preferences, I thought, and distanced myself from them. But now, at least according to the Korean video clerk, I was one of them.
I'm not exactly sure where or how I got this stereotype of black Americans, though I'm certain the movies had something to do with it. As did my parents. When I left Nigeria for grad school, my dad told me: If you look for racism in America, you'll find it. But prove to them that you are a tribal African, not one of those addle-brained former slaves. And do steer away from them; they're nothing but trouble.
When my mother came to visit, she made us cross the road upon spotting a black man approaching. With her it wasn't just prejudice against black Americans. A real estate magnate in Nigeria, she would rent only to expatriates--Caucasians and non-black foreigners. "The black man has no respect for property," she claimed. And it didn't matter if he was the college or bank president.
In grad school, I collaborated in my own discrimination. A Korean classmate was equally surprised to find me--a black doctoral student. She had grown up in Korea to believe that black people were "lazy and dumb . . . only dance and crime." I concurred but with a slight modification: "only black Americans, not black Africans." I had assumed that to get respect in America, I needed to distinguish myself from those blacks.
