While some prominent musicians have come to his defense, many of the memes about 21 Savage imply that despite his having lived in Georgia since he was a young boy, his British origin somehow disqualifies him from claiming it as his home. They imply that he is somehow a lesser rapper — that his claim to hip-hop and black American culture is now illegitimate . “21 not a blood; he’s a redcoat,” a person commented on Twitter.

At first glance, these reactions could be viewed simply as harmless jokes. And maybe some just had a hard time conceiving that a rapper could be British. But their dismissiveness hit close to home with me , bringing up my own experiences in which similar attitudes have been all too prevalent. I remember the first time someone told me that I am not black. I was in middle school. A boy who had just found out that my parents were from Ethiopia turned to me and said, “Wait, I thought you were black?” I stared blankly, giving no response. “Nah, bro, you’re African.” I neither accepted nor denied this. A couple of mo nths lat er, I was asked the same question. This time I replied, “What’s the difference?” Silence. A shrug. I was left not knowing who or what I was, feeling as though I was trying to fulfill a position I was unqualified for.

I faced this false distinction at home as well. The first time I heard th e world “black” used like it meant something dirty, I was around 9 or 10 years old. This experience is co mmon for children of the African diaspora. It was probably a holiday or someone’s birthday, and my family was gathered together. The men sat in the living room, their laughs bellowing through the walls, talking about politics (Ethiopian and American), each louder than the other.

Suddenly, the conversation shifted to race. Someone announced to a chorus of groans: “I am not black. I am African. I am Ethiopian. I know where I come from.” And then my mother’s swift rebuttal: “Here, our sons are black. Whether you like it or not, this country doesn’t care .” Yet again, I was left not knowing what to call myself or who I was. Years later, I remember this conversation when I am being followed in a store. Being Ethiopian does not exempt or shield me from American racism.

It seems that a narrow view of the word “black” in an American context is preventing blackness from being allowed to coexist with other identities and racism from being allowed to coexist in conversations with other issues — especially immigration.