Who Am I?

Who Am I? A Black Child’s Journey Through Ancestral Erasure

It started as a simple class project: “Trace your family heritage.” The assignment was straightforward for most of my classmates. Some brought in family crests, heirlooms, or old letters. One girl shared a hand-knit blanket her great-grandmother brought from Ireland. Another classmate brought tamales made from a recipe passed down in his Mexican family for generations.

But when it was my turn, I stood empty-handed in front of the class. No heirlooms. No recipes. No stories. Just a vague sense that somewhere in my bloodline, there were enslaved people on a plantation, their names and stories erased. “My family is just… from here, I guess,” I mumbled, and sat down.

The Void of Ancestry

This project wasn’t just an assignment—it was a painful reminder of the void so many Black Americans like me live with every day. According to a 2018 study by Ancestry.com, over 80% of Black Americans can only trace their lineage back three to four generations before hitting the brick wall of slavery. Unlike my classmates, whose ancestry often leads to specific towns or traditions, my history stops at auction blocks, bill of sale records, and stolen names.

And the psychological toll is real. Studies in the Journal of Black Psychology show that a lack of ancestral connection can lead to feelings of rootlessness, low self-esteem, and a diminished sense of identity. Without the foundation of knowing where we come from, it’s harder to imagine where we’re going.

My Classmates Have Crests; I Have Chains

One of my classmates traced his Irish roots back to County Clare and proudly brought in a family crest that had been preserved for generations. Another spoke about her German great-great-grandfather’s immigration story and how his traditions still influence her family today.

But my story—our story—is different. My ancestors didn’t come here by choice. They were forced onto ships, stripped of their names, languages, and identities. By the time they arrived in America, they were no longer seen as people but as property.

And that history, brutal and inescapable, is the only thing I can bring to class. No family crest. No heirlooms. Just the weight of knowing that my history was stolen.

The Data of Erasure

The numbers are stark. During the transatlantic slave trade, an estimated 12.5 million Africans were kidnapped and brought to the Americas, with about 10.7 million surviving the journey. By the time the Civil War ended in 1865, more than four million Black Americans were enslaved, their names and histories meticulously erased to ensure control and dehumanization.

Today, fewer than 5% of Black Americans can trace their lineage back to a specific region in Africa. Compare that to the 90% of white Americans who can trace their ancestry to a country in Europe, and the disparity is glaring. This is not an accident—it’s the legacy of a system designed to strip away identity and replace it with servitude. 

The Psychological Toll

I didn’t understand how much this loss affected me until the day of that class project. Watching my classmates share their traditions and stories made me feel hollow, like I was missing a piece of myself I didn’t even know I needed.

Experts call this “ancestral disconnection,” and it’s been shown to have lasting psychological effects. A 2020 study published in American Psychologist found that Black Americans who struggle to trace their lineage often report higher levels of anxiety, depression, and a diminished sense of belonging.

Dr. Joy DeGruy, author of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, explains it this way: “When you don’t know where you come from, it becomes harder to know who you are. And when your story is rooted in pain and erasure, it’s even harder to build pride in your identity.”

America: Home and Prison

Even though my classmates can trace their roots to other countries, they still call America home. But for Black Americans, the relationship is complicated. America is home, yes—but it’s also the place that enslaved our ancestors, segregated our families, and continues to perpetuate systemic racism.

Unlike my classmates, who can visit Ireland or Mexico and reconnect with their heritage, I don’t have a specific “home” to return to. DNA tests might give me a region—say, Ghana or Nigeria—but even that feels vague, like trying to find your house with just a street name and no address.

This lack of connection is why so many Black Americans feel tethered to the U.S., even when it feels hostile. For better or worse, this is the only home we know. 

Reclaiming What Was Lost

Despite this loss, Black Americans are finding ways to reclaim our stories. Programs like African Ancestry and Ghana’s “Year of Return” campaign are helping people like me reconnect with our roots. DNA testing is giving us the tools to fill in some of the gaps, tracing our heritage back to regions and tribes across Africa.

But this work isn’t just about discovery—it’s about healing. It’s about undoing centuries of erasure and giving ourselves the right to belong, not just in America but in the world. 

Who Am I?

At the end of my project, I didn’t have a crest or an heirloom to show. But I did have one thing: the determination to ask questions, dig deeper, and reclaim the history that was stolen from my family.

Because I am more than the void left by slavery. I am the descendant of survivors, innovators, and builders. And while my story starts with chains, it doesn’t have to end there.