Moving Out Of An African Home As A Teen
How one of the most stressful experiences of life turned out to be the most rewarding.
It is November 2, 2016. There is a lot of tension between my mother and I right now. It’s approximately four days before I officially move out, but she still knows nothing about that. The tension has been brewing for about three weeks now.
I’ve been living in Oshawa, Ont with my family for six years but I attend Ryerson University in downtown Toronto. To help put it into perspective: it’s just over fours hours of travel time to and from school.
And It is absolutely draining.
Having to deal with this travel time for three years has become too much for me, so I had to make a change. However, this change didn’t come without it’s consequences — in an already complicated relationship between my mother and I.
I can’t even remember the last thing we fought about and why we’ve been so cold to each other recently, but then again, that is just our relationship. Sad, complicated, and a bit toxic at times, but also real.
As a 19-year-old Ghanaian kid, you just have to accept that whether an issue is your fault or not, you have to be ready to take the blame for it. No if, ands or buts about it.
This time around, the true issue isn’t really what we’re fighting about; it’s the fact that I’m moving out.
So, here we go…
I can feel it, and with her motherly intuition, my mom can feel it too. I’ve officially signed the lease on an apartment. It’s a done deal.
And even though I’ve brought up the subject of moving out at least 50 times (and that’s not hyperbole), to an African parent, and specifically a Ghanaian parent, those words are empty. They never expect to see any of their children acting upon what they consider the “threat” of moving out.
I am not one to judge or proclaim this to be a good or bad thing, but the reality is, the vast majority of Ghanaian kids do not move out of their parents house until they are married, engaged (which in Ghanaian terms is sometimes more solid than a marriage) or they are older than 28 and preferably in a serious romantic relationship.
So I guess I’m just one badass, rebellious, BITCH!
I am one of a few children to Ghanaian parents who is willing to take that leap. I am eager, and I am taking the initiative to move out of my mother’s house at the age of 19.
Now some might say, “Relax. I don’t understand why you are going on about moving out. I moved out when I was 16” or “My parents sent me far away to college before I even turned 18.”
While that’s fair, it is also completely different from the experience of a child to Ghanaian immigrants.
It’s almost taboo to move out of our homes as teenagers. There are so many little phrases and sayings our parents use. If I met you in person, I could relay them to y’all in my horrendous rendition of a Ghanaian accent to make you laugh. All of these sayings have basically the same end goal: when it comes to moving out, our parents just aren’t having that shit.
So it was interesting, contrasting that with the excitement and support my friends and co-workers had for me when I told them I had found a new place and been approved for it. A couple of them were so excited, they ended up telling my mom about me moving out before I could, which was a whole other nightmarish story.
What surprised me though, was the reaction I received from my sister. Even though she basically thinks she is my second mom — I expected her to be excited for me.
She had the same reaction that I would have expected from my mom. She was solemn about it, immediately asked me how much my rent would be and forcefully (which is her normal tone of voice) told me to make sure I told our mom.
I respect my sister and love her to death, but I knew better than to take her advice here. I just wasn’t ready to have that conversation with my mom yet, so I didn’t.
Now, let me put what happened next into simpler context for you by laying out a timeline of events.
Week 1, Thursday: I meet with my realtor. She shows me four places. I fall in love with the apartment I am in today and text my future roomie about it with excitement.
Friday: My roomie and I agree to rent the apartment and began to fill out the paperwork we need to put in an offer.
Saturday: I sign some more paperwork from the realtor, thinking I would officially have the place that night.
Week 2, Sunday: The realtor informs us that she is still waiting on papers to be signed so she will update us on Monday.
Monday: The day passes by and I don’t really hear much.
Tuesday:The landlord approves us, but says we will only get the keys if we have our down payment that same night.
This brings us to to the final point in my timeline.
Week 2, Wednesday Night: I finish school and take a late GO Train home. Throughout this train ride, I am getting anxious. I know this is the day that I need to tell my mom that I am moving. In reality, I should have told her at least two days ago, like my sister had instructed.
The train finally arrives at its stop in Oshawa.
I hop off the train and get into my mother’s car. She doesn’t say hi. I was convinced that I would tell her the news as soon as I got in the car just to get it out of the way. Haha. Yeah, not so much.
So then I rationalize that I’ll wait until we get off the highway to tell her, just incase she gets upset. Yes, I called that rationale. Some of y’all just wouldn’t understand the anger African parents feel over such trivial issues.
In my head, I’m thinking about different ways to break the news.
Like, do you remember when you were in grade school and you got a pink slip, or you got a bad note in your agenda, or an 89% in math instead of a 90%? And then the whole way home on the school bus, you would think of ways to break it to your Ghanaian parents? That was me, during our car ride.
So we pull off the highway and get on the main road. My stomach is starting to sink, my heart is beating fast, and I’m completely in my head.
After a couple green lights, I say, “Mommy, I got a place downtown and I am moving my stuff on Saturday.”
She asks me, “Where did you get it?” I tell her it’s on the Danforth, in Toronto’s East End. She asks, “How much are you paying?” I tell her I don’t want to discuss it.
I feel the clouds start to gather. She turns around, gives me a dirty look, and drives in silence for the rest of the way home.
It was weird. She reacted way too calmly, but I knew she had to be pissed off on the inside, just waiting until we got home so she could vent to my sister.
The week I moved out was probably one of the most uncomfortable weeks ever in my house, but all the resistance and tension was for nothing. That Saturday my brother and cousin came to Oshawa to help me move my stuff. This was also the day my mom’s attitude shifted.
It was kind of funny to witness. She went from ignoring me, to wanting to really be apart of the process. She was asking me to let her help me secure a U-Haul, pack some of my stuff in boxes, ect. I was shocked, but I had to laugh about it. At that point, it was either she get with the program, or get left behind a grade.
I knew what the right move was for me. While I had been tempted to stifle my needs in order to appease my parent, like most African kids do, if I had not followed my gut, I would have contributed to the stigma our parents have about moving out as a teenager.
And now, just a little more than a month later, my mom calls me every single night.
Someone who I sometimes wouldn’t talk to for a week at a time, but whom I saw everyday, has now become THE favourite in my call log.
It’s funny sometimes to think about all the anxiety I experienced while making my decision. I have now come to realize that I did what was best for me, and I am 1000 times happier because of it.
I’ve cut travel time to and from school (Oshawa to Ryerson University) by four hours a day. I have a growing sense of independence with the responsibility of paying real bills, and thank the Good Lord, I no longer have to spend almost $20 daily on transit.
In my third year of university, I finally have more time on my hands to get school work done. The other day, I actually watched a school basketball game for the first time ever during my university experience, with my friends. That’s crazy to me, because basketball is my absolute favourite sport, so that should have happened long ago. And much more important than that, I actually found time to talk to y’all through Yonge Magazine.
I know there are others out there who struggle with decision making for themselves. I get it. As children to immigrant parents, you do not want to feel like you are disrespecting your parents by putting your needs before theirs. After all, they did move halfway across the world — away from everything and everyone they know, to give you and your siblings a better life.
Nevertheless, what I have come to learn is that suppressing your own needs is not the way to show your appreciation.
Do what you feel is right for you, and trust me, eventually your African parents will get in formation — even if it takes a while.
P.S. Thanks to mother and sister for being the bomb even though the journey was a turbulent one… Love.
