In Loving Memory

My first trip to Ghana I decided, after seeing the churches built on top of the slave holding chambers at the castles in the Cape Coast, that I couldn’t be a Christian. This was an extreme response to what I now see as a horrible use of religion as a mask for inhumanity. I vowed never to take part in something that was used so maliciously to rip apart my people, to weaken them into submission and affectively brainwash them into colonial puppets. While the scars of colonialism are visible in Ghana and in the States, I have grown out of my overarching contempt for Eurocentric religion.

On the morning of June 25^th I went to church. The service was Presbyterian and held completely in Ga,  but felt like a weekly service at Victory AME or Hillside Baptist (two churches in Atlanta I’ve been to). We were there for a Thanksgiving Service in honor of Elder Mrs. Gertrude Boi-Doku. Since she was Jessye’s host mother, we were treated as family. We sat awkwardly in blue chairs at the front of the church. I watched women parade in, each one wearing some variation of their Sunday Best. One woman in an orange floor length skirt and blouse wore a gold headwrap that rivaled any church hat I have ever seen.

As the service started, a church official led the choir in carrying the bible and the church pennant. We weren’t given a program so I relied on my church memories for some clues of what would happen next. There was a call to prayer, then the invocation(?), then there was singing. The songs were always my favorite part of church ( that, and hording communion crackers). As the songs picked up the congregation danced and smiled and sang along. Some read from hymnals, others knew the words by heart. Soon a woman and a man took to opposite sides of the stage and started the sermon. They spoke with so much passion that even though their words were foreign, I could feel their testimony and I received the lesson. Their alternating voices gave room for different perspective and supported the overarching theme. I wondered how they had prepared for this “team teaching”. There was barely any overlap and little to no silence. The words just fit together in perfect harmony. There were times I felt myself laughing with the rest of the congregation as if I had understood the joke or giving off non-verbal cues of understanding  (head nods, deep grunts, and the like) almost on cue with the rest of the group. I was present at the service in ways that I haven’t been present in a while. I was spiritually connected to a whole and lead on a journey through scripture by studied preachers. Simply put, it felt heavenly. Ritual speech transcends language barriers.

When it was time for the offering, a new group of singers (there were four “choir” groups present) got up and started singing a fast pace song that sent a jolt of energy through the crowd. We stood and danced and when it was our turn, we awkwardly circled the offering pot and because I was ill prepared and only had 10s in my wallet, all I gave was love in the form of an empty fist dipped into the pot. 2 offerings later I was less concerned with the imaginary donations I was giving and more captivated with the singing and dancing of the congregation. The women, in their beautifully tailored African garments, were moving in the spirit and it was beautiful. My little side stepped failed in comparison to their mother land shuffles and instinctively choreographed waist and arm movements. After 4 hours of singing, dancing, sermon, announcements, and tribute to a retired official, the service ended and we stood outside in a line of Family & Americaness shaking hands with the first 50 people who exited the church before finally leaving to return home.

The courtyard of the school we are living in was filled with red and white chairs. Family and friends would gather here to celebrate the one year anniversary of Eld. Mrs. Boi-Doku’s death. I got my camera and took a few photos (mostly of the choir hired to perform and the Gye Nyame imprints on the chairs). There was soooo much food! After taking a phone call I returned to the table and the girls and I prepared to go inside. The elders were gathered in the living room and we had to pay our respects, by shakings hands with each one. One Aunty (who had earlier kicked us out of the living room because “the show today was outside”) Shook hands with all the girls and when she got to me she announced that she hadn’t met me. I told her my name was Ra and that I was one of the Volunteer’s with Jessye. She was shocked. Apparently she assumed I was someone’s Ghanian girlfriend (I would later find out from Nii that he’d been asked several times if I was his American wife). When I told her I was in fact American and in school with Jessye and the rest of the girls, she laughed at the misunderstanding. When I told her I was from Atlanta she tried to get me to marry her son.

The day was full (& so was my stomach). The weekend left me reeling in the spirit. I started writing this post that night but it has taken me almost a week to finish. A week. I have only been in Ghana for a week and it feels like I’ve done so much. Looking forward to what the next 6 weeks bring me.

Triple Conciousness

The Girls are sleep. We woke up this morning at 4 am by 5 we were in a tros-tros ,piercing through Accra traffic, picking up a few Aunties along the way. Today marks roughly a year since the death of Jessye’s Host Mama, the woman whose house I’m staying in. We went to the unveiling of the tombstone. Funeral rites have always been hard for me. As we walked through the graveyard I was met with emotions I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know this woman, or any of the other elders laid to rest there, but there was a profound sense of absence in the air. The service was conducted in Gah (the local language). The priest spoke. The family sang. We all stood in reverence to a pile of dirt. Unkempt Dirt that, just by covering a casket, became more precious than anything I could afford to touch. I uncoiled at the sight of Jessye placing a flower arrangement on the grave. Feeling the love in that circle, crossing racial, cultural, and class barriers brought up more emotions than I was prepared to deal with. I cried. I cried for Jessye, I cried for Nii, for all the Aunties, for my mother, for auntie makeda, for Ms. Graham. I cried across the diaspora, I guess I can legitimately classify my tears as “African American” (pardon me as I try to lighten the mood).

But now I’m sitting in bed. I will shower soon but now I have grown restless and School Daze failed at grabbing my attention. I was reading when I stumbled across a passage that mentioned DuBois’ theory of Double Conciousness. Last night Aliya, Michelle and I sat outside talking about life and culture and stuff and two of the things that came up were my experience here (as an African American) and W.E.B DuBois’ legacy her and abroad. As I reflect, I realize something that I guess is kind of obvious. In Ghana I live with a triple consciousness. I am keenly aware of myself as I see myself, how The Girls see me, and how I am seen by Ghanaians (which is twofold because they see me as not only Black American, but Black American traveling with a pack of white women). Back home, I would yell at someone  calling me “Black American” but here it is the only/quickest way to explain to the kids how I look like them but speak like the white people, have a tattoo, a nose piercing, and copper hair. 

T.I.A

I walked into the nursery confused. The kids ran up to The Girls, jumped in the arms and sat in their laps. I just stood there. I guess this is what happens when you’re the last volunteer to arrive. Everyone seems to be pleased with the way things are. The volunteers come and entertain the kids which gives the teachers a break. I didn’t know anything about the lesson or  the school. I met the headmaster and had heard whispers about the lesson to come. When we split up Aliya and I had older kids. We wrote the assignment on the board (write 5 sentences about what you want to be in the future and draw a picture of it on the back). The kids wrote headers on their paper, using their rulers to craft immaculate lines and borders. It reminded me of KIPP. After introducing ourselves and explaining the assignment; we sat. I felt useless. I didn’t see the therapy in a room of 62 children drawing pictures of (white)docters, (white) nurses, teachers football players, and the occasional pilot.One boy wrote 5 sentences about why he wanted to be an artist, then crossed out artist and put teacher, when i saw this i asked him why (he had no answer he was willing to share). I told him to tell the truth and that there was nothing wrong with wanting to be an artist or musician or even a rapper. Another boy wanted to be a banker. When i circled back around i noticed that he had drawn a picture of a white man sitting behind a desk. I asked him who it was and he said it was supposed to be him the future, "but you don't look like that," I said. He laughed.

There is a picture in Rick Goldstein’s room at The Paideia School of the ideal learning environment. In the picture, rows of desk in front of a chalk board are grey and dreary. On the opposite side there is sun a grass and other luxuries afforded to those who can pay for private hippy education. Here, there are rows of rocky wooden pew-like desk. There is sun (coming through the open walls) and dusty floors. This is how the rich go to school. Far from the western hippy ideaology I was fortunate enough to learn from. This is Africa. T.I.A.

**T.I.A is what The Boys say. It is typically offered as an explanation for an unfortunate circumstance. It is a line repeated throughout the chorus of a K’naan song (This is Africa). It is basically used where my friends in Atlanta would say ‘rachet’ or ‘ghetto’. The toilet won’t flush? T.I.A. You almost get hit by a taxi? T.I.A. The television is blurry and full of static? T.I.A. 

Thoughts before breakfast & my first trip to a school

GOALS:

• -        Become conversant in Twi or Gah. To be able to understand people when they talk to me. And give them satisfactory answers.
• -        To develop a connection with a seamstress (I must get whoever did Sheila’s sister’s blazer thing)
• -        Buy pretty things!
• -        Make a friends. Like an actual friend that I can keep up with over the years and link with when I return.
• -        I want to conquer this discomfort. The one that comes from being African-American in Africa with White women. It is a special kind of discomfort and far worse than being the only black face in an American class room. Here “volun-tourism” is a white thing. Schools, children, towns people are used to seeing white people come to help, but someone who looks like them yet cannot speak the language is a phenomena they have not yet had to unpack. I am a phenomena they have not yet to unpack. So that glances and stares are just surprise and confusion. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself so I don’t think everybody hates me.
• -        Scouting husbands for my girls back home J J
• -        Learn AZONTO (I’m getting there. In fact Serge was so impressed with my dancing that he picked me up off the ground to celebrate)
• -        To be continuedddddddd

Getting dressed

Since people assume I am Ghanian I am absolutely terrified that dressing as I would in America may get me labeled as a whore. I haven’t seen very man young Ghanian girls so I have no gauge of what is culturally appropriate. I wore a tube top (free boobs!) yesterday and I just knew that in some local’s mind I was a little blonde haired gal “selling” (prostituting). The Girls said I’ll be fine. They said provocative is provocative but I shouldn’t have any extra worry and Jessye will tell me if she things anything is overtly inappropriate. Idk, I think I’m just gone wear as much clothing as weather permits to avoid any confusion. 

After

We go grocery shopping. Apparently peanuts are called groundnuts here. We finish. We come home. We chill. I unpack more. They talk. I squeeze in a quick nap. The conversation makes it clear that their experiences as “volun-tourist” has been heavily impacted by their whiteness. Every time they describe how they’ve been treated by men or children I wonder if they realize how much being White Americans has changed how Ghanaian culture receives them. They are “Obruni.” They are other. And I can’t decide if my blackness will help or hurt me as I try to do work, make friends, and contribute to these communities. If I spoke twi or gah this would be easier. The looks of disappointment or the feeling of invisibility wouldn’t affect me as much. But here I am an African American. And obvious relative trying to traverse a cultural canyon. Young girls in the Labadi Town Center, who were watching as I painfully attempted to pick up the language, discovered my tattoo and asked what it meant. I didn’t think to ask them if they know what slavery was. I said something to the effect of  “my relatives, great-great-great-greatgrandmothers and father were here once, then they were stolen and taken to America. That is way I don’t understand Gah or have a Gah name.”

Night Time:

We walk to Fish & Friends to meet up with Serge and The Boys. I am introduced, I make a round of hugs, I take my seat. There is one, the light-skinned one, who is called White (because his mother is white?). His name is Albert. I call him Albert. I know, I think too much and over analyze everything, but there is something unsettling to me about the whole ordeal. I love The Girls and The Boys are so much fun, but I couldn’t help but speak up when the girls were trying to get one of the boys to show them his muscles. It just felt too “ooh what a stud” slave auction-esque for me. We danced SOOO much. I’m beginning to learn Azonto J. I just had to ask one of the boys how they/he ended up hanging out with all these white women. He laughed and assured me it was nothing and he understood how I saw it and how it may be an uncomfortable idea from an outsider looking in, but they are friends going out to have a good time and one of their friends happens to be involved with a white woman who brings her white friends around.

Tomorrow. I got to school. Nobody knows how the kids will react to me. To quote one of The Girls  I am “an experiment.”

During

The plane ride is long. There is an extra seat so I stretch a little. 2 hours-in we eat din din. Watch Grease on the complimentary movie machine. Then pop one of mommy’s magic pills. I’m out like a light before cha-cha and zuko tear up the dance floor. Next thing I know the pilot announces that we will be landing in 10 minutes. I sit. Hazed until it’s time for me to exit the plan. I stand outside. Ghana is hot. Accra steams with the sweat of a city working the western way. I walk down a ramp where airport officials are stopping everyone but Ghanaian nationals I tried to stop and they rushed me along. I smiled. Finally someone recognized that this was my home. But when I tuned the corner I was funneled into a pile of “other nationals” where I waited to be entered in to the system. As an immigrant. Still in my chemically induced haze I made my way to baggage claim grabbed my bags and set out for customs which was a surprisingly shorter process than I had imagined. I pushed my cart up the ramp where I was greeted by Jessye in a pink Attukwei Art Foundation tank (I want one!). We get in a cab and I am still amazed by how in control she is at all times. She speaks the language and seems to have a firm grasp on social interactions here. We get to the school we’re our house is located and I’m greeted by some older women and and dozens of Ghanaian children that do more of an intense kinda of stare than a greeting. Either way, im so in love with everything at this point. We get in the house and I see the room which has 4 beds and one fan. Im in the far corner. I put my stuff down. change out of my flight clothes. And we head into town.first we get some food (jollof rice, plaintains, and red red) then we go to get me a cell phone and sim card. THERE IS SO MUCH I MUST BUY! So many colors and bags and dresses and yea. Just yea One guy stopped me and was trying to sell me bracelets when one of the girls told him I was from Russia (they are so used to the ‘harassment’ they now create this outlandish lies). He says to me something about how he will talk to me, his black sister, because she, my white lying friend, doesn’t understand. I laugh and keep walking. He yells something about Obama so I throw up a Black powerfist.

Before

The car ride is quiet. I sat alongside every variation of love I have ever known. There were no words to express how this felt. What this trip meant. So we sat. I drummed and laughed awkwardly. Then were finally at the new fancy Maynard Jackson International Terminal. It was sooo pretty, but it’s blue lights, reflecting off sparkly clean floors, did nothing to lighten the mood. I was leaving for the rest of the summer and the separation anxiety was starting to flare up. We sat and shared words (prompted by my Daddy) about how we felt about this moment. I could start to feel like tear lump climbing up the back of my throat. Soon it was time to board! After a last minute gift arrival and so many hugs I lost count, I turned around and walked towards the security checkpoint. This is where the tears start, but I wipe them off and wave back at love periodically. There is a middle-aged white man heading to Uganda who likes my laptop stickers and is “glad that I give back” (to be unpacked later). When i got  through security  and headed towards the escalator I looked back and saw love, laughing. The tears fell down and I could only imagine what the people who saw me thought. But then I looked down at the 60 dollars’ worth of ink in my left arm.

It reads:

“The dream

& hope of

The Slave”

I can’t cry anymore. I’m embarking on a journey [a journey] that is a part of my life’s purpose and only a putz (yes, I said putz) would take the time to whine over the temporary discomfort caused by separation anxiety I should have outgrown years ago. Once I arrive to the terminal, I am immediately greeted by a sea of eyes attempting to gauge my nationality (or starring at my blonde TWA). They make me uncomfortable but I immediately do the same thing only I, being the Anthro major that I am, take notes. [will insert notes once i find that notepad]

packinggg (oh and there's Salah)

Last full day in Amurrica.

or Amerika or AmeriKKKa. The US of A. When we got off the airplane my first trip to Ghana in 2007 i was so upset that they treated us like...Americans. In my mind i was coming home and should have been greeted like Elizabeth Smart finally being released from captivity. I had conquered my kidnappers and was running towards the front door of the house when they stopped me and asked to see my passport. I'm sure Baba Ajishafe and Brother Africa had a good laugh at my naive comments and out of place emotions. That incident is very telling of the person that I am and the struggles I have reconciling with my identity as a victim of trans-Atlantic slave trade or, in leman's terms, an African American.

Now, on the eve of my second (and substantially longer) trip to Ghana, West Africa I am more concerned with how being mistaken for a native will shade the adventures to come. Almost every person I've talked to about has left me with the same advice, some variation of "make sure you keep your passport on you" because "they not gonna let you leave." One of my friends who studied abroad in Tanzania told me about her struggle to gain respect from the natives who were more eager to work with and learn from white volunteers. My coordinator told me that most likely everyone is going to speak twi to me and when they find out i'm American they will want to marry me.

I don't wish to get married this trip. I do wish to be respected. and i guess it would be nice to be allowed back to America (at least until i finish school). Either way, this go round I am less naive and more "enlightened" which has done nothing but further conflict my sense of identity. I feel as Kwame Nkrumah put it "African, not because I was born there, but because Africa was born in me," and America never really felt like home. But the truth remains I am 'technically' American and that's what i'm, legally required to put when asked for my nationality (even though my common ap "identity" section definitely said 'victim of transatlantic slave trade"). And there are many Africans who feel it is disrespectful and ignorant for me to consider myself an African. Either way I stand, hyphenated, between two identities.

This is shall be interesting.