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.