"Returning"

We spent this past weekend in Cape Coast. 3 hours away from Accra and about 5 times more dangerous. To get there we took tro-tros (kinda like buses, but less uniform and more raggedy). This time there were six of us. May, one of the teachers at a school we go too and a close friend of Jessye, came and alas I was no longer the only black girl. When we arrived at Sammo’s Guest House I have to admit I was a little taken aback by how destitute it was, then I remembered that last time I was in Cape Coast I was afforded luxury accommodations at Coconut Grove. I had to remind myself that there was no use in complaining and that a weekend with no running water was far from the worst thing that could have happened. After dinner we went back to the hotel to chill. In the cab ride home we had heard about a party going on later at the same restaurant. I was curious about it but also really tired. One of the girls was full of energy and really wanted to go so after about an hour of laying around chatting with May, I got up, redressed and headed back out. At the “party” we danced to a mix of western pop songs and Ghanian Hiplife. There were so many westerners. It could have passed for a Brandeis party. Soon it was time to go and at 12:30 we could not find any taxis. For the next half hour tensions flared as we tried to find a way to get back to our rooms. Details are trivial but it basically boiled down to fear and different ways of dealing with it. We were all scared of being mugged. Scared of being victimized. But I think, and this is purely speculation, that the difference is that I’ve been victimized before. For me being mugged isn’t some horror story that becomes real only at night on the rough streets of Ghana. It’s a fear that I have to live with walking through my own neighborhood at night and a fear that follows me in Waltham.

              

All theories aside, we got home safely. And in the morning spirit told me to apologize, so I did. That day we went to see the castles. When we arrived at Cape Coast Castle I tried my best to pass as Ghanaian but the guy at the admission’s desk saw right through my silence and broken Ga. My aesthetic similarities did not earn me free or discounted admission. We walked to catch up with the tour guide and as soon as we got into the dark male slave dungeon, I started crying. I was standing over the remains of not only my ancestors, but of all the byproducts of the system that has disadvantaged black people throughout the world. These castles are monuments, tourist attractions, cemeteries. What was a profound emotional experience was an educational one for some. At this point I’d like to point out that ,on this first tour, May and I  were the only black people. As I cried, a teenage white girl complained about bats. It has always been hard for me to accept peoples surface level relationships with things that evoke such strong responses from me. The first time I visited Cape Coast Castle, my team and family were ENRAGED at a group of white tourist who we heard laughing. It didn’t matter what they were laughing at our about. We were finally reconnecting with a part of our identity we had only known in an academic context and they, were laughing. This time I tried to worry less about the group of white people from all different nations surrounding me and more about the spiritual connection I was wrapped in and all the history that surrounded me. 

                

At lunch we waited out the rain then headed to Elmina Castle. About 45 minutes away, this Portuguese trading post is substantially less packaged for tourism. We got there just as the tour began and I was delighted to see a sea of black faces. It seemed that we had joined on with a family. But not just your ordinary Ghanian family. This group crossed the diaspora. I believe (again, more speculation) It to have been a family reunion of sorts with some of the relatives being local and others from The UK and possibly America. The second tour was louder. The family would react to the history and sometimes ignore the tour guide and invent their own. They were definitely emotionally engaged, b no one was crying, instead they joked about it. When I white women passed us on the back of a castle staff member, one of the guys asked, “Did she pass out or was she shocked by the news?” Another said, “Maybe she’s Portuguese.” . I admit, that if I hadn’t just seen the other tour I may have been upset about the group drowning out the guide. But I was so amused by this group of black people interacting with their history, reacting to a horrific history, that the tour wasn’t important. I could tell The Girls were a little put off by the rowdiness, but it was kind of like a reverse of the emotional alienation I felt at the first castle. Feeling like you’re the only one “paying respect” is never a good feeling. A feeling that was only heightened by the racial differences in the crowds.

At dinner we debriefed and I struggled to articulate what I was feeling and had been feeling that whole day. An awkward bundle of emotions: sadness, rage, grief, confusion, pride, and just plain fatigue. But I think I said what was on my heart and I only hope that the girls we’re able to understand.

There are a lot of things I can only hope the girls understand. About me, about Ghana, about cape coast, about me in Ghana and Cape Coast. I know that I view the world through a particular lens. One colored by colored life experiences. My own, those around me, and those I’ve read about. Returning to Cape Coast is about as Sankofa as a girl, born in the 21st century on American land, could get. The Castles represent my most tangible and irrefutable connection to the Mother Land. The Castles also represent what I see as the most crippling dis-ease of human kind. The brutal stroke of colonization that raped the royal out of Africa and bastardized millions of her children.  It came up that In my first weeks I made some people feel uncomfortable with my constant “pointing out of race.” Irony plagues the white liberal in Africa, who wants nothing more than to blend in and mesh with the beautiful surround, but here the colors are too strong. White skin carries an exaggerated amount of privileged that to a little black girl, makes everything a race thing. And it’s just an unfortunate reality we all have to deal with. I don’t think the discomfort is a bad thing and I won’t apologize for the cringe in my stomach every time I hear a white girl call a black boy or child a monkey. What I am willing to do is step back. Give myself and those around me time to breathe in this experience. It might be too soon to tell but this feels like another phase in “the life cycle of a neo-revolutionary.” 

You got the: outrage that comes with first learning your history, then the unsettling calm that comes with realizing things won’t change the louder you yell, then there’s that period of time when you realize the road to revolution is paved with self-reflection. I sit, cross-legged on a twin sized bed in Labadi, wishing for safe travels.