"Gettin' Thick" & Other notes on Sensuality

Being raised in Atlanta’s Afrocentric community, there is not a section of my childhood that was not accompanied by the music and rhythms of African dance. In my living room there is a newspaper clipping of an approximately 2 years old Ra staring blankly at a camera with hands attentively placed near the center of a Djembe drum. I learned to walk in what was once the African Djeli, a piece of pan-African heaven tucked between the busy storefronts that face The Mall West End alongside Ralph David Abernathy Blvd. As I got older I attended classes and workshops, Spirit Dances, and spirited audiences at the annual Malcolm X festival.  I was taught by Pearl Premus progenies who had returned to Atlanta in the spirit of African tradition to share their knowledge and allow younger generations to venerate a culture that had too long gone undervalued in contemporary American society.

But this post is not a manifesto for the Afrocentric community.  My second week in Accra concluded with a trip to the Calabash Afridance work space. We arrived prepared to dance, sporting sneakers and yoga pants. We had been dancing since the first day of orientation so there were no more petrified faces from those whose bodies were not accustomed to moving so freely. But as we sat in front of the drummers I noticed that they were all male. Traditionally many African customs designate gender specific roles in celebration. Drummers are typically male. But my childhood proximity to Gye Wienmata (sp) as the foremost authority on African dance gave me a completely different understanding and expectation. As the dance presentation began, I noticed that the rhythms were familiar to me and as I looked at the dancers I recognized and could even predict some of their movements. But being socialized to seeing female bodies carry the large and organized burst of energy characteristic of African dance I had learn to see the moves as feminine and had a moment of joyful confusion as my eyes readjusted to the fluid movement of muscular calves and prominent biceps.

The other day my beautiful and handcrafted facebook timeline blessed me with a quote from James Baldwin on Sensuality:

"The word “sensual” is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread."

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

Watching the male dancers (and so many other moments in Ghana with specific regard given to Kumasi) I have been a witness to the sensuality of existence. Something as commonplace as sweat, a task as menial as hanging laundry on the line or carrying a bucket down a dirt road becomes an exercise in appreciating and enjoying the gift that is the black body. When eating, as my palette shift towards cravings for shito and fresh pepper, my waistline and thighs expand to accommodate the extra servings of fufu and I am more comfortable and indulgent than I have ever been. This isn’t to say I don’t spend random increments of idle time doing crunches and squats in my room, but I am enjoying so much of what I eat and how I look that those 6-pac aspirations are becoming less of a nuisance. Besides having spent longer than I’m willing to admit narrow-hipped and in denial about my lack of ass, I am welcoming Ghana’s curves with optimism and the belief that all the walking, running and dancing I’m doing will even things out.

In my program we’ve talked a lot about the African standard of beauty in comparison to the American standard. Of course globalization has forced some overlap and I can’t buy lotion from a supermarket here without checking for skin lighteners. But as to be expected, Ghana doesn’t have the same regard for Barbie-esque proportions. About 94.598 % of the women I’ve seen have had heavenly dimensions ranging from coke bottle, to hour-glass, to just overall “Dammmmmn.” For some Americans, Africa’s appreciation for a more liberal body type translates to “fat acceptance” and what I’ve observed is white women with “non-traditional” figures being made into false idols and flaunted, by themselves and Ghanaian men, as sexual anomalies.  By and large, it is none of my concern. Body image and sexuality are personal matters that deserve some respite from socio-political critique. I understand that everyone’s journey of self love and acceptance looks differently and it is neither my place nor intention to cast judgment.
But I will say that I find some twisted solace in knowing that in Ghana I am physically attractive, because I’m physically attractive and not because of any racialized fetish. I admit that it’s annoying and uncomfortable to watch women lauded for such a superficial reason. It’s even more upsetting to watch the oblivious way white women accept this attention and parade it around as if it is something I should covet.

Inversely, when clubbing our first night in Kumasi I noticed how violently some of my white female classmates responded to the unwarranted touches and attention of men on the dancefloor. At first I thought it funny then I had to stop and think about why I found it weird that any women would be appalled that a stranger touched her. I concluded that as a woman of color my body has never been my own. It has it sacred spaces and “no no squares,” but It has always been something I was trained to protect. I expect men to touch me on the dancefloor, welcome it if the song is right, but I know that the second I feel uncomfortable or threatened it is MY duty to draw the line and remove myself from the situation. I have a higher threshold for invasion. Even typing that is a startling reminder of the presupposed “sanctity of white womanhood” in contrast to that of women of color. Wow. There is so much in this last paragraph that needs to be explored but I will leave that for another medium.

"We Should All Go Back With Dreadlocks" and other first impressions

Joeshmail did not want to leave me at the airport. She turned away hesitantly after making me promise to call and text her once I had met up with the group and was headed to Legon. I nervously straddled my leopard print suitcase trying to make contact with all my belongings as I sat in the metal seats of the arrivals lobby. I was alone for about 30 minutes before I got a call from Kwame, an SIT staff member who was already at the airport waiting for this semester’s students to arrive. I was anxious. The car ride from Labadi to the airport felt too short. Like a chapter closed too quickly, its characters left underdeveloped and the reader trying to figure out what she’s missed. This was the end of Ghana as I knew it. The end of taxi rides from Labadi to Osu, of impromptu Ga lessons and girl talk with Joeshmail, of the anonymity of being alone, dark skinned and beautiful in a place where both dark skin and beauty are in surplus. Those first two weeks I was nobody’s “Obruni” or “Brofonyo.” I was a sister, a daughter, just another woman walking the streets of Labadi. My tongue sullied this sense of oneness. My accent and failure to understand when spoken to in the language of the area made eyes open wide and taxi prices increase. Most days I could not be fooled. “Daabi,” I’d say before haggling for the correct prices. Other days I couldn’t be bothered, excepting this ‘obruni tax’ as the easiest way to get where I was going.

But as I scanned the airport crowd for members of my group I was suddenly aware of how different things would be. Once they all arrived, I realized my calculations had been incorrect. There were 15 of us, but I was pleasantly surprised by an additional Black woman and a White man. I smiled and greeted them.  Comedically apologizing for my obnoxious over coordination, I had worn a Cheetah print dress which matched my suitcase, backpack, and travel pillow. I did not plan on meeting the group in full on cheetah girl attire but as a friend of my said when I texted him about the predicament “at least a brought my whole self to the table…no surprises.” As we boarded the tros-tros a white voice croned in excitement, “we should all go back with dreadlocks!” White laughter ensued. This jovial comment triggered in me a sort of “fight or flight” response. I murmed something like, “seriously?” Then fell silent. I wish I would have had the wit and energy for a proper comeback. These were the people I would be studying and traveling with for the next 4 months and I immediately questioned my decision to sign up for this program.

Orientation flew by awkwardly. The forced smiles and feigned interest in each other’s lives. I have always found small talk to be unnecessary, but that seemed to be the chosen way to communicate amongst the group. The only place that felt safe was my hotel room. My roommate, who I now affectionately refer to as Queen Mother Marquita, filled the room with Chicago-bred southernisms. We shared stories about our lives, about being progressive black women on our small liberal arts universities, about what brought us to Ghana and how happy we were to be experiencing this together. The next day Rashida joined in our bonding session and the “Black Girls Abroad Society” was born. In my hotel room, underneath a gorgeous portrait of Naomi Campbell, we created a safe space to release all that had been hiding behind our smiles.

It pained us to here the white voices cry about the heat, lack of toilet paper, and other things that made them “appreciate all that they had at home.” For us this trip was more than that. This was to be a semester of self-discovery and socio-political analysis. We weren’t here to gain a new appreciation for our privilege and the ignorance of our peers was unnerving. In the classroom I was quiet to avoid confrontation.  Our “Life in Ghana” check-ins were full of trivial overstatements and accounts of naivety. At the Kunta Kinte Highlife Club I was quiet and sober, laughing periodically at offbeat angular dancing. In the taxi home I found myself in an argument that I thought I was avoiding. One of my classmates had grown defensive to everything I said and seemed to be trying to reject the idea that her city, the murder capital of America, was socio-economically segregated. Her resistance to the reality of her hometown did not surprise me, but the vigor with which she contradicted points I never made was hilariously pitiful. At the beach I was treated by African men as some sort of key to unlocking the white pussy that surrounded me. It pained me to see how low these beautiful mahogany skinned men would stoop for the sexual attention of white women. It hurt even more that the presence of white women somehow superseded my sexuality.

Uncomfortable is the best word I can use to describe how I’ve felt this first week. I found some solace in phone calls home and daily meetings with the BGAS, but being in a program that so blatantly caters to white Americans has caused a great deal of mental frustration and it is just the beginning. It wouldn’t be fair to say that all the white folks in this class are unbearable. The more one-one encounters I’ve had the more depth I’ve discovered.

Our first assignment was a mission statement, to discuss what we expect for ourselves and for the group. I wrote mine on the second night of orientation:

This semester I am committing myself to being open to experience. To ensure and maintain a cohesive group I will be clear, open and honest about my perspective, needs and boundaries. This being my third trip to Ghana I feel like a pre-teen who feels both confident about her understanding of the world and overtly aware of all she has yet to learn. I see this semester with SIT Ghana as an opportunity to add knowledge and depth to my relationship with the country. I will take full advantage of every opportunity to learn and/or try something new along with sharing the things that come quickly to me and not being afraid to ask for the help of my peers.

                I am expecting that as a group we approach our time in Ghana open and honest with a keen since of awareness to the ways identity (with specific consideration given to Americaness, Whiteness & Blackness) impact how are seen and approached as we travel. I expect a safe space where concerns can be discussed frankly and maturely without gossip, anxiety or anger. I expect to be approached directly if someone takes offense to anything I say/do and I expect my feelings to be respected when I approach others. Overall, I think positive energy will be one of the most important things that holds us together as a group. I know I personally don’t take well to complaining or insensitivity so I hope that as a group we can commit to really thinking about the things we say/do before we act. This journey is very important and personal to me (as I am sure it is for my peers), and I will not tolerate anything that intrudes upon my peace. I expect that we hold each other accountable while simultaneously giving each other the space to follow our own spiritual, mental & emotional paths through this beautiful country.

Running Home - Ghana 2014

The air in Ghana is sweet with the stench of daily duties. Metal baskets sit heavy on the heads of market women whose hip sway in the sultry normalcy of tradition. Sweat pools on the muscles of men laying beneath a staircase in Osu. There is not an inch of Ghana that does not stimulate at least one sense. Color splashed cloth sold on the other side of an open gutter. The grayish-white rush of excrement and bath water flowing beneath planks of wood laying bridge-like alongside one another. At this point, they are the only thing I’m scared of. If I make it through 5 months in Ghana without falling in a gutter this trip will be complete and all the other things I discover and experience will come as a welcomed bonus.

My first two weeks in Ghana before the official start of my SIT: Social Transformation & Cultural Expression program have been full, hot, and relaxing. I told someone that I practically ran out of Atlanta and it’s true. The week before I left was kind of overwhelming that you appreciate for the way it brings you closer to your loved ones, but none the less I was exhausted and dangerously close to turning of and shutting myself in. But there was no time for that. After a quality soak in the last functional bath tub I’ll see for the next 4.5 months I had accepted what I needed to accept and was ready to start this journey.

No matter how fast you leave there will always be love – From the smiles and laughter shared with my sister-queens (& king) as we hastily climbed waterfalls setting the scene for projects to come, to the familiar awkward fumble of me and my parents making our way to the airport. I used to get so sick with separation anxiety that I’d cry violently before every flight, now I breathe. Sometimes the tears come, sometimes they don’t. This time I was so calm it frightened me. It was a weird combination of peace, exhaustion and excitement that almost felt like a high.

There were two flights and a brief layover between me and a country that’s always felt like home. When the final plane got close enough that I could look out the window and see the dust red roads and trees, all I could do was smile and give thanks.

My Ghanaian sister Joeshmail met me at the airport. We got kelewele and laughed and hugged away all the time that had passed since we last saw each other. After two days in Osu we moved to Labadi. Some things have changed since the summer of 2012, the kids are older, there’s a mall on Oxford Street  & I can’t find some of my favorite street vendors. But all in all, LA feels the way I remembered it – the busy streets, clusters of houses, random bits of pop culture and religion juxtaposed on shop windows. I’m living in the shadow of The Church of Pentecost Headquarters, a chapel and office complex that looks like it could rival any Atlanta mega-church.

The irony of my living situation is that I spent the majority of last semester reading case studies about Ghanaian Pentecostalism and now it’s literally in my backyard. But that’s one reason I’ve structured my year this way. Spent 3 months in London experiencing Africa academically and now I’m here experiencing Africa physically and spiritually. Studying in Ghana will be interesting as I’m pseudo-familiar with the land and have done most of the tourist-y things before but I will undoubtedly have a level of access to Ghanaian art and culture that I would have missed if had just come on my own.

I won’t say I’m looking forward to traveling and studying with a group of Americans. There are maybe 15 of us – 2 women of African descent, 1 white male, and around 12 white women. But I’m approaching this as close to unbiased as I can get and open to experience. Plus, I know it will likely make for some wonderful rants/blog post.

I’m excited about my 3 host families and my month long independent study project. I’m excited about the two weeks I’ll be here after my program ends. I’m excited about my family coming (speaking this into existence) & celebrating my birthday on a beach in Ghana.

I’m excited about my latest baby, Project Ohemaa. A healing and empowerment centered creative writing program for SHS girls that I’m hoping to run in collaboration with the Attukweii Art Foundation and some other Ghanaian groups and creatives I’ve been blessed to work with.

I’m excited to be here, twenty years full of inspiration. As endless as 20 feels, I know now more than ever that tomorrow is never promised. Fred Hampton was assassinated by the police at 21, my cousin Ashley in a fatal car accident months before her 21^st birthday.

I will turn 21 at the end of this journey and have committed this next year (& all years to come) to being an ACTIVE proponent of the dreams of my ancestors. Living the story my ink tells, making things happen and not just writing pretty words about them.

Stay Tuned, ya’ll. There’s greatness to come.