"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.