August 20th
I pounded fufu today. Fufu is a staple carbohydrate in Ghana made from cassava (which is kind of like large oblong potatoes) and unripened plantains. I can’t eat too much of it. The diet here is heavily based in carbs, and it feels so heavy in my stomach. Good but whew, I need a salad, lol. After we cut the cassava and plantains, and boiled them we went to pound the items. My host family doesn’t have the tools to pound it so we had to walk to another neighborhood to pound it. First one woman came and said, “Aye! The oburoni is pounding fufu!” I got a small crowd of woman and children. The women kept telling the children to leave. But they didn’t. Just moved to a safe distance. They asked me how I was doing in Fante, I responded and asked the same in Twi. They were all surprise and laughed. It didn’t take as long as I thought. I have a war wound. A blister. And I need a nap, lol.
SIDE NOTE Random funny conversations:
1) Pastor’s wife, pastor, the house helps, and friends are in the living room. I enter and sit down. Everyone is laughing about something.
Pastor’s wife says to one of the house helps, “Aww fuck you!”
My eyes get really big. “Wow.”
Pastor laughing,“What? We heard it on the American movie.”
Me chuckling, “Oh. Well… in the US people would be very surprised to hear a pastor or a pastor’s wife say that word.”
Pastor’s wife, “Oh we don’t know what it means.” She walks over to me laughing, “Tell me what it means in my ear.”
Me, lost for words on how to define the “f” word. “I don’t know. Its like saying ‘your mother’ or something it’s a curse or something.”
Pastor’s wife no longer whispering, “So what should I say? ‘No fuck you.’ ‘Please no fuck you.’ ‘Don’t fuck you.’ ‘Don’t be a fuck.”
Me, feeling something weird between behind slightly offended and wanting to laugh “No, it’s the word it’s not how you say it.”
Pastor’s wife, “So, no fuck you?”
Me, “No, it’s the word, it not…ok.” LOL.
2) Me to one of the house helps, “Would you like some juice?”
House help, “Ohhhh noooo.” Shaking her head.
Me, “Oh, you don’t like juice?”
House help, “Yes.”
Me, “So you do like juice?”
“No.”
“Ok you don’t like juice.”
“Yes.”
“So…ok” LOL.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Day 36
August 19, 2009
Some more volunteers from the U.S. came on Tuesday. We all went to town to go to the market and the girls wanted to go to the Cape Coast slave dungeon which, oddly, people call “the castle.” I went there last summer. We walked inside and there is a little courtyard where people are selling items. My chest hurt. My heart started beating fast. I couldn’t walk inside the courtyard. Something happened in that place. I got that same heaviness in my chest. This feel was compounded by the fact that Ghanaians were selling items in building that was build to sell Ghanaians. In a dungeon, build, specifically, to tourcher, rape, and sell black bodies, the volunteers wanted to take a happy group picture. My chest still hurt. I didn’t join them. It like I wanted to say, “Don’t you know where you are? How can you be happy in this place?” It was weird and uncomfortable. We ended up leaving because the charge was too high. Even paying to enter into a place where people sold is just... so discomforting. We walked outside and there were vendors right outside the dungeon. They walked up to us, wanting to talk, sell things. The volunteers went over to buy things. I couldn’t stand there. I passed the vendors and walked towards the ocean. I felt this odd mixture of being solemnly stiff. Not sure how else to explain it. One of the Ghanaian volunteers asked what was wrong. I said, “This place makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“Why?” she said.
“Because it’s a dungeon.”
I felt like, maybe being the only black American in the group that what I was feeling wouldn’t make any sense to them. And who knows if I said something, it might be misinterpreted as some attack on Ghanaians, when it wouldn’t be, and I wasn’t in the mood for all of that.
I went to sit down to wait for the other volunteers a little ways down, away from the dungeon. One other volunteer and I started walking past the castle to wait for the others. As I walked by the right side of the castle to the left, my heart got heavy again. Something happened in the particular space. It the same area were the shops were located inside. I don’t know what.
I went to check what I wrote last year when I first entered the dungeon. Its interesting that I wrote this before reading “Ain’t I a Woman” by Deborah Gray White who discusses the various ways African women who were enslaved in the US, resisted slavery (in some ways through their children). Here is what I wrote:
Day 10: June 22nd 2008
The minute I looked at Cape Coast Castle two things happened simultaneously: Weight and noise. I felt the same heaviness I felt at Elmina. Like someone. Some people sat on me. Not on my external body but on my insides. Like a cannonball was placed inside of my rib cage. And there was a noise. Not audible though, but I heard it. It was like when you watch a scary movie and the camera turns to something that is suppose to incite fear in the viewer and there is a loud “boom” to accompany the jolt your body is suppose to perform. I watched the castle as we traveled the road towards it. It feels so weird that it is right in the middle of the city. When I stepped in the castle the heaviness got heavier. Not unbearable but noticeable. I got used to it. Somebody was trying to get my attention. Make me pay attention.
Cape Coast Castle felt more like a dungeon. It was made to be a slave dungeon where Elmina wasn’t. The men’s dungeon was so scary. Huge. Six or more of my apartments could fit in there. Dark. Even in the middle of the day with the couple of light bulbs in the dungeon it felt like night. The Cape Coast builders felt the need to make the space more accommodating but creating corners in the rooms so that the body fluids had a designated area. For the fluids that didn’t get in the corners areas for when they over-flooded the builders created a crevasse in the floor so that the fluids would flow down through the rooms and collect at the room at the end of the slight slope. I asked where the fluids went after it went into the room because there wasn’t a hole or opening that went outside. Apparently the fluids traveled through the now closed off tunnel that led to the women’s dungeon. That means the women had their own fecal matter, urine, blood, and vomit to sleep in as well as the men’s. The tour guide really looked over the living conditions. He didn’t really try to paint a picture for us. I didn’t care for him too much.
The women’s dungeon was significantly smaller. They had a little more ventilation but it was still very dark. Were the children scared? Yes, but did they eventually lose their fear of the dark with such limited chances to be in the day light? How did the lack of sunlight affect the captives? Black people must get their vitamin D from the sun. How did that affect living conditions? Lack of sunlight also means lack of serotonin. Serotonin combats depression. How many slaves committed suicide in the dark? How many died and others didn’t know because they could see? I know more slaves die in the coffles and in the dungeons than during the middle passage, but did less die in the coffles and more in the dungeons because of the mental effects of being held captive? How many babies were born here? How many women killed their babies in here? Did they hold the babies until a solider grabbed it from them and threw it in the ocean? How did she feel afterwards? Happy that the child wouldn’t have her same fate? Sad because the child that she was once happy to carry now meant something else? What did she say to herself?
They won’t make any money off of my son! The only way I can prevent my child from dying a mental death I must send him home, to ancestors, to Nyame. Nyame knows I have to do this. He has to know.
Did the other women try to convince her not to? Did they watch, turn their heads? Pray? Help? Was it easier because it was dark? Couldn’t watch your son die as you convince yourself it is in his best interest. Did she regret it after she had to hold his lifeless body for days?
I became emotional at the door of no return. The doors were huge. Not small like the one at Elmina. With the female dungeon to my right I could imagine standing there in a line with other women awaiting our fate. Wondering where our husbands, father, uncles, and nephews were.
We can’t see them enter or exit the death chamber because it was too far away from the female dungeon. Could only hear screams of those going in. They all began to sound the same. Didn’t know who they were. After some days, we could hear the door open again. Silence this time. Bodies being removed. Maybe, if I listened closely I could hear bodies being thrown into the ocean, but the crying children, mourning women, and the sounds of my own thoughts and fears drowned out most of those sounds. Sounds I didn’t want to hear anyway.
The tour guide began to open the “door of no return” where the captives would be led onto a slave ship. I started to breathe heavy. Needing to cry but not wanting to. Holding it in. Heaviness still there.
He opened the door.
I was snapped back into the present. I saw little children playing on the beach and people fishing. Anti-climatically. Not sure what I expected since I knew this was going to happen. Caught up in the moment. In the heaviness. Or whoever put the heaviness there.
Some more volunteers from the U.S. came on Tuesday. We all went to town to go to the market and the girls wanted to go to the Cape Coast slave dungeon which, oddly, people call “the castle.” I went there last summer. We walked inside and there is a little courtyard where people are selling items. My chest hurt. My heart started beating fast. I couldn’t walk inside the courtyard. Something happened in that place. I got that same heaviness in my chest. This feel was compounded by the fact that Ghanaians were selling items in building that was build to sell Ghanaians. In a dungeon, build, specifically, to tourcher, rape, and sell black bodies, the volunteers wanted to take a happy group picture. My chest still hurt. I didn’t join them. It like I wanted to say, “Don’t you know where you are? How can you be happy in this place?” It was weird and uncomfortable. We ended up leaving because the charge was too high. Even paying to enter into a place where people sold is just... so discomforting. We walked outside and there were vendors right outside the dungeon. They walked up to us, wanting to talk, sell things. The volunteers went over to buy things. I couldn’t stand there. I passed the vendors and walked towards the ocean. I felt this odd mixture of being solemnly stiff. Not sure how else to explain it. One of the Ghanaian volunteers asked what was wrong. I said, “This place makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“Why?” she said.
“Because it’s a dungeon.”
I felt like, maybe being the only black American in the group that what I was feeling wouldn’t make any sense to them. And who knows if I said something, it might be misinterpreted as some attack on Ghanaians, when it wouldn’t be, and I wasn’t in the mood for all of that.
I went to sit down to wait for the other volunteers a little ways down, away from the dungeon. One other volunteer and I started walking past the castle to wait for the others. As I walked by the right side of the castle to the left, my heart got heavy again. Something happened in the particular space. It the same area were the shops were located inside. I don’t know what.
I went to check what I wrote last year when I first entered the dungeon. Its interesting that I wrote this before reading “Ain’t I a Woman” by Deborah Gray White who discusses the various ways African women who were enslaved in the US, resisted slavery (in some ways through their children). Here is what I wrote:
Day 10: June 22nd 2008
The minute I looked at Cape Coast Castle two things happened simultaneously: Weight and noise. I felt the same heaviness I felt at Elmina. Like someone. Some people sat on me. Not on my external body but on my insides. Like a cannonball was placed inside of my rib cage. And there was a noise. Not audible though, but I heard it. It was like when you watch a scary movie and the camera turns to something that is suppose to incite fear in the viewer and there is a loud “boom” to accompany the jolt your body is suppose to perform. I watched the castle as we traveled the road towards it. It feels so weird that it is right in the middle of the city. When I stepped in the castle the heaviness got heavier. Not unbearable but noticeable. I got used to it. Somebody was trying to get my attention. Make me pay attention.
Cape Coast Castle felt more like a dungeon. It was made to be a slave dungeon where Elmina wasn’t. The men’s dungeon was so scary. Huge. Six or more of my apartments could fit in there. Dark. Even in the middle of the day with the couple of light bulbs in the dungeon it felt like night. The Cape Coast builders felt the need to make the space more accommodating but creating corners in the rooms so that the body fluids had a designated area. For the fluids that didn’t get in the corners areas for when they over-flooded the builders created a crevasse in the floor so that the fluids would flow down through the rooms and collect at the room at the end of the slight slope. I asked where the fluids went after it went into the room because there wasn’t a hole or opening that went outside. Apparently the fluids traveled through the now closed off tunnel that led to the women’s dungeon. That means the women had their own fecal matter, urine, blood, and vomit to sleep in as well as the men’s. The tour guide really looked over the living conditions. He didn’t really try to paint a picture for us. I didn’t care for him too much.
The women’s dungeon was significantly smaller. They had a little more ventilation but it was still very dark. Were the children scared? Yes, but did they eventually lose their fear of the dark with such limited chances to be in the day light? How did the lack of sunlight affect the captives? Black people must get their vitamin D from the sun. How did that affect living conditions? Lack of sunlight also means lack of serotonin. Serotonin combats depression. How many slaves committed suicide in the dark? How many died and others didn’t know because they could see? I know more slaves die in the coffles and in the dungeons than during the middle passage, but did less die in the coffles and more in the dungeons because of the mental effects of being held captive? How many babies were born here? How many women killed their babies in here? Did they hold the babies until a solider grabbed it from them and threw it in the ocean? How did she feel afterwards? Happy that the child wouldn’t have her same fate? Sad because the child that she was once happy to carry now meant something else? What did she say to herself?
They won’t make any money off of my son! The only way I can prevent my child from dying a mental death I must send him home, to ancestors, to Nyame. Nyame knows I have to do this. He has to know.
Did the other women try to convince her not to? Did they watch, turn their heads? Pray? Help? Was it easier because it was dark? Couldn’t watch your son die as you convince yourself it is in his best interest. Did she regret it after she had to hold his lifeless body for days?
I became emotional at the door of no return. The doors were huge. Not small like the one at Elmina. With the female dungeon to my right I could imagine standing there in a line with other women awaiting our fate. Wondering where our husbands, father, uncles, and nephews were.
We can’t see them enter or exit the death chamber because it was too far away from the female dungeon. Could only hear screams of those going in. They all began to sound the same. Didn’t know who they were. After some days, we could hear the door open again. Silence this time. Bodies being removed. Maybe, if I listened closely I could hear bodies being thrown into the ocean, but the crying children, mourning women, and the sounds of my own thoughts and fears drowned out most of those sounds. Sounds I didn’t want to hear anyway.
The tour guide began to open the “door of no return” where the captives would be led onto a slave ship. I started to breathe heavy. Needing to cry but not wanting to. Holding it in. Heaviness still there.
He opened the door.
I was snapped back into the present. I saw little children playing on the beach and people fishing. Anti-climatically. Not sure what I expected since I knew this was going to happen. Caught up in the moment. In the heaviness. Or whoever put the heaviness there.
Day 35
August 18, 2009
So many great and interesting responses to my facebook note. So many things to say…
Maybe I should begin with this. I am not having a bad time in Ghana LOL. I’m actually having a great time contrary to some beliefs. I have a couple of blogs and I have kept a journal since I was in the 2nd grade. Writing for me is cathartic and I usually only write when something is bothering me, I have some interesting thoughts that I don’t want to lose, or I need to think through something that I find complex. Usually good things or things that make me happy aren’t complex, aren’t intellectually stimulating, and don’t take much energy to think through. All my thoughts don’t get to make it to the computer or paper. Most things I simply contemplate them and they stay in the back (or front) of my mind. I can talk about how the house-helps and I at my host family’s house talk to each other like we are in the over dramatic soap opera-like African movies. How I have taught virtually every kid in the neighborhood I live in my name and its soo cute to hear them scream it at the top of their lungs when they see me. I can talk about how the kids in the orphanage learned some new English words and how to construct some new sentences because of a matching game them inspired me to create. Or how random locals quiz me on my Fante or how my host mother insists on talking to me in Twi so I can remember and the family listens to me pronounce the words incorrectly just so we can all laugh. I can talk about how the other volunteers and I went out to a quiet bar, requested dancehall and hip life and turned it into a club (and by accident turned a funeral into a club but the attendees didn’t seem to mind, lol.) Or how I wish I can take all of Ghana’s pineapples home with me that I love so much and eat every day. On the contrary, I could mention other no so great incidences that I just didn’t feel like writing about: issues with getting my phone fixed, sporadic phone network, food preparation, and power outages. But none of these are not that big of a deal. Not complex and don’t require much thought or contemplation. Sooo many things to write about, but my journals aren’t usually meant for those things. I would need to make special effort to remember to write about all the little anecdotes. Some do stick out in my mind but not all. The ones that do, I write about. But the question is, “Am I writing for me or for other people’s desires?” Or, even if I write about the funny things will I then get criticism about how the funny stories should outweigh the not so funny ones? Or will people get offended by what I thought was funny and what wasn’t? What I can’t promise is that everyone will always love what I write and that is each person’s prerogative. What I am always willing to do is listen. I am always interested in people’s thoughts and perspective. Everyone has something to learn from anyone. As a smart person once said, “nobody is a nobody.”
The one thing I would tell (and have cautioned) any black American or any black person in the Diaspora is be careful not to romanticize Africa. Don’t come here excepting to go back in time and experience some firsthand account of indigenous people who you see as some displaced ancestors you never met. You wouldn’t go to China, expecting the nation to stuck in time. Europe, the Caribbean, Australia or any other place. Come to listen, watch and learn. Not only learn from other people, but learn more about yourself. I thought I came to Ghana with absolutely no romanticization at all. But I was mistaken. I came to listen watch and learn but, unconsciously, came in the name of panafricanism and unknowingly, secretly assuming people would interact with me with the same interest. Assuming that bridges could be made and understanding from both sides could happen. Sigh, in this instance, I was sadly mistaken. There feelings, and interactions that I want to get off my chest. Especially when there is such an obvious interest in what is assumed to be the black American life style. But when some of my experiences are explained, whether verbally or written the miscommunication is still present. Even when it is clear and in print, my thoughts are still seen as if there is an attack on them. On Ghanaians. I’ve decided that for some people it’s a lost cause and a waste of energy. But what is still sooo interesting is that I can’t talk about my experience because they find what I say offensive, but they can judge and stereotype black Americans all day long and except me to be ok with it? Interesting. I had a long discussion with a Ghanaian who took offensive at what I wrote, but in the same conversation proceeded to talk about how black Americans are all about hip hop, sports and don’t care about school because of “the system” etc etc. As my grandma would say, “look at the pot calling the kettle black.” In my writing I talked about very specific incidences at specific times and even gave approximate percentages yet the Ghanaian openly generalized my people. I said, “you are doing exactly what you accused me of doing and I wasn’t even doing that.” They put words in my mouth and ASSUMED that I was talking about all Ghanaians and I wasn’t. How could I when I gave SPECIFIC examples about incidences that directly contradicted the bad ones? But, interestingly, those went unnoticed. Just like the example of my interaction with the South African consulate in the US. No questions about that. They didn’t address their bias and beliefs of black American stereotypes. Interesting. I am HERE in YOUR country, learning, asking, listening, reading, watching the news, pay attention, all to LEARN about where YOU come from, yet you come to me with stereotypes based on scant evidence that you have applied to an entire nation of people?! Yes, Americans do it all the time. PEOPLE, do it all the time. But we are supposed to be better than that. We are in the business of helping people. We are suppose to be more informed, more willing to understand, educate and be educated instead of erecting mental road blocks that hinder in trans-Atlantic, multicultural, even global progress. Someone said, on my facebook page, we have a lot of work to do. It makes me wonder who is the “us” that needs to do the work if some refuse to listen, read, and understand? Of all places, Ghana, where leaders and advocates of panafricanism resided (Nkrumah, Du Bois and others black American intellectual expatriates), some Ghanaians are still only worried about how they are perceived and choose not to concern themselves with others.
I think that was my romantization. I wonder if panafricanism is merely a dream for blacks in the diaspora. We shall see.
So many great and interesting responses to my facebook note. So many things to say…
Maybe I should begin with this. I am not having a bad time in Ghana LOL. I’m actually having a great time contrary to some beliefs. I have a couple of blogs and I have kept a journal since I was in the 2nd grade. Writing for me is cathartic and I usually only write when something is bothering me, I have some interesting thoughts that I don’t want to lose, or I need to think through something that I find complex. Usually good things or things that make me happy aren’t complex, aren’t intellectually stimulating, and don’t take much energy to think through. All my thoughts don’t get to make it to the computer or paper. Most things I simply contemplate them and they stay in the back (or front) of my mind. I can talk about how the house-helps and I at my host family’s house talk to each other like we are in the over dramatic soap opera-like African movies. How I have taught virtually every kid in the neighborhood I live in my name and its soo cute to hear them scream it at the top of their lungs when they see me. I can talk about how the kids in the orphanage learned some new English words and how to construct some new sentences because of a matching game them inspired me to create. Or how random locals quiz me on my Fante or how my host mother insists on talking to me in Twi so I can remember and the family listens to me pronounce the words incorrectly just so we can all laugh. I can talk about how the other volunteers and I went out to a quiet bar, requested dancehall and hip life and turned it into a club (and by accident turned a funeral into a club but the attendees didn’t seem to mind, lol.) Or how I wish I can take all of Ghana’s pineapples home with me that I love so much and eat every day. On the contrary, I could mention other no so great incidences that I just didn’t feel like writing about: issues with getting my phone fixed, sporadic phone network, food preparation, and power outages. But none of these are not that big of a deal. Not complex and don’t require much thought or contemplation. Sooo many things to write about, but my journals aren’t usually meant for those things. I would need to make special effort to remember to write about all the little anecdotes. Some do stick out in my mind but not all. The ones that do, I write about. But the question is, “Am I writing for me or for other people’s desires?” Or, even if I write about the funny things will I then get criticism about how the funny stories should outweigh the not so funny ones? Or will people get offended by what I thought was funny and what wasn’t? What I can’t promise is that everyone will always love what I write and that is each person’s prerogative. What I am always willing to do is listen. I am always interested in people’s thoughts and perspective. Everyone has something to learn from anyone. As a smart person once said, “nobody is a nobody.”
The one thing I would tell (and have cautioned) any black American or any black person in the Diaspora is be careful not to romanticize Africa. Don’t come here excepting to go back in time and experience some firsthand account of indigenous people who you see as some displaced ancestors you never met. You wouldn’t go to China, expecting the nation to stuck in time. Europe, the Caribbean, Australia or any other place. Come to listen, watch and learn. Not only learn from other people, but learn more about yourself. I thought I came to Ghana with absolutely no romanticization at all. But I was mistaken. I came to listen watch and learn but, unconsciously, came in the name of panafricanism and unknowingly, secretly assuming people would interact with me with the same interest. Assuming that bridges could be made and understanding from both sides could happen. Sigh, in this instance, I was sadly mistaken. There feelings, and interactions that I want to get off my chest. Especially when there is such an obvious interest in what is assumed to be the black American life style. But when some of my experiences are explained, whether verbally or written the miscommunication is still present. Even when it is clear and in print, my thoughts are still seen as if there is an attack on them. On Ghanaians. I’ve decided that for some people it’s a lost cause and a waste of energy. But what is still sooo interesting is that I can’t talk about my experience because they find what I say offensive, but they can judge and stereotype black Americans all day long and except me to be ok with it? Interesting. I had a long discussion with a Ghanaian who took offensive at what I wrote, but in the same conversation proceeded to talk about how black Americans are all about hip hop, sports and don’t care about school because of “the system” etc etc. As my grandma would say, “look at the pot calling the kettle black.” In my writing I talked about very specific incidences at specific times and even gave approximate percentages yet the Ghanaian openly generalized my people. I said, “you are doing exactly what you accused me of doing and I wasn’t even doing that.” They put words in my mouth and ASSUMED that I was talking about all Ghanaians and I wasn’t. How could I when I gave SPECIFIC examples about incidences that directly contradicted the bad ones? But, interestingly, those went unnoticed. Just like the example of my interaction with the South African consulate in the US. No questions about that. They didn’t address their bias and beliefs of black American stereotypes. Interesting. I am HERE in YOUR country, learning, asking, listening, reading, watching the news, pay attention, all to LEARN about where YOU come from, yet you come to me with stereotypes based on scant evidence that you have applied to an entire nation of people?! Yes, Americans do it all the time. PEOPLE, do it all the time. But we are supposed to be better than that. We are in the business of helping people. We are suppose to be more informed, more willing to understand, educate and be educated instead of erecting mental road blocks that hinder in trans-Atlantic, multicultural, even global progress. Someone said, on my facebook page, we have a lot of work to do. It makes me wonder who is the “us” that needs to do the work if some refuse to listen, read, and understand? Of all places, Ghana, where leaders and advocates of panafricanism resided (Nkrumah, Du Bois and others black American intellectual expatriates), some Ghanaians are still only worried about how they are perceived and choose not to concern themselves with others.
I think that was my romantization. I wonder if panafricanism is merely a dream for blacks in the diaspora. We shall see.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Day 33
A friend of mine (a black American who travels to Ghana frequently) wrote this to me:
“You know you are really in the TRUE Ghana now. It took time for me to realize the depth of disconnect between our cultures. And the absolutely fascinating means and measures some will go to ‘engage’ and endear themselves to you for their eventual ‘unfair’ gain. You are in a very complex society. We are much simpler in our traditions and social rules. One point, Ghanaians are for Ghanaians. And many are traditionally truly down for their ‘tribe’. You are not a part of that family. You are to be used for gain. That does not mean your work and purpose should cease. Like we say here… don’t hate the player hate the game, and that game over there is soul draining. So your purpose has to be that much bigger than that game. Can you develop real relationships? Or just arrangements? The jury is out on that for me. You can begin to see a very interesting thing maybe…being both desired and despised.”
This really got my head spinning in some interesting ways. So this post may be a bit disjointed at some points so bare with me.
It’s an odd feeling being here. Like the new kid on the block. The new kid in school that everyone looks at, points at, and wants to know more about. But the thing is, in school, the newness dies down after awhile. The new kid isn’t so new anymore. You become like everyone else at one point or at least not so noticeable. It’s not so odd anymore. But odd isn’t an all-encompassing word for how I feel here. It’s odd, fantastic, frustrating, intriguing, educational, and yes… odd. I had been wanting to come to Ghana since I took Akan Twi in undergrad. Then I became an African American and African Studies master’s student. Studied. Came last summer and now I’m here again. I came to learn, help, and immerse myself in ways that I wasn’t able to when I came last summer with my study abroad program. But this immersion has having its drawbacks. Rather, the things that I experienced before are intensified possibly because I’m here longer and I’m getting more and closer interactions. I knew, before I came last summer, that I will always get the, what I call, “oburini price” (spelling uncertain) anytime I want to purchase goods or services. Meaning, because I am an American (or a foreigner) my taxi fares and any other purchases will always be offered at a higher price. Although that may be normal here (meaning even if you are an African from another place you may get a higher price but I doubt not it’s as high as American or European prices), I can’t help but always wonder if I’m being cheated because of the way I look. Its like being black and being discriminated against by blacks in a land full of black people. As a black American and a Black Studies major, it’s so ironic and disheartening. It’s like some sort of neo/intra-racism or something. Blacks in the US were and still are discriminated against because of the way we look. Ideas that laid the foundation for colonization were based on racist enlightenment ideas that said all Africans and their descendants are and will always be subhuman and in need of white people’s guidance (white paternalism). US and Caribbean slavery and colonization were systems guided by phenotypic discrimination and monetary gain. Is not the “oburini price” system simply another form of exploitation on a smaller scale? Maybe so, but what happens when we look at the global picture. For hundreds of years African agricultural, human, and other resources have been used to fill the coffers and banks or Americans and Europeans: legitimate trade, market boards, structural adjustment programs, 48% and higher interest loans, illegal shipment of guns into war-torn countries, contamination of water and other resources etc. etc. etc. So, is “oburni price” a form of retribution or simply a hustle that helps people survive? Can either be justified? ….There is something to be said about ambiguity in the US. From very young you are taught, in a variety of ways (whether it be through school, media, family, what have you), that there are different people in the world. People who look different, sound different. And even if you aren’t formally taught that, you can see it on daily basis. (I would argue, for MOST Americans). So, if I am walking down the street in, let’s say D.C. or even my small hometown Ocala, everybody will not be staring at me. And if they do, they will at least speak. Say hi. There isn’t a day that goes by without someone staring me down or yelling oburni. In pockets I don’t have a problem with it. Its not like I have never be stared at in the US. But not by so many people so often. But I knew before I came that I would stick out like a sore thumb. I will always be looked at as the new kid on the block. I don’t have a problem with that. What I am having trouble with, is all that seems to come with that territory. Last summer about one-third of my conversations with Ghanaian men went something like this:
“Whats you name?”
“Where are you from?”
“Are you married?”
“Do you have any kids?”
“We should get married.”
This happened at least 20 times from the biggest city to the smallest. Every time I had fun with it and usually said something like, “I’m free tomorrow around 1.” We were told that they are only asking to marry you so they can get a green card. And, given many US norms, many Americans who argue that people don’t normally ask someone to marry them the same day they meet them. They are either joking or they want something from you. I took it as most of them were joking, but some continued to talk about how they need to go to US and how I should help them etc etc. Sometimes it stopped being fun and it became something else. A pleading of sorts. Desperation. It made me uncomfortable. But I found that only certain men approached me in those ways. I met a substantial amount of young rich Ghanaians driving Hummers, BMWs, Mercedes, etc. They took us out, showed us a good time, drove us around and didn’t ask anything from us. Not a number, email, nothing. No mention of US or any of those things. Just wanted to hang out and I had some great times. So it began to feel like only some low-income men consistently talked about marriage and getting to the US. But its wasn’t all. We had just as much fun with the waiters at the hotel and they didn’t worry us with hopes and dreams about the US and how they needed us to get them there. But it still feels odd. Regardless, it always felt like we were getting unnecessary attention. So that brings me to my friend’s statement. “…And the absolutely fascinating means and measures some will go to ‘engage’ and endear themselves to you for their eventual ‘unfair’ gain.” This sparked a thought. Could it be that we, Americans (maybe more so black Americans) already have a heightened sense of “otherness” in the US and that “otherness” feeling is ironically tripled when we are in Africa. The heightened concern of whether or not you are being taken advantage of on a daily basis (from the tro tro fare to fabric) could it be that those who obviously want something from us are also affecting our perception of those who don’t? I have realized that this heightened concern is mentally draining and I wondering in the back of my mind if I’m getting unfair treatment (whether someone is giving me an exorbitant price or treating me extra nice to the dismay of a Ghanaian in my same position). I wonder if that heightened sense will ever go away. I miss the land of set prices where if I get screwed that meant everyone else did too. Or if I got a good price everyone had the same opportunity to get the same.
The friend also said, “Ghanaians are for Ghanaians. And many are traditionally truly down for their ‘tribe’. You are not a part of that family. You are to be used for gain.” This stings a little. But I find truth in it in ways. For example, I have had discussions with Ghanaians and have done research on intra-racism/inter-ethnic biases in Ghana where some ethnic groups look down upon or are warned not to marry other ethnic groups. These biases don’t just happen in Ghana but also happen all over the world, but being entrenched in it and to possibly be affected by it is something else. I have a friend doing research in a rural city in India. We were discussing the progress of our trips the other day. He jokingly told me that there is a secret mission to get him married before he leaves since in their culture, to be 24 and not have a wife and kids is odd. But he told me that marriage where he is, is not so much about love but about strengthening families. You marry up or laterally. Not down. So marriage can be a great avenue for opportunist. But its not that different in the US. Women and men with little to no education or skills, marries someone with money. I don’t know if its just more obvious where my friend is, if we are paying more attention to it because we are foreigners or if it really is that different. It’s hard to not be ethnocentric. There is no such thing as a tabula rasa. I can’t NOT be who I am. And I can’t NOT see things from a perceptive informed by where I come from. It’s difficult.
Here comes the disjointed thoughts:
• So the heightened sense of concern for oburini treatment can make forming serious relationships a little difficult. It’s an odd feeling to walk around as if you have a spotlight on you and wondering if the person is paying attention to you because of the spotlight and the assumption that come with that spotlight or not. I just want to turn the spotlight off. In the Indian community where my friend is researching, virtually no one has seen a black person before. So they call him “gora cola” (spelling also uncertain) which means “black, white person.” Similarly here, Ghanaians call me “oburini”, a term often used for a white person. The difference here is that most Ghanaians have seen black Americans before, whether it is as visitors or on television and movies. Regardless, I am grouped with any and all Americans. (Which brings up and an interesting lack of understanding or care of race dynamics around the world but I digress until maybe another time.) All over the world, Americans are perceived as rich. I had a very long discussion with a black South African consulate and she said to me, “America is a great advertiser. I came here thinking the best of the best was here. Everyone lives comfortable lives, everything is clean… I was sadly mistaken.” But this grouping of black and white Americans and the idea of begin wealthy begins to clash with the stereotypes of black Americans seen through movies and hip hop. I continue to battle stereotypes of black Americans with whites and, unfortunately, with Africans from all over the continent. The South African also said, “I’m surprised at how much you know about Africa, given how ignorant most black Americans are.” I paused. Made an effort not to get angry and then I said, “Remember, America is a great advertiser. There are a lot of things America wants you to believe. You must remember who is giving you the information and what they have gain from you believing it.” She paused and gave a contemplative nod. What was most aggravating is that I met her at a movie premiere of a documentary on Hospice care of HIV/AIDS patients in South Africa. Since my research focuses on perceptions of blacks in media in an open forum, I had a discussion with the director and the producer about how the movie is not about upliftment, rather is perpetuates stereotypic ideas of Africa and does not successfully add a new body of knowledge to Americans lack understanding of the happenings in Africa. I am fighting against the stereotypes in her country yet she comes to me, an international figure, with stereotypes. So disheartening. I’m not just grouped with Americans. Its not just that I’m American. I’m a black American which carries a whole other set of beliefs and assumptions that become compounded when I travel abroad. Like the odd clash of cultures when I greet a Ghanaian with the local language “Maakye” and they greet me with “What’s up.” It’s as if we greet each other with what we think is appropriate. Or when people think I live and act a certain way because I’m a black American. But they get upset when Americans perceive them a certain way and want to get mad about it, while I attempt to make it a learning experience because I have to deal with it all the time. An interesting conundrum. Lack of/miscommunication.
I wonder if Africans think of how they think of us instead of being so focused on how we perceive them. There are perceptions on both sides but rarely do both get addressed.
• Hip hop and hiplife are vibrant here in Ghana. But how many listeners and artists here know and understand where hip hop came from? Do they understand how disenfranchisement, discrimination were the driving forces of so much black music? Thus, going back to the “n” word conversation (see previous posts).
• I have two favorite classes I love to teach as a graduate teaching assistant in African American and African Studies. First is Bebop to Hip hop is a class were students learn the direct connections between west African rhythm patterns and those in African American music from ragtime and blues to rock n roll (created by black Americans…little known fact, see Chuck Berry among others) and hip hop. It seems that, at times, black Americans want to find a deeper connection to Africa. Not all, but some. But so many Africans don’t identify in that way. I think many black Americans want a deeper connection because the history we are given about blacks in the US and Africans is wretched. It’s either grounded in slavery or the supposed backwardness of African civilizations. Many times black Americans go to Africa and expect to be embraced as some sort of long lost brother or sister (Ghana has began this Joseph Project which I have some serious mixed feelings about…maybe more thoughts on that later). But they aren’t. And I don’t see that as a problem on the side of the Africans, but I do think it is unfortunate that some black Americans don’t search to find or understand how identity is constructed in most of Africa. Identity is based on familial clans (your family name) and ethnicity/language (whether you are Ga, Ewe, Fante, Asante, Yoruba, Hausa, Ebo, Khoi Khoi, etc). Race doesn’t matter. Everyone is the same race. (Probably because race is a fictitious concept created by Europeans but I digress...)As black Americans, most of us can’t identify in those terms because the indigenous names of our ancestors were stripped from them and most of us don’t know where our ancestors originated from. Not to mention that since many areas like the Caribbean shipped Africans from various communities, even if we did know, we would still have ancestors from multiple ethnicities and families. But there are other black Americans, who find a great deal of pride in the US legacy black Americans have and simply find Africa to be an intriguing and educational place. For example, there is a phenomenon called African retentions. There is a belief that many black Americans psychologically retain various traits in West African culture that they may not know they have retained. Often times, these traits are retained in the Caribbean where many transported Africans had a greater deal of autonomy to retain many cultural traits and southern parts of the US were many black Americans live. For the US arguably, this is so, because in the Deep South, many Africans could not escape slavery because they were too far away from the closest Free State. So some of the West African norms stayed. One thing that I found interesting were the funerals Ghanaians call a “Home Call” and what my people back home say is a “Home Going”. A Home Going is a celebration. There is music, food, excitement and of course, sadness, but you are happy that the person lived their life and is now in a better place. I remember when I was in high school and I was on the dance team. My teammate’s father died. A white girl. The team went to the funeral to support her. I remember the atmosphere being so sad and quite. Very solemn. I didn’t understand why everyone was so sad. I remember asking my dance teacher why everyone was so sad and her reply was, “its a funeral.” I went to a funeral here in Ghana. Interestingly, it was just like a Home Going. People were dancing, shouting, crying, and praising. There was energy in the place. If this is an African retention, along with the musical traditions, then these are just a small examples of how black Americans are not so distant from west Africans, but there is still a disconnect. We are seen as Americans first.
The other class is African history colonial and post colonial. In this class, I really love to discuss neocolonialism, the issues with “world powers,” the UN, the World Bank, the World Court and underdevelopment of countries and how all of these entities assist in keeping “third world” countries in the third world and how developing countries somehow never get developed. It’s interesting to get students who have so many negative thoughts about Africa and then show them how US (and maybe even their individual actions) assist in maintaining those negative perceptions whether it’s through policy, media, consumerism or what have you.
• I never felt more American than I do here. And I was never particularly proud of being an American. To be black, yes. To be American… ummm. Kind of like the way James Baldwin put it, “But America is the house of bondage for the Negro, and no country can rescue him.” Or as Michelle Obama said, she, for once, was proud to be an America. Not too many Americans of color wondered why it took her so long. Hmm, maybe more thoughts to come.
For more dialouge visit us on faacebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/note.php?note_id=117135853998
“You know you are really in the TRUE Ghana now. It took time for me to realize the depth of disconnect between our cultures. And the absolutely fascinating means and measures some will go to ‘engage’ and endear themselves to you for their eventual ‘unfair’ gain. You are in a very complex society. We are much simpler in our traditions and social rules. One point, Ghanaians are for Ghanaians. And many are traditionally truly down for their ‘tribe’. You are not a part of that family. You are to be used for gain. That does not mean your work and purpose should cease. Like we say here… don’t hate the player hate the game, and that game over there is soul draining. So your purpose has to be that much bigger than that game. Can you develop real relationships? Or just arrangements? The jury is out on that for me. You can begin to see a very interesting thing maybe…being both desired and despised.”
This really got my head spinning in some interesting ways. So this post may be a bit disjointed at some points so bare with me.
It’s an odd feeling being here. Like the new kid on the block. The new kid in school that everyone looks at, points at, and wants to know more about. But the thing is, in school, the newness dies down after awhile. The new kid isn’t so new anymore. You become like everyone else at one point or at least not so noticeable. It’s not so odd anymore. But odd isn’t an all-encompassing word for how I feel here. It’s odd, fantastic, frustrating, intriguing, educational, and yes… odd. I had been wanting to come to Ghana since I took Akan Twi in undergrad. Then I became an African American and African Studies master’s student. Studied. Came last summer and now I’m here again. I came to learn, help, and immerse myself in ways that I wasn’t able to when I came last summer with my study abroad program. But this immersion has having its drawbacks. Rather, the things that I experienced before are intensified possibly because I’m here longer and I’m getting more and closer interactions. I knew, before I came last summer, that I will always get the, what I call, “oburini price” (spelling uncertain) anytime I want to purchase goods or services. Meaning, because I am an American (or a foreigner) my taxi fares and any other purchases will always be offered at a higher price. Although that may be normal here (meaning even if you are an African from another place you may get a higher price but I doubt not it’s as high as American or European prices), I can’t help but always wonder if I’m being cheated because of the way I look. Its like being black and being discriminated against by blacks in a land full of black people. As a black American and a Black Studies major, it’s so ironic and disheartening. It’s like some sort of neo/intra-racism or something. Blacks in the US were and still are discriminated against because of the way we look. Ideas that laid the foundation for colonization were based on racist enlightenment ideas that said all Africans and their descendants are and will always be subhuman and in need of white people’s guidance (white paternalism). US and Caribbean slavery and colonization were systems guided by phenotypic discrimination and monetary gain. Is not the “oburini price” system simply another form of exploitation on a smaller scale? Maybe so, but what happens when we look at the global picture. For hundreds of years African agricultural, human, and other resources have been used to fill the coffers and banks or Americans and Europeans: legitimate trade, market boards, structural adjustment programs, 48% and higher interest loans, illegal shipment of guns into war-torn countries, contamination of water and other resources etc. etc. etc. So, is “oburni price” a form of retribution or simply a hustle that helps people survive? Can either be justified? ….There is something to be said about ambiguity in the US. From very young you are taught, in a variety of ways (whether it be through school, media, family, what have you), that there are different people in the world. People who look different, sound different. And even if you aren’t formally taught that, you can see it on daily basis. (I would argue, for MOST Americans). So, if I am walking down the street in, let’s say D.C. or even my small hometown Ocala, everybody will not be staring at me. And if they do, they will at least speak. Say hi. There isn’t a day that goes by without someone staring me down or yelling oburni. In pockets I don’t have a problem with it. Its not like I have never be stared at in the US. But not by so many people so often. But I knew before I came that I would stick out like a sore thumb. I will always be looked at as the new kid on the block. I don’t have a problem with that. What I am having trouble with, is all that seems to come with that territory. Last summer about one-third of my conversations with Ghanaian men went something like this:
“Whats you name?”
“Where are you from?”
“Are you married?”
“Do you have any kids?”
“We should get married.”
This happened at least 20 times from the biggest city to the smallest. Every time I had fun with it and usually said something like, “I’m free tomorrow around 1.” We were told that they are only asking to marry you so they can get a green card. And, given many US norms, many Americans who argue that people don’t normally ask someone to marry them the same day they meet them. They are either joking or they want something from you. I took it as most of them were joking, but some continued to talk about how they need to go to US and how I should help them etc etc. Sometimes it stopped being fun and it became something else. A pleading of sorts. Desperation. It made me uncomfortable. But I found that only certain men approached me in those ways. I met a substantial amount of young rich Ghanaians driving Hummers, BMWs, Mercedes, etc. They took us out, showed us a good time, drove us around and didn’t ask anything from us. Not a number, email, nothing. No mention of US or any of those things. Just wanted to hang out and I had some great times. So it began to feel like only some low-income men consistently talked about marriage and getting to the US. But its wasn’t all. We had just as much fun with the waiters at the hotel and they didn’t worry us with hopes and dreams about the US and how they needed us to get them there. But it still feels odd. Regardless, it always felt like we were getting unnecessary attention. So that brings me to my friend’s statement. “…And the absolutely fascinating means and measures some will go to ‘engage’ and endear themselves to you for their eventual ‘unfair’ gain.” This sparked a thought. Could it be that we, Americans (maybe more so black Americans) already have a heightened sense of “otherness” in the US and that “otherness” feeling is ironically tripled when we are in Africa. The heightened concern of whether or not you are being taken advantage of on a daily basis (from the tro tro fare to fabric) could it be that those who obviously want something from us are also affecting our perception of those who don’t? I have realized that this heightened concern is mentally draining and I wondering in the back of my mind if I’m getting unfair treatment (whether someone is giving me an exorbitant price or treating me extra nice to the dismay of a Ghanaian in my same position). I wonder if that heightened sense will ever go away. I miss the land of set prices where if I get screwed that meant everyone else did too. Or if I got a good price everyone had the same opportunity to get the same.
The friend also said, “Ghanaians are for Ghanaians. And many are traditionally truly down for their ‘tribe’. You are not a part of that family. You are to be used for gain.” This stings a little. But I find truth in it in ways. For example, I have had discussions with Ghanaians and have done research on intra-racism/inter-ethnic biases in Ghana where some ethnic groups look down upon or are warned not to marry other ethnic groups. These biases don’t just happen in Ghana but also happen all over the world, but being entrenched in it and to possibly be affected by it is something else. I have a friend doing research in a rural city in India. We were discussing the progress of our trips the other day. He jokingly told me that there is a secret mission to get him married before he leaves since in their culture, to be 24 and not have a wife and kids is odd. But he told me that marriage where he is, is not so much about love but about strengthening families. You marry up or laterally. Not down. So marriage can be a great avenue for opportunist. But its not that different in the US. Women and men with little to no education or skills, marries someone with money. I don’t know if its just more obvious where my friend is, if we are paying more attention to it because we are foreigners or if it really is that different. It’s hard to not be ethnocentric. There is no such thing as a tabula rasa. I can’t NOT be who I am. And I can’t NOT see things from a perceptive informed by where I come from. It’s difficult.
Here comes the disjointed thoughts:
• So the heightened sense of concern for oburini treatment can make forming serious relationships a little difficult. It’s an odd feeling to walk around as if you have a spotlight on you and wondering if the person is paying attention to you because of the spotlight and the assumption that come with that spotlight or not. I just want to turn the spotlight off. In the Indian community where my friend is researching, virtually no one has seen a black person before. So they call him “gora cola” (spelling also uncertain) which means “black, white person.” Similarly here, Ghanaians call me “oburini”, a term often used for a white person. The difference here is that most Ghanaians have seen black Americans before, whether it is as visitors or on television and movies. Regardless, I am grouped with any and all Americans. (Which brings up and an interesting lack of understanding or care of race dynamics around the world but I digress until maybe another time.) All over the world, Americans are perceived as rich. I had a very long discussion with a black South African consulate and she said to me, “America is a great advertiser. I came here thinking the best of the best was here. Everyone lives comfortable lives, everything is clean… I was sadly mistaken.” But this grouping of black and white Americans and the idea of begin wealthy begins to clash with the stereotypes of black Americans seen through movies and hip hop. I continue to battle stereotypes of black Americans with whites and, unfortunately, with Africans from all over the continent. The South African also said, “I’m surprised at how much you know about Africa, given how ignorant most black Americans are.” I paused. Made an effort not to get angry and then I said, “Remember, America is a great advertiser. There are a lot of things America wants you to believe. You must remember who is giving you the information and what they have gain from you believing it.” She paused and gave a contemplative nod. What was most aggravating is that I met her at a movie premiere of a documentary on Hospice care of HIV/AIDS patients in South Africa. Since my research focuses on perceptions of blacks in media in an open forum, I had a discussion with the director and the producer about how the movie is not about upliftment, rather is perpetuates stereotypic ideas of Africa and does not successfully add a new body of knowledge to Americans lack understanding of the happenings in Africa. I am fighting against the stereotypes in her country yet she comes to me, an international figure, with stereotypes. So disheartening. I’m not just grouped with Americans. Its not just that I’m American. I’m a black American which carries a whole other set of beliefs and assumptions that become compounded when I travel abroad. Like the odd clash of cultures when I greet a Ghanaian with the local language “Maakye” and they greet me with “What’s up.” It’s as if we greet each other with what we think is appropriate. Or when people think I live and act a certain way because I’m a black American. But they get upset when Americans perceive them a certain way and want to get mad about it, while I attempt to make it a learning experience because I have to deal with it all the time. An interesting conundrum. Lack of/miscommunication.
I wonder if Africans think of how they think of us instead of being so focused on how we perceive them. There are perceptions on both sides but rarely do both get addressed.
• Hip hop and hiplife are vibrant here in Ghana. But how many listeners and artists here know and understand where hip hop came from? Do they understand how disenfranchisement, discrimination were the driving forces of so much black music? Thus, going back to the “n” word conversation (see previous posts).
• I have two favorite classes I love to teach as a graduate teaching assistant in African American and African Studies. First is Bebop to Hip hop is a class were students learn the direct connections between west African rhythm patterns and those in African American music from ragtime and blues to rock n roll (created by black Americans…little known fact, see Chuck Berry among others) and hip hop. It seems that, at times, black Americans want to find a deeper connection to Africa. Not all, but some. But so many Africans don’t identify in that way. I think many black Americans want a deeper connection because the history we are given about blacks in the US and Africans is wretched. It’s either grounded in slavery or the supposed backwardness of African civilizations. Many times black Americans go to Africa and expect to be embraced as some sort of long lost brother or sister (Ghana has began this Joseph Project which I have some serious mixed feelings about…maybe more thoughts on that later). But they aren’t. And I don’t see that as a problem on the side of the Africans, but I do think it is unfortunate that some black Americans don’t search to find or understand how identity is constructed in most of Africa. Identity is based on familial clans (your family name) and ethnicity/language (whether you are Ga, Ewe, Fante, Asante, Yoruba, Hausa, Ebo, Khoi Khoi, etc). Race doesn’t matter. Everyone is the same race. (Probably because race is a fictitious concept created by Europeans but I digress...)As black Americans, most of us can’t identify in those terms because the indigenous names of our ancestors were stripped from them and most of us don’t know where our ancestors originated from. Not to mention that since many areas like the Caribbean shipped Africans from various communities, even if we did know, we would still have ancestors from multiple ethnicities and families. But there are other black Americans, who find a great deal of pride in the US legacy black Americans have and simply find Africa to be an intriguing and educational place. For example, there is a phenomenon called African retentions. There is a belief that many black Americans psychologically retain various traits in West African culture that they may not know they have retained. Often times, these traits are retained in the Caribbean where many transported Africans had a greater deal of autonomy to retain many cultural traits and southern parts of the US were many black Americans live. For the US arguably, this is so, because in the Deep South, many Africans could not escape slavery because they were too far away from the closest Free State. So some of the West African norms stayed. One thing that I found interesting were the funerals Ghanaians call a “Home Call” and what my people back home say is a “Home Going”. A Home Going is a celebration. There is music, food, excitement and of course, sadness, but you are happy that the person lived their life and is now in a better place. I remember when I was in high school and I was on the dance team. My teammate’s father died. A white girl. The team went to the funeral to support her. I remember the atmosphere being so sad and quite. Very solemn. I didn’t understand why everyone was so sad. I remember asking my dance teacher why everyone was so sad and her reply was, “its a funeral.” I went to a funeral here in Ghana. Interestingly, it was just like a Home Going. People were dancing, shouting, crying, and praising. There was energy in the place. If this is an African retention, along with the musical traditions, then these are just a small examples of how black Americans are not so distant from west Africans, but there is still a disconnect. We are seen as Americans first.
The other class is African history colonial and post colonial. In this class, I really love to discuss neocolonialism, the issues with “world powers,” the UN, the World Bank, the World Court and underdevelopment of countries and how all of these entities assist in keeping “third world” countries in the third world and how developing countries somehow never get developed. It’s interesting to get students who have so many negative thoughts about Africa and then show them how US (and maybe even their individual actions) assist in maintaining those negative perceptions whether it’s through policy, media, consumerism or what have you.
• I never felt more American than I do here. And I was never particularly proud of being an American. To be black, yes. To be American… ummm. Kind of like the way James Baldwin put it, “But America is the house of bondage for the Negro, and no country can rescue him.” Or as Michelle Obama said, she, for once, was proud to be an America. Not too many Americans of color wondered why it took her so long. Hmm, maybe more thoughts to come.
For more dialouge visit us on faacebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/note.php?note_id=117135853998
Monday, August 10, 2009
Day 22
August 5, 2009
It’s an odd feeling to always be concerned with whether or not people are trying to take advantage of you. Never knew how much people look to America for opportunities and identity. I’m feeling weird. Stressed. Like its challenging to make friends or be overly nice to people without them asking something from me. It’s not everyone. Usually low-income people. I don’t like it. For example, you virtually can’t go anywhere without being concerned whether or not you have been given an exorbitant price. Or being nice to someone or they see that you are nice and they ask for money or talk about how they want you to take them to the US, or they want your phone number and call you incessantly. Again, it isn’t everyone, but it makes you want to stick to a few people as friends. It makes everyone a suspect. But sometimes it’s an issue of power which Ghanaians that have money and/or resources. In extreme ways its men who want to show they are not the Africans that Americans see on TV. Living with animals in mud-huts and scantily clad. They pick you up in their BMW and buy you things, take you out, etc. It’s as if they want you to know that they don’t want or need anything from you simply because you an American. They can take care of themselves. But this odd power struggle has happened on a smaller level with the cousin of my house mother. It one of those minor things that isn’t something you can go complain to someone about, because it’s a small passive-aggressive move but you know, you sense, that its wasn’t done or said to be nice. She’s done three things thus far. First, I went out dancing a few weekends ago with some volunteers. My house father is a pastor so a had somewhat of a “talking to” about how people may perceive me or the people who live in his house who go to the club. It was actually kinda cute. Meaning, I didn’t take offense and he was really nice about it, but I told him, in so many words that I don’t have any hang-ups about going on dancing as a Christian, so if he feels that I could hinder his reputation then made I should move. He reassured me that a move wouldn’t be necessary and they want me to stay. I’m assuming that my house mother told her cousin about what happened. (Again, not a big deal). Her husband asked me how my night was. I told him I had fun and I love Ghanaian music. The cousin asked me, “So how were you dancing?” I looked at her with an odd look. “Umm I don’t know, I was just dancing.” It was as if she wanted to know how much of a hethen I was. LOL. Its funny but disturbing. The second time was when I went to church with the family for the second time, but this time most of the sermon was in Fante, the local language. I understand very little Fante so it kinda felt like a waste of time. After church, she came and asked me how I liked church. I told I didn’t understand most of it but it looked like everyone enjoyed it. And she says, “Aww, poor you.” In some kind of funny/patronizing/condescending tone. I just shrugged m shoulders and looked away. Informing her through body language that I didn’t think it was funny. Now today I asked one of the house girls to cut a pineapple a bought for lunch. The girl brought the cut pineapple on a plate and had a chunk in a bag on the side. I wasn’t sure why she did it that way but I took the plate and reached for the bag.
The house girl then said, “That not for you.” She looked like she didn’t want to bearer of the inform.
I said, “Why, it’s my pineapple?” The cousin, who was sitting on the couch sat up and said, “I told her to cut me a piece.” My first feeling was “Excuse me?” But I didn’t say that.
I waited a second and said jokingly, “You are supposed to ask me for my pineapple.” She said, “Oh sorry.” But she really wasn’t.
I then said, “It is normal for people here to not ask people for their things?”
She said, “No. People normally ask.”
“So what would make people not ask other people for their things?”
“Maybe if the person wasn’t there to ask, the person took it and then told the person when they came back.”
“So people normally ask?”
“Yes. If you take from someone it isn’t nice and its stealing.”
“So, if they don’t ask is it seen as rude?”
“Yes, it can. But it doesn’t happen often. People ask.”
“In the US if you take something that isn’t yours from someone, Its rude.”
Her body language changed. “Oh ok.” She laid back down and didn’t say anything else. As if she realized that either she just stole from me or was rude to me not just by US standards but also by her own. All of this is so unnecessary.
LOL come to find out she has been doing that to my host family and they have been just sitting angry and not saying anything. Once my host mother found out that the woman did that to me, she told me everything and how she is so annoyed with her. I told her that I think it’s a power struggle she used to be over her (her school mother which is something like a personal dean of pledges, lol). The woman’s husband has also been taking money from the church and they killed their chickens. A mess. Anyway, my host mother got the courage to finally say something to her, and when they when to church, she asked the woman to hold the baby and she told her to put him the floor. How you gonna be mad at someone because you crazy? Again all of this is so unnecessary.
It’s an odd feeling to always be concerned with whether or not people are trying to take advantage of you. Never knew how much people look to America for opportunities and identity. I’m feeling weird. Stressed. Like its challenging to make friends or be overly nice to people without them asking something from me. It’s not everyone. Usually low-income people. I don’t like it. For example, you virtually can’t go anywhere without being concerned whether or not you have been given an exorbitant price. Or being nice to someone or they see that you are nice and they ask for money or talk about how they want you to take them to the US, or they want your phone number and call you incessantly. Again, it isn’t everyone, but it makes you want to stick to a few people as friends. It makes everyone a suspect. But sometimes it’s an issue of power which Ghanaians that have money and/or resources. In extreme ways its men who want to show they are not the Africans that Americans see on TV. Living with animals in mud-huts and scantily clad. They pick you up in their BMW and buy you things, take you out, etc. It’s as if they want you to know that they don’t want or need anything from you simply because you an American. They can take care of themselves. But this odd power struggle has happened on a smaller level with the cousin of my house mother. It one of those minor things that isn’t something you can go complain to someone about, because it’s a small passive-aggressive move but you know, you sense, that its wasn’t done or said to be nice. She’s done three things thus far. First, I went out dancing a few weekends ago with some volunteers. My house father is a pastor so a had somewhat of a “talking to” about how people may perceive me or the people who live in his house who go to the club. It was actually kinda cute. Meaning, I didn’t take offense and he was really nice about it, but I told him, in so many words that I don’t have any hang-ups about going on dancing as a Christian, so if he feels that I could hinder his reputation then made I should move. He reassured me that a move wouldn’t be necessary and they want me to stay. I’m assuming that my house mother told her cousin about what happened. (Again, not a big deal). Her husband asked me how my night was. I told him I had fun and I love Ghanaian music. The cousin asked me, “So how were you dancing?” I looked at her with an odd look. “Umm I don’t know, I was just dancing.” It was as if she wanted to know how much of a hethen I was. LOL. Its funny but disturbing. The second time was when I went to church with the family for the second time, but this time most of the sermon was in Fante, the local language. I understand very little Fante so it kinda felt like a waste of time. After church, she came and asked me how I liked church. I told I didn’t understand most of it but it looked like everyone enjoyed it. And she says, “Aww, poor you.” In some kind of funny/patronizing/condescending tone. I just shrugged m shoulders and looked away. Informing her through body language that I didn’t think it was funny. Now today I asked one of the house girls to cut a pineapple a bought for lunch. The girl brought the cut pineapple on a plate and had a chunk in a bag on the side. I wasn’t sure why she did it that way but I took the plate and reached for the bag.
The house girl then said, “That not for you.” She looked like she didn’t want to bearer of the inform.
I said, “Why, it’s my pineapple?” The cousin, who was sitting on the couch sat up and said, “I told her to cut me a piece.” My first feeling was “Excuse me?” But I didn’t say that.
I waited a second and said jokingly, “You are supposed to ask me for my pineapple.” She said, “Oh sorry.” But she really wasn’t.
I then said, “It is normal for people here to not ask people for their things?”
She said, “No. People normally ask.”
“So what would make people not ask other people for their things?”
“Maybe if the person wasn’t there to ask, the person took it and then told the person when they came back.”
“So people normally ask?”
“Yes. If you take from someone it isn’t nice and its stealing.”
“So, if they don’t ask is it seen as rude?”
“Yes, it can. But it doesn’t happen often. People ask.”
“In the US if you take something that isn’t yours from someone, Its rude.”
Her body language changed. “Oh ok.” She laid back down and didn’t say anything else. As if she realized that either she just stole from me or was rude to me not just by US standards but also by her own. All of this is so unnecessary.
LOL come to find out she has been doing that to my host family and they have been just sitting angry and not saying anything. Once my host mother found out that the woman did that to me, she told me everything and how she is so annoyed with her. I told her that I think it’s a power struggle she used to be over her (her school mother which is something like a personal dean of pledges, lol). The woman’s husband has also been taking money from the church and they killed their chickens. A mess. Anyway, my host mother got the courage to finally say something to her, and when they when to church, she asked the woman to hold the baby and she told her to put him the floor. How you gonna be mad at someone because you crazy? Again all of this is so unnecessary.
Day 19
August 2, 2009
I needed a break, so I took a taxi to Coconut Grove, a resort in Elmina, close to
…the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world, – a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness, – an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder (9).
But what is interesting is that DuBois has been deemed the “go-to” person for black American sociology but he did not have the same personal experiences of racism that he discussed. He was disconnected. DuBois was raised in Great Barrington, Massachusetts and had the opportunity to achieve academically in ways not available to most African American in the last half of the 1800s after the end of slavery. His excellent academic performance may be the result of the different racial climate in the
[John] spoke slowly and methodically…A painful hush seized that crowded mass. Little had they understood of what he said, for he spoke an unknown tongue…Thne at last a low suppressed snarl came from the Amen corner, and an old bent man arose, walked over the seats, and climbed straight up into the pulpit…He seized the Bible with his rough, huge hands; twice he raised it inarticulate, and then fairly burst into words, with rude and awful eloquence. He quivered, swayed, and bent; then rose aloft in perfect majesty, till the people moaned and wept, wailed and shouted, and a wild shrieking arose from the corners where all the pent-up feeling of the hour gathered itself and rushed the air; John never knew clearly what the old man said; he only felt himself held up to scorn and scathing denunciation for trampling on the true Religion, and he realized with amazement that all unknowingly he had put rough, rude hands on something this little world held sacred (xxv).
The “little world” he was referring to was this southern black world he felt he encroached upon. He, John, a stand-in for DuBois. You then see DuBois inserting himself in the narrative. Making himself apart of the people that he looked at with confusion and pity. Not only does he often use the first person to align himself with his “subjects”, but he appears to show his readers (he targeted scholars and lay people) he understands the “little world” he never grew up in. His odd and somewhat oxymoronic placement as both a member of the black community and visitor is evident in his description of the “The Veil” and his use of the bible in his writings. Griffin writes that,
DuBois promises readers that he has ‘stepped within the veil’ and raised it to expose ‘deeper recesses.’ While he elsewhere claims to have lived behind the Veil throughout his life, here he positions himself as someone who dwells both within and just outside its cover –and, most important, as the investigator, the communicator, the native informant who can render the mysteries behind the Veil known (xvii).
It is a place he appears to have placed himself. Also, he sporadically alludes to the bible possibly as a way to show his connection to the artifact “the folk” hold dear. In the last sentence of DuBois’ forethought he asks the reader “And finally, need I add that I who speak here am bone of the bone and flesh of the flesh of them that live within the Veil” (4)? His reference to Genesis 2:23 is a statement made by Adam to Eve after she was created from his rib. By using this verse, DuBois seems to be doing a few things. Although he poses a question to the reader, he seems to informing the reader of his placement in the black community. He addresses any doubt the reader may have about his racial identity… or he may be addressing the doubt he already has. “…need I add that I…of them that live in the Veil?” As if to say, no, he doesn’t need to ask, it should be obvious. And if it isn’t continue to read and become a believer. The verse not only is a method to connect him to the black community but makes him an inauthentic being. According to the bible, Eve was not created through independent means. Meaning she was not created from the earth as Adam was, she was created for and through Adam. Created as a companion to Adam by way of his rib. Wo-man, from the womb of man. Arguably without Adam, Eve would never have been created. DuBois positions himself as a product of the authentic southern black community. An Adam of black Americans. A community he was not privy to prior to his adult years. He could be saying, if it weren’t for his experiences among Southern blacks that his research wouldn’t have been possible, his placement as “the investigator, the communicator, the native informant” wouldn’t have been possible. Or it is simply him arresting any doubts the reader may have about his black identity. Regardless, the verse still removes him from being authentic as Adam. Its contradictory in ways. Instead DuBois is like Eve, created from other means. His outlook and scholar is by way of the rib, the bible, the black church his interactions, with southern black Americans, that he became who he was. His roots are not strictly from the earth (the black folk) like Adam. DuBois ideas came from special circumstances much like Adam. God saw that Adam needed a companion, so he created one for him. Possibly it is this unique position that makes DuBois an interesting liaison between the white world he says he left, and the black one he says he has joined (3). (Also implying that it is a world different from the world he is from.)
This brings me to Obama. Obama, hailed as the first African American president was not raised in a detrimental racial climate just as DuBois wasn’t. Obama has roots in Kansas where his mother originates but spent a considerable part of his life in Hawaii living with his white grandparents. Although Hawaii is not exempt from racism (especially of the ingenious people and US discriminatory on its sugar plantations) it is much like DuBois hometown in New England. Meaning, discrimination is not absent but cannot compare to the atrocities in the South. Obama, had little contact with his Kenyan father because they lacked interaction because of his father’s circumstances and because of his father’s early death. Although DuBois’ father left his family making his home one of a single mother, Obama’s father’s absence speaks to another way an which Obama did not grow up in a black community. But even if his father was present, his father was Kenyan. A highly educated Kenyan at that. Both of Obama’s parents had PhDs. But his father is not an African American and wasn’t a part of the black American community either. As an African, his is arguably as foreign to the plight of the black American community as his white mother. Interestingly, Obama’s mother received her PhD in anthropology studying social and economic disparities. Similar to DuBois. During his youth Obama rejected his African name Barak and insisted that people call him Barry. It wasn’t until he became interested in the Black Panther Party history and other black students in college in California that he was convinced to embraced his African heritage that he was distanced from. Much like DuBois who created a connection to the black community by scholastically placing himself inside of it. After attending Columbia, a prestigious school much like Fisk was a prestigious school in DuBois’ time, he attends Princeton and became the first African American to become president of the Princeton law association. He then followed his mother’s footsteps in addressing disparities in the US and worked to tackle social and economic issues as a community organizer. It is much like DuBois who assisted in the formation of the Niagara Movement from which the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) was formed. Obama, his wife Michelle and two daughters attend a black church with the now infamous Rev. Wright whose sermons are reminiscent Civil Rights and Black Power movement rhetoric. Obama connects himself to the black church as DuBois did but differently. Obama is a member and appears to physically situate himself as an unquestionable member of the community as opposed to DuBois who seemed to switch back and forth as an ethnocentric ethnographer and a legitimate member during his young adulthood.
Neither Obama, on his campaign trail or DuBois seem to discuss their privileged background much. In Ghana, there are advertisements that say Obama is the son of a goat herded who rose to be the president of the most powerful country in the world. Mostly likely, Obama’s father never herded goats because he was highly educated. And since, often times, primary and secondary school is not free, his family must have had the means of paying for his schooling. Also, since Obama was not born in rural Kenya, he wouldn’t know the first thing about goat herding. But referring to him as the son of a goat herder is a way to connect Obama to the a common African. Also, many times Obama mentioned some humble situations during his life when his mother and her children had to use food stamps to survive before his mother married an Asian man. Although I don’t feel as if Obama abused this fact or incessantly used it to make his background appear more humble than it was, it did help in making people believe he understood them. That he can meet the common American on their ground. That he was not an outsider. Much like DuBois wanted inclusion. Another interesting parallel is that both DuBois and Obama allude to Christianity: DuBois in his writings and Obama in his speeches. Although Obama may have had to use this tactic more so because of the assumption that he was Muslim, he also referenced Martin Luther King’s speeches. It is somewhat of a backdoor method of connecting him to the black church (where many activists met during many civil rights organizing activities) and it’s a way to connect to the black American experience. An experience that he arguably had little experience with living in Kansas, Hawaii, and other neighborhoods with his mixed-raced family. Also, during Obama’s presidential campaign and during his presidency, people have labeled him a socialist. A principle that is not far from the Communist Marxist ideology DuBois adopted in 1934.
I wonder if coming from multi-raced background, with enough discrimination to realize they were different from the mainstream culture, allowed them to have a different insight. Some people can’t see the forest for the trees or so deep in the ditch that they cannot see or have access to the tools they need to remove themselves from the situation. Can being entrenched in a racial identity became a barrier and evolution? For change? They have a different perspective. DuBois was not the first person write about Black people. And Barak Obama is not the first black person to run for US presidency: Shirley Chisholm, Jessie Jackson (twice), Alan Keyes, Al Sharpton to name a few. But there is something about these men’s backgrounds that gave them a different insight.While in Hawaii, Obama had friends from Portugual, China, and India. He lived with white grandparents, had a white mother, and an Indonesia father after his mother and Kenyan father divorced. It wasn’t until he was on the main land of the US that he experienced the name-calling discrimination. Much like DuBois who didn’t experience heightened levels of discrimination until he traveled to the South. Both traveled outside of their comfort zones. DuBois requests and does work to prove himself to be a part of the black community. DuBois goes to the South, teaches in Atlanta and gets his hands dirty in the US racial disparities. Obama doesn’t request but inserts himself in the community via the church and through executing community organizing in urban Chicago areas. DuBois through scholarship and Obama through politics.
In 1945 DuBois meets with African leaders to discuss pan-Africanism. DuBois is concerned with issues of colonization and works to monitor political events in African and supports African liberation movements. In 1961 DuBois is invited by Ghana’s new President Kwame Nkrumah. Obama comes to Ghana in 2009 and Ghana’s current president campaigns for a union between him and Obama.
Hmm, I feel like there is more to this. Possibly, more to come.
Interesting facts: Obama’s Birthday August 4, 1961. DuBois Dies on August 27 1963 the day before Martin Luther King leads the March on Washington.
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