Travel

The Deepest "Roots" I’ve Ever Seen: Slave Castles at Elmina

January 3, 2011

Today I visited a slave castle. Sounds like something in a movie, right? Some re-creation in an Upper West Side museum of what we might “think” it was like. But no, this was a real castle where Portuguese and Dutch soldiers lived and collected slaves before they were shipped off to America and the Caribbean during the Intercontinental Slave Trade.

200369_189844037723915_5602190_nIts hard to put into words how I felt as the tour guide explained the stories that took place in each room. The easiest word I can use to describe it is “heavy”. I felt like the weight of thousands of ancestors were resting on my shoulders as I listened. He showed us a long dark room where the slaves were held, shackled together, and if they wanted to use the bathroom they had to get to the bucket across the room. But remember, they are shackled together, which means they ALL had to go across the room. But many were too weak to move. Or were sleeping. Or bleeding. Or dying or…you get the idea. So for a room packed with 100 people, I would imagine few were able to actually make it all the way to the bucket several times a day.

He showed us the dungeon where the women were held and showed us the ball and chain the women were attached to if they refused to be raped by the soldiers. There was a small virtually unventilated room where the “trouble makers” were sent – not for a 5 year bid with parole in 2 years. They were sent there to die. Slowly. They just left them in there with no food or water until they died. The soldiers did not remove the dead bodies as they expired, for fear of being overtaken by the remaining men in the room. So they waited until they all were dead and then cleaned the room out. The stench alone probably made the slaves want to commit suicide.

The one part of the tour that struck me the most was the room where worship was held. There was a scripture from the New Testament still written above a window that looked out into the ocean below us. The guide told us that directly beneath the worship room was the dungeon we had just visited, where the women were held. As the sound of the tour guide’s accent faded into my own daydream, I imagined how these Dutch soldiers prayed for material indulgences and blessings from God while beneath their feet emanated the moans of women dying from disease, in pain from menstrual cramping and giving birth to still born babies. How do you think a God can bless you when you are essentially murdering dozens of people a day? How?

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I’ve read the watered down accounts in American history books about the slave trade. I’ve seen Roots. I’ve seen life-size exhibits of the men and women who endured the conditions in the Middle Passage. This is not breaking news to me. However, seeing the actual place where these people were held, tortured and died was….a lot. The more stories he told the heavier I felt, like I had gained 70 pounds and was going to walk through my flip flops right into the stone floors of the castle.

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You would think that someone who has to recount this type of massacre on a daily basis would be bitter and angry, but our tour guide ended on quite a positive note. He told us that they do not do the tour to remind people of the injustices that took place or for us to dwell on it. They do it so that we may move forward as a people and do everything we can to insure that this type of tragedy never, ever happens again.

I took that not literally, but as a figurative challenge. Those of us who were blessed enough to be born of descendants who actually survived (apparently 30% of those who were captured) need to do our part individually and collectively to ensure that our people are finally freed. We may be free physically, but there is so much emotional and spiritual bondage that continues to reside in our spirits, it will take centuries to fully reverse. And its not an easy task or else it would be done by now. But if a woman can sleep in feces, bleed on herself monthly, be raped by strangers, give birth to the children of her rapist, then be brought to America and told her child is more human than she is because of their complexion, the LEAST I can do is do my part in 2011 to free a least one young woman from whatever residual emotional baggage I can by giving back.

I encourage anyone reading this that has the opportunity to work with our young people to do the same. Because like the tour guide said, its not about what happened yesterday. It’s about what we can prevent tomorrow.

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Travel

Me vs. The Parish Council

January 3, 2011

So at the church on Sunday, a special blessing had been planned to finalize the union of my sister and her husband. Normally this would be the most exciting morning of the week but sadly, my stomach had quit life on me that morning because despite my heartburn mayday episode, I had kept eating all week like nothing happened. My doctor had suggested that I bring Immodium AD with me and I’m SO glad I listened for once b/c it saved me from a virtual disaster that day.
When we got to church it was packed like the Middle Passage up in there, with these tired ceiling fans that barely moved like they had been fanning the same people for 200 years. My stomach chose the minute I sat down to remind me that it was upset. I asked where the bathroom was and one of the aunts curtly informed me “Oh eet ees fah. Yoo do not wan too go.”
Great. So now I’m sitting in this sauna, praying to Jesus, Mary and Moses that my stomach does not start its own soca party right there in the pew. My only consolation was that Catholic mass is only an hour long. Or so I thought.
Around the world, mass is almost identical in format with slight variations based on location and culture. One variation is the music. The music was so lively at this church! African drumming and joyful praise from men and women wearing colorful blue uniforms uplifted my spirit with each song. Three part harmonies gave new life to normally monotone, boring hymns, making each musical selection a much welcomed interlude. But there were several interludes. And each time they started up the drums and sang the extended African remix of the hymns, I realized it was going to be a long service.
After an hour and a half of melting through the mass, the priest finally finished and said we were going to have a few words from the new parish council president. At which point 20 people came up to the altar to be blessed. I looked around thought about putting up the “church finger” to excuse myself, but I hadn’t read up on all of the things that were offensive and just knew paparazzi would capture the moment, and publish it in the local paper with the title “American Girl Gives Priest The Finger at New Years Service” So I sat in agony, with the backup plan that I would act like I caught the holy ghost and run out of church.
The new parish council president then proceeded to give a 10 minute speech about how the last year’s council had been a group of lazy good-for-nothing low down evil heathens, conspiring to bring down the church, and promised to save us from this tragedy like Jesus himself. The old parish council was now giving the new President the side-eye from the pews while the new parish council was about to fall asleep on the altar as their president rambled on, throwing everybody under the bus.
So at this point its a good 80 degrees in the church, my malaria pills, Immodium and leftover alcohol in my stomach from nightly drinking are leading an uprising in my stomach and if the parish council did not wrap this thing up I was ready to pull out the Apollo broom and end the whole thing myself. The last 15 minutes were a blur but eventually President I Am Malcom X finished his speech, my sister and her husband were given a special blessing by the priest, the paparazzi followed our entire family out of the church like it was the Oscars and I was able to go outside and get some fresh air. If you happen to seen any pictures floating around from church and I have the “give us free” look on my face, now you know why.

Travel

A New Year on a New Continent with New Family

January 1, 2011

When I knocked on my parents’ door at 10:45 PM and my Dad was just waking up from his nap talkin ’bout “Hey Dahlin! I just woke up!” I knew I had to leave them and head to the party on my own. New Years Eve isn’t the night for CP time. But when I excitedly pranced up to the gate of the Nduom home in my festive NYE gear, I was greeted with the “African blank stare” of a small sprinkling of old women sitting in the yard. I quickly realized I was the only one who was NOT on CP time b/c nobody was a the party yet. At 11:00 in the states, the party is usually in full gear but here things don’t work the same way. Apparently there’s a small “early” crowd that comes before the countdown. Then the “blessed and highly favored” folks come after church around 12:30 – 1 AM to enjoy all the “holy water” provided free of charge at the bar. Then the late party hoppers show up throughout the night.

At 11:45 the priest took the mic to give the blessing. I’m sure it was a glorious reflection on 2010, but unfortunately I don’t remember anything he said b/c A) I don’t understand the words coming out of anybody’s mouth around here and B) The family dog was having an all-out protest on the events taking place because he was clearly not invited. I mean homey was WAILING from the backyard like someone was torturing him. I unsuccessfully tried to contain my laughter while Pastor Long Winded kept going on about blessings and 2010. My sister kept pinching me but Woofy in the back kept letting out these God-awful Give Us Free slave cries every few moments and I couldn’t take it.

Eventually Father Lost In Time finished his speech and we were led to the dance floor to count down. My brother-in-law and sister counted down the last few seconds of 2010 and we ushered in 2011 dancing to the signature drum beats of Ghanaian music, that I have grown to love in only a few days.

The rest of the night was randomly awesome. A few highlights:

Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing my father dance then consider yourself lucky. It’s pretty entertaining. His signature go-to dance is a sort of Kung Fu Fighting Jackson 5 Dancing Machine Ecstasy Trip type of move. Add to that a soca or Ghanian music beat and you have the most hilarious body movements one could ever hope to witness. He tries to “keep up with the young boys” and imitate any dance he sees – including palancing and “hunting”, which I was able to capture on video between gasps for air b/c I could not breathe from laughing so hard. Love that guy.

Cajun Death Threats
So, a guy I’ll affectionately refer to as Freddie was either perpetually intoxicated or inexplicably inappropriate with no home training. We couldn’t really tell. But at any rate, you never know what’s going to come out of his mouth at any given moment. I had met Freddie a few nights before on my own with my play cousins so I don’t think he realized I had come with my whole family from the US. So when he started with the foolishness the night of the NYE party, he failed to realize my father was sitting right next to me.

So first, Daddy makes casual conversation with Freddie, unaware that Freddie is clearly unable to process full sentences.

Dad “So, how are you connected to Ghana?”
Freddie “Huh?”
Dad “How are you connected to Ghana?”
Freddie: “Ghana”
Dad: *blank stare*
Freddie: “Oh, how am I connected to Ghana?”
Dad: “Yeah”
Freddie: “Ghana”

So I lean over and explain to Daddy that I think he’s drunk so he leaves him alone for a while. Again, Freddy must not have noticed that the man he was talking to was my Dad. So not even 10 minutes later, while visually undressing my sister (and creeping her out in the process), he abruptly aborted his visual molestation session to scream at me from across the table.

“TRACEY!!!” he says with this huge grin.
“Hey!” I nervously replied.
“Tomorrow at 8:00” he says with this awkward eagerness, “Be there!”
My Dad whose patience had evaporated into thin air, decided he had enough of Freddie and replied, “AM or PM? I’ll be there too! Ima kill you!”

That was the last I heard from Freddie for the rest of the night.

After the Party its the After Party and…
After that party is too early for the hotel lobby b/c there’s another party that’s just getting started. At 3:00 AM. So after the NYE Bash, the 35 and under crew went to the next spot – another beautiful house with a spacious backyard party with a great DJ and an open bar. We stayed there and danced to all the soca, Ghanian and old school hip hop songs I love. After that party of course there was another after party. Which was packed like it was midnight at a club during Howard Homecoming in the US. At this point I was cross-eyed and pigeon toed was so tired & tipsy but we kept it going until the sun rose and everyone decided to call it a night (I must add that the party was still going at dawn. Full speed).

Though I slept/napped through much of the next day, I must say it was definitely one of the best New Years Eve’s I’ve had in several years.

Travel

Say it Loud (or not)

January 1, 2011


I’ve traveled many times to countries where the citizens are mostly Black. In Jamaica most people are Black (except for the Chinese ones which totally baffled me the last time I was there…but I digress…) and in DR most people look like they could be a distant cousin of mine. So you would think in coming here, it would be nothing new to be surrounded by Black people.

But it’s different. These are a people who were never displaced. This is where they are from. And their history is their own unadulterated, unabridged story of culture and ancestry, not a watered down account of the past 200 years (oh and a long trip on a slightly overcrowded boat to America from some faraway place in that big desert/jungle called Africa)

Yesterday we ventured out to do a bit of sightseeing and our last stop was the estate which held the mausoleum of the late Kwame Nkrumah (former President). Though I’m really not big on museums/mausoleums/inanimate objects portraying previous years/history class in general, I could not stop staring at the statues of Ghanaians that were positioned throughout the grounds. You would think I’ve never seen a statue of a Black person. But if you think about it, in the US its not something you see a lot. Unless, of course, its a statue of Martin Luther King. And the statue is nice and safe on the grounds of the King Center. And is open for visits from 9-5. On weekdays. For school children only. Maybe.

But here in Ghana I was enamored by these beautiful statues. Some were decorative – men blowing into horns that would fill with water and flow into the reflecting pool below them. Others captured the rhythm of musicians in mid-song on traditional instruments. But the point is, it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t some huge exhibit that people flocked to in February and collected dust the other 11 months of the year. This was the norm.

This country is Black. And not in an “I’m black and I’m proud” way. They just are. Always have been, always will be. It’s not a movement. There’s no need to make some big and grand statement about it. My play cousin who was giving us the tour told us that one thing he loves about being in Ghana is that you know people treat you the way they do, solely because of their opinion of your personality and not because you are Black. If they are being a jerk to you, they’re just being a jerk to you and not because they have some prejudice against you for racial reasons, because news flash – they’re Black too.

Its a novel and fresh idea to live in a place where your name will never be made fun of because it is “too ethnic”. And people will never make fun of your accent b/c everybody talks the same way. Mothers don’t tell their children to stay out of the sun in fear they will become “too Black”, because being Black isn’t a negative thing. And because it’s not a negative thing, you’ll never hear “Yo mamma so Black” jokes because they wouldn’t make sense.

Yet they do not wear their Blackness on their sleeves here. There are no “Blacker the College” t-shirts or “Blacker the berry” coin phrases. There is no Black History Month nor a “Black Power Movement” here. They don’t need to “Say it Loud” b/c it goes without saying. They’re just Black. No need to write a song about it or sell t-shirts after football games proclaiming it. No need to write a book to analyze it or film a movie dissecting it’s roots. You’re just Black. And Ghanaian. And African. And there’s nothing more powerful than that by itself.

Travel

I Like Your Dread Locks

January 1, 2011

“Excuse me?”

“I lek yo dread locks. They luke good un yoo.”

Um, thanks for the compliment sir, and I think locks can be beautiful. However, if my twist out looks like dread locks, that is what we in America call a FAIL.

#FOH #dreadlocksmyass #Africansideeye #Ilovemyhair #hashtagsinablog #curlygirlrage

Travel

The African Baby that Made My Ovaries Skip a Beat

December 30, 2010

So tonight I met the baby that made me want to have my own. Not that I didn’t before. I mean, babies are cute and cuddly and stuff, right? But to be brutally honest, they make me nervous. Ya’ll know I’m forgetful and clumsy and can be downright awkward around kids. I’m afraid I will break them or something. But this kid….like, my ovaries woke up from a long nap like “Yo Tracey, cmon son, like look at what we can do for you? Stop giving us Ambien.”

This baby was everything. He was love. He was happiness. He was unadulterated innocence. He was good tidings, comfort and joy. He was peace. His eyes lit up for absolutely no reason other than the fact that life was pumping through his veins and he had these larger versions of himself around to watch it. He flew into the room we were pre-gaming in, greeting everyone like he knew us since way back (though he’s only a year and a half). We played together and he threw blocks at us. He laughed like he had told the funniest joke to the entire room, but didn’t realize we spoke English and he hadn’t quite yet mastered it.

His mother (who was beautiful both inside and out – I see where the baby gets his personality from) told us “He’s never been this excited. I think its all the people!” That reminded me of myself, and how I love being surrounded by people. Always have. Always will be. It’s the positive energy in the air that I love when my friends or good people are around. It’s like a drug for me. And clearly this baby was high off the same thing.

At the yard party we went to, he didn’t miss a beat. The host was apparently half Trini so there was soca playing all night. Baby Ghana Joy was dancing around like he had taken lessons. Again, Mom told us “I never taught him. He just started doing this on his own.” He reminded me of Happy Feet, with no care in the world of what anyone was doing around him. In fact, that is something I love about the way other cultures party. Like, nobody else is in the room. Not a care in the world. Just you, the rhythm of the music, the bass line, the drums, the pulse of a people whose blood runs deep in your veins, either literally or figuratively through the music. It is awesome, and traveling reconnects me to this pulse that has somehow become diluted in African American culture (by Wacka Flacka flame perhaps? Or Soldja Boy? You be the judge).

But back to Baby Ghana Joy. So, the speakers started playing the first few bars of Palance, at which time I of course got entirely too excited but kept my composure b/c it was a chill type of scene and I didn’t want to look too touristy (not that the camera around my neck didn’t already give it away). Baby Ghana Joy had already picked up the tune and it was like we were on the same page. It almost seemed like he knew the words b/c the entire song he had one of his hands up, and was doing a baby jump for the entire song! At this point I wanted to steal him but there are all kinds of laws against that and his parents know my sister and play cousins so I left him there.

He eventually ran out of energy and I could see him falling asleep at the party the same way I do in the corner once my energy has run out from doing too much on the dance floor. Baby Ghana Joy was amazing, and even though it’s only Day 2, I can already say he was one of the highlights of my trip! I hope to see him again, and wish he could understand how he and his baby afro-hawk impacted my spirit tonight.

I’ll post pics of him when I return so you can get a piece of this joyful overload of cuteness 🙂