I was so elevated my spirit trembled. I remembered seeing the angels laughing at me, mocking my very existence in their dwelling. My feet became heavy as I tiptoed, slowly becoming numb as I took timid strides. “Am I gonna die?” “Why would I do this?” “Fuck! I can’t see anything but jungle!” Just a few words were able to squeeze through my quivering lips. I guess if one heard me it must have sounded like a faint prayer in the lungs of a professional pessimist. Because that’s who I am, a pessimist. I don’t believe in luck, or only living once, or any of that philosophical, optimistic mumbo jumbo. I believe that I am alive now because of extremely cautious behavior and obscene amounts of prayer.
I never smoked nor drank any alcoholic beverages and I don’t plan to, why? ‘cause I like living! So it must have been funny to many that I would willingly walk on this flimsy ass, cramped and suspended piece of bridge in the middle of Ghana’s Kukum National Park. This park is home to snakes, Elephants, and thousands of insects, namely a scorpion that I almost stepped on that was all black and had a stinger the size of Africa. It was like a just-my-size Survivor package. Take everything I’m afraid of, put it in a jungle and watch the little city-boy squirm. I hope those watching were thoroughly entertained. This canopy walk is one of the main attractions of the whole country. People from far and wide come to try their luck walking across. Fact about it, there was many different kinds of humanoids walking across with me: Indian, Japanese, Chinese, and Pakistani. Together we all walked 7 canopy bridges, me being the one who was scared the whole time.
I must come clean, I am afraid of heights. There I said it. I knew that I would never be more scared of anything ever again. I was so nervous my legs began to sweat. Like seriously, sweat was coming from my shins! All I tried to do was follow Emily’s voice. She was a bit ahead of me, trying to keep her balance and calm me at the same time. “How you doin back there babe?” She would yell out to me. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” I said, gasping but trying to remain manly. With every bridge I crossed I felt death was certain, but at that time I didn’t care at all because, ironically, I was too afraid to die.
Now I don’t know the exact dimensions of the Canopy walk. But I do know it was very high up and very long. I’ll probably never do it again, but I will make sure to boast about my brave cross to whoever will listen, and to those who won’t. I’ll put some links up so you guys can see exactly what I mean. I must go to seek counseling now. Peace…
Oh and P.S.
I’m Alive! I survived the Canopy Walk!
Links:
www.travelinsights.org/writing/kakum.html
www.usatoday.com/.../2008-09-24-ghana-canopy-walk_N.htm
Friday, November 27, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Asakua-Dance Review
There are certain cultural experiences which I will never forget. However, there are also many cultural experiences (mostly from my time in Ghana) that I wish I could forget. This is the case of the production of “Asakua- Dance of Idioms” which I watched here on campus. It was dance performance by Ghanaian students, for the most part, and one very long number by a mix of Ghanaian and white students. The first half of the performance was magical. The Ghanaian men dancing were both graceful and strong, performing many near-acrobatic tricks as well as slow, precise moves. I instantly knew that I would never be able to accomplish the level of dance these talented young men have in their short lives. And I didn’t want to, either, because their dances are so specifically part of their own culture, tradition, and history. But then, of course, there were the international students who were featured in the third dance. Ugh. This may sound weird, but more and more I am embarrassed by fellow white women who have come to Ghana to “study”. First, they wear the traditional cloth and dresses. Next, they get their hair braided. Then they get the Ghanaian or Nigerian boyfriend. And then, it was this dance. It was embarrassing. The strength and power of the dancers I had seen in the previous acts disappeared as five or so white women joined the last dance. I’m not sure why they were smiling so much when they were yelling “Help!” and acting like they were trying to crawl out of a cave. To me, that’s not a very pleasant sounding experience, and it didn’t appear to be a pleasant experience by the faces of the Ghanaian students in the dance. A few of the dancers forgot parts of the dance, which I don’t understand because they had the entire semester to learn it. Even worse was the fact that all the white students were placed in the front of the stage and then they didn’t know all the moves. This obvious lack of skill caused the majority of the Ghanaian audience to laugh through most of the dance. I couldn’t help but turn away or cringe through most of it. Normally, I would be able to appreciate their efforts, but in this case, I couldn’t give them that kind of respect. If they were going to be part of this centuries old tradition and depict Ghanaian culture through dance, then they should have put as much effort as possible into learning the dance. Watching the Ghanaian dances is the perfect opportunity to appreciate Ghanaian culture, but I really believe the few white students who participated kind of disrespected the art of the dance and what it stands for. There are certain parts of cultures that are so different from our own that we couldn’t possibly understand them completely and can never be a part of them because they don’t belong to us. These dances, which carry much meaning, are the kinds of aspects of Ghanaian culture which we should just appreciate.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I have Returned: A Meeting with my History
He shut the chamber door, stealing all of the light out of the place. Sounds of sighs, gasps and laughter filled the dungeon. Some were actually amused by the sheer fright of being in complete darkness. Others felt very glum in the darkness. Some, like Sharada, my program mate, completely broke down and cried. And other’s, like me, took an awkward solace in the moment to pray for humanity and the children of the Diaspora.
The day was Halloween. A day that, back in the States, revolved around horror movies, acquiring candy, and various acts of mischief. For a whole day Americans get to dress up as anything they want to be: a house, an M&M, a witch, a fireman, etc. On Halloween Americans can shout loud and pretend danger looms. On Halloween children can roam the streets, vandalizing property and lining their bellies with sweets. But none of these luxuries enjoyed on this Pagan holiday can be enjoyed in the bowls of a slave castle.
On our last overnight trip, the Brockport troop took a venture out to Ghana’s Cape Coast. Cape Coast is west of Accra, the capital, and is home to fishermen, beautiful women, an even more beautiful coast, and two very historic Slave Castles: Elmina and Cape Coast Castle. It was so ominous for me to see these landmarks because they were the reason why I came to Ghana in the first place. I learned of these Castles when I was younger and I couldn’t believe that they were still standing. To see these castles was like meeting a long lost enemy, so I was scared and nervous. As we continued to drive into the city I saw nothing but the sad same: shacks, beggars, hungry folks, poverty. We eventually reached the resort.
The resort we stayed at was comparable to a paradise, in hell. It had everything to tantalize the senses: a masseuse, tennis court, a night club, great restaurant, round the clock room service. But it was named the “Elmina Beach Resort,” because it was only a few leads away from the Castle. In the distance from our beautiful hotel, overlooking the beautifully blue Gulf of Guinea was a view of that demonic castle. The view made me feel nothing but guilt and shame. Here I am at this resort, chillin’, maxin’ and relaxin,’ and anything else you can associate with comfort, looking at a castle that my ancestors very well may have been shipped from. All these feelings dwelled within me and I hadn’t even reached the castles yet.
With no time to spare we were back in the bus going straight to Elmina, originally known as “Sao Jorge Da Mina.” The castle was built over 500 years ago, in 1482. I walked in with a certain caution, I was very careful to not stomp or run. I didn’t want disrupt the spirits of the dead who still lived in the castle. And yes, I do believe that spirits exist, even after their flesh is gone. I tried to touch the walls and floor as much as possible; I wanted to know exactly how everything felt. I was in a place that was the home of potential ancestors before coming to the new world. The place still stunk of blood, urine and fecal matter. I breathed deep and choked the tears back as hard as I could. I wanted to feel how hard it was for slaves to breathe under piles of waste and the pollution their lungs had to carry. The guide spoke a lot about historic facts I already knew, like when the traffic began, who was culpable and why it took place, like any of that matters now. I zoned him out, but no on purpose. I was just praying for the people who had to be subject to such horror. Women getting raped by guards and overseers. The fact that a Church was built directly over the dungeons, as if the Europeans validated violence with God. Men being whipped mercilessly and those who fought back faced the Condemned Cell, never to be seen again. The little Black babies who were also shackled and separated from their families. I was praying that this world would never participate in that shit again. I was praying for the success of the descendants of these victims.
We walked and walked through the twisting paths of the dungeon. We were with a group of Black Nuns who, ironically, were talking away on their cell phones and chatting to each other, not even taking seriously what went down. I really wanted to slap one of them, but that would have only been a measure of the pain I felt. We reached the wretched “Point of No Return”, and I saw with my own eyes where slaves were dragged and probably most frightened. It was nothing but narrow walkway for slaves to exit the castle and bored the ship.
I never felt so real in my life. I never felt so painfully human. I saw myself walking through that narrow path. At that moment I felt like I belonged to a race of bastards who were throws to the seas, left for dead. But some how, got across that ocean, only to face more hell in their glorious journey to freedom. I cried in that lush hotel suite that night, I didn’t need to be pampered, I just wanted answers. Who am I? Where in Africa am I from? Why don’t they teach us about this is schools when we’re young? Where the hell are my reparations? Why did I return? Where do I go now?
For the readers who DO know where there from, I ask you to imagine looking at a whole continent, namely Africa which is the second largest in the world, and calling that your home. Not a nation, not a tribe, not a state, but a continent that was host to so many different cultures and languages. Imagine calling a whole continent your home instead of just Ireland, or Poland, or Puerto Rico. Imagine being a person without record, being of a lineage of unwilling immigrants. It used to trip me out at how my fellow classmates would either be proud of their homeland, or terribly indifferent. My best friend, a Puerto Rican, would go on about how happy he was to visit his HOMELAND and to see his PEOPLE. If you showed him a map he would be able to point out Puerto Rico and name the place his ancestors were located on the island. Likewise, another friend of mine was Irish and she didn’t care much about going back, but she was able to name which part of Ireland she was from and she had the records her Grandfather gave her from Ellis Island. In both situations my friends had an identity, they knew where they were from, and they had a legitimacy that I could never fathom. Their ancestors came to the US because they had the choice. They, my two friends, have a history of record. And all I had was an empty feeling.
I went Cape Coast castle to end my weekend. I would like to commend them for their brilliant research skills and extensive museum, but I that wasn’t my main point. I remember looking out over the brightly white castle into the deep blue sea. The waves were restless and the birds flew without inhibition. I remember peering over at some children I saw in the distance. They were splashing around on the shore, directly across from the “Point of No Return”. It didn’t faze them that where they were playing was the same place that Black bodies were dragged from in the night. They didn’t care about the crimes to humanity done by the British in this castle. They probably knew nothing about the struggle of the people in the castle had to face in the new world. They probably knew less about why I came in the first place. All the children did was play in the ocean, water covering their naked, Black, and shiny bodies, giving us a potentiality of innocence in the future. Its things like this that wills me to look up to a higher power, even though the circumstances keep so many of us scraping. I knew that was why I came to Ghana; I can’t wait for the day the rest of my people know too.
The day was Halloween. A day that, back in the States, revolved around horror movies, acquiring candy, and various acts of mischief. For a whole day Americans get to dress up as anything they want to be: a house, an M&M, a witch, a fireman, etc. On Halloween Americans can shout loud and pretend danger looms. On Halloween children can roam the streets, vandalizing property and lining their bellies with sweets. But none of these luxuries enjoyed on this Pagan holiday can be enjoyed in the bowls of a slave castle.
On our last overnight trip, the Brockport troop took a venture out to Ghana’s Cape Coast. Cape Coast is west of Accra, the capital, and is home to fishermen, beautiful women, an even more beautiful coast, and two very historic Slave Castles: Elmina and Cape Coast Castle. It was so ominous for me to see these landmarks because they were the reason why I came to Ghana in the first place. I learned of these Castles when I was younger and I couldn’t believe that they were still standing. To see these castles was like meeting a long lost enemy, so I was scared and nervous. As we continued to drive into the city I saw nothing but the sad same: shacks, beggars, hungry folks, poverty. We eventually reached the resort.
The resort we stayed at was comparable to a paradise, in hell. It had everything to tantalize the senses: a masseuse, tennis court, a night club, great restaurant, round the clock room service. But it was named the “Elmina Beach Resort,” because it was only a few leads away from the Castle. In the distance from our beautiful hotel, overlooking the beautifully blue Gulf of Guinea was a view of that demonic castle. The view made me feel nothing but guilt and shame. Here I am at this resort, chillin’, maxin’ and relaxin,’ and anything else you can associate with comfort, looking at a castle that my ancestors very well may have been shipped from. All these feelings dwelled within me and I hadn’t even reached the castles yet.
With no time to spare we were back in the bus going straight to Elmina, originally known as “Sao Jorge Da Mina.” The castle was built over 500 years ago, in 1482. I walked in with a certain caution, I was very careful to not stomp or run. I didn’t want disrupt the spirits of the dead who still lived in the castle. And yes, I do believe that spirits exist, even after their flesh is gone. I tried to touch the walls and floor as much as possible; I wanted to know exactly how everything felt. I was in a place that was the home of potential ancestors before coming to the new world. The place still stunk of blood, urine and fecal matter. I breathed deep and choked the tears back as hard as I could. I wanted to feel how hard it was for slaves to breathe under piles of waste and the pollution their lungs had to carry. The guide spoke a lot about historic facts I already knew, like when the traffic began, who was culpable and why it took place, like any of that matters now. I zoned him out, but no on purpose. I was just praying for the people who had to be subject to such horror. Women getting raped by guards and overseers. The fact that a Church was built directly over the dungeons, as if the Europeans validated violence with God. Men being whipped mercilessly and those who fought back faced the Condemned Cell, never to be seen again. The little Black babies who were also shackled and separated from their families. I was praying that this world would never participate in that shit again. I was praying for the success of the descendants of these victims.
We walked and walked through the twisting paths of the dungeon. We were with a group of Black Nuns who, ironically, were talking away on their cell phones and chatting to each other, not even taking seriously what went down. I really wanted to slap one of them, but that would have only been a measure of the pain I felt. We reached the wretched “Point of No Return”, and I saw with my own eyes where slaves were dragged and probably most frightened. It was nothing but narrow walkway for slaves to exit the castle and bored the ship.
I never felt so real in my life. I never felt so painfully human. I saw myself walking through that narrow path. At that moment I felt like I belonged to a race of bastards who were throws to the seas, left for dead. But some how, got across that ocean, only to face more hell in their glorious journey to freedom. I cried in that lush hotel suite that night, I didn’t need to be pampered, I just wanted answers. Who am I? Where in Africa am I from? Why don’t they teach us about this is schools when we’re young? Where the hell are my reparations? Why did I return? Where do I go now?
For the readers who DO know where there from, I ask you to imagine looking at a whole continent, namely Africa which is the second largest in the world, and calling that your home. Not a nation, not a tribe, not a state, but a continent that was host to so many different cultures and languages. Imagine calling a whole continent your home instead of just Ireland, or Poland, or Puerto Rico. Imagine being a person without record, being of a lineage of unwilling immigrants. It used to trip me out at how my fellow classmates would either be proud of their homeland, or terribly indifferent. My best friend, a Puerto Rican, would go on about how happy he was to visit his HOMELAND and to see his PEOPLE. If you showed him a map he would be able to point out Puerto Rico and name the place his ancestors were located on the island. Likewise, another friend of mine was Irish and she didn’t care much about going back, but she was able to name which part of Ireland she was from and she had the records her Grandfather gave her from Ellis Island. In both situations my friends had an identity, they knew where they were from, and they had a legitimacy that I could never fathom. Their ancestors came to the US because they had the choice. They, my two friends, have a history of record. And all I had was an empty feeling.
I went Cape Coast castle to end my weekend. I would like to commend them for their brilliant research skills and extensive museum, but I that wasn’t my main point. I remember looking out over the brightly white castle into the deep blue sea. The waves were restless and the birds flew without inhibition. I remember peering over at some children I saw in the distance. They were splashing around on the shore, directly across from the “Point of No Return”. It didn’t faze them that where they were playing was the same place that Black bodies were dragged from in the night. They didn’t care about the crimes to humanity done by the British in this castle. They probably knew nothing about the struggle of the people in the castle had to face in the new world. They probably knew less about why I came in the first place. All the children did was play in the ocean, water covering their naked, Black, and shiny bodies, giving us a potentiality of innocence in the future. Its things like this that wills me to look up to a higher power, even though the circumstances keep so many of us scraping. I knew that was why I came to Ghana; I can’t wait for the day the rest of my people know too.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Volta: The Movie
Back in the times of Nkrumah the need for industrialization loomed. Energy, electricity and light were all needed in order to bring the new nation of Ghana up to speed in the mid 20th century. With bright ideas that could last a mile long, Nkrumah thought of ways to siphon natural energy to the capital, Accra. The sacred tool to bring forth the energy would come in the form of a dam, in a region called Akosombo. Situated in the Ho city, the Akosombo dam was created in the 1960’s. It would be used to hold the waters of the raging Volta River and illuminate the skyline of Accra. This endeavor took long hours, and controversial funding from the U.S.S.R. It drained the strength of every construction worker, and even the lives of over 100 men. This dam was built from the ambitions and desires of a liberator who wanted to be responsible for the manifestation of a great Ghana. This dam is awesome, and I saw it with my own two peepers in person.
The Akosombo area wasn’t very interesting at all actually; forgive me for the riveting introduction. Now I’m not saying it sucked either. I see it as a place where one can chill and just go extremely native. Now I don’t mean you can take your clothes off and go streaking about, this is more like having a beer, watching the football game and talking endlessly with Ghanaian townspeople. Fact about it, that’s exactly what my program did. With our very classy program director, Kwame, me and the Brockport mates just sat at a random roadside, while drinking brew, water, and cola (I don’t consume alcohol, amazed I’m in college right?). It was like an episode of “Cheers” that went horribly wrong and landed us smack in the middle of nowhere. Across from us was about 30 Ghanaians, most of them either traders or workers from the dam (Akosombo in the 1960’s became a settlement for people who lost their villages to the flood waters caused by the dam, or people with families who worked on constructing the dam. They were all huddled in front of a modest-sized TV set that, in true Ghana fashion, it was in Black and White. Yeah you heard me, BLACK AND WHITE! with static too! I was amazed that they were even able to follow the game; to me it looked like an athletic acid trip.
The roadside wasn’t the only thing, to become even more rustic we went to a hotel that was literally carved out of the woods, no pun intended. No fun intended either. My city-slicker self went into that damp cabin, only to be met by a host of Salamanders and other kinds of whimsical lizards dancing on the walls, as if to welcome me to the Volta region. There was nothing special, nothing but the sound of wind and crickets to sustain me through the night.
But that nothing would become amplified and even magnified when we set out on our near-hour hike to the famous Wli falls. This walk was so incredible I was already tired within the first five minutes. Animalistic sounds, about 100 different trees and insects to boot, I had finally journeyed into the wild. All those stereotypes that make Africa the most exotic piece of continent converged and I felt the smallest I had ever felt in my entire life. We traversed 8 rickety bridges or so just to get there and when we got close, I heard a sound that I would imagine would be the equivalent of Jehovah taking a shower. The mist hit me in the face before I even got close. The fall was so vertically high; I never looked so far into the sky before. With nothing but a crown of fruit bats sleeping at its upper ridge, the Wli water fall literally rolled in the sky before crashing at the bottom. Once again, the Harlem boy in me felt that his lifelong wait to the motherland was being more than fulfilled.
To end our weekend, and this blog to you my dear readers, I’d liked to set a scene on a boat. I would like the sound of theme music to be playing, like the somber song at the end of “Platoon.” Picture me on this boat, face baking in the orange sun. I am sitting at the bow of the “Dodi Princess,” a boat that takes travelers along the Volta channel for sight-seeing. My shirt is half off and my head is bopping to the sound of the Band playing on the upper deck. In front of me is nothing but the larger than life mountains and lesser islands, making me feel secluded and secure. The water is thick as the boat’s motor rips through its surface. By now the credits are rolling and there is a close up on my face. The camera pans to a wide shot and the boat then becomes smaller and smaller until completely vanishing over the horizon. The credits end and the screen fades to Black.
The Akosombo area wasn’t very interesting at all actually; forgive me for the riveting introduction. Now I’m not saying it sucked either. I see it as a place where one can chill and just go extremely native. Now I don’t mean you can take your clothes off and go streaking about, this is more like having a beer, watching the football game and talking endlessly with Ghanaian townspeople. Fact about it, that’s exactly what my program did. With our very classy program director, Kwame, me and the Brockport mates just sat at a random roadside, while drinking brew, water, and cola (I don’t consume alcohol, amazed I’m in college right?). It was like an episode of “Cheers” that went horribly wrong and landed us smack in the middle of nowhere. Across from us was about 30 Ghanaians, most of them either traders or workers from the dam (Akosombo in the 1960’s became a settlement for people who lost their villages to the flood waters caused by the dam, or people with families who worked on constructing the dam. They were all huddled in front of a modest-sized TV set that, in true Ghana fashion, it was in Black and White. Yeah you heard me, BLACK AND WHITE! with static too! I was amazed that they were even able to follow the game; to me it looked like an athletic acid trip.
The roadside wasn’t the only thing, to become even more rustic we went to a hotel that was literally carved out of the woods, no pun intended. No fun intended either. My city-slicker self went into that damp cabin, only to be met by a host of Salamanders and other kinds of whimsical lizards dancing on the walls, as if to welcome me to the Volta region. There was nothing special, nothing but the sound of wind and crickets to sustain me through the night.
But that nothing would become amplified and even magnified when we set out on our near-hour hike to the famous Wli falls. This walk was so incredible I was already tired within the first five minutes. Animalistic sounds, about 100 different trees and insects to boot, I had finally journeyed into the wild. All those stereotypes that make Africa the most exotic piece of continent converged and I felt the smallest I had ever felt in my entire life. We traversed 8 rickety bridges or so just to get there and when we got close, I heard a sound that I would imagine would be the equivalent of Jehovah taking a shower. The mist hit me in the face before I even got close. The fall was so vertically high; I never looked so far into the sky before. With nothing but a crown of fruit bats sleeping at its upper ridge, the Wli water fall literally rolled in the sky before crashing at the bottom. Once again, the Harlem boy in me felt that his lifelong wait to the motherland was being more than fulfilled.
To end our weekend, and this blog to you my dear readers, I’d liked to set a scene on a boat. I would like the sound of theme music to be playing, like the somber song at the end of “Platoon.” Picture me on this boat, face baking in the orange sun. I am sitting at the bow of the “Dodi Princess,” a boat that takes travelers along the Volta channel for sight-seeing. My shirt is half off and my head is bopping to the sound of the Band playing on the upper deck. In front of me is nothing but the larger than life mountains and lesser islands, making me feel secluded and secure. The water is thick as the boat’s motor rips through its surface. By now the credits are rolling and there is a close up on my face. The camera pans to a wide shot and the boat then becomes smaller and smaller until completely vanishing over the horizon. The credits end and the screen fades to Black.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Paying my respects to a man that is owed much: My encounter with the home and resting place of William E. Burghardt DuBois
The hollow halls of his home brought a chill of humility and hunger to my bones. Humility from the fact that I had spent many years admiring him and hunger from the fact that I had been bracing for this experience ever since the ink dried on the Plane ticket here (Ghana). W.E.B. DuBois’ home was the final destination and if I did nothing else in this country, I can honestly confess that I was thoroughly satiated in my visit.
For those who don’t know this great activist, he was a graduate at Harvard, for law (and I believe sociology). He spear headed the N.A.A.C.P, considered to be one of the most influential organizations during the Civil Rights Movement. DuBois is also known for his literary gems, such as: “Souls of Black Folks” and “The Philadelphia Negro.” And he taught and sat on the board of many Universities, namely Clark Atlanta and Fisk. After a long life of activism, DuBois then traveled here to Ghana to help do research for the Black Encyclopedia, under the Nkrumah Administration. At the tender age of 93, he went to Ghana, never to return to the United States. He died in Accra at age 95. It can be argued that he was the greatest public intellectual in world history, and I wouldn’t disagree with such an argument.
Though he is gone from us, I believe that his spirit is still in that house. His house today has been modified into a museum for Pan-Africanist research. It is well known that DuBois dedicated most his life to reaching Africans on the continent and in the Diaspora. (Fact about it, he organized and hosted the four Pan-Africanist Congresses throughout the 1920’s to 1940’s.) In his living room, there is now nothing but a sprawl of rare books and pictures. Pictures of him at his last birthday bash, pictures of him sharing smiles with his wife and friends, pictures of him breaking bread with Ghanaian liberator, Kwame Nkrumah. The floors were lined wall to wall with red carpet, giving a regal touch to the living room. I still couldn’t believe I was in W.E.B. DuBois’ house!
Anyway, in true spirit of this great man, a public library was installed into what used to be his dining room. It was kind of apropos to see that the place DuBois went to fill his belly, the youth now used to feed their intellects. His kitchen had also been modified into an art gallery, where paintings from local kids went up, paying homage to both he and Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president. Ok readers, I’m telling you now, please go and tell MTV to do “Cribs” in this place. It’s the bomb! Laced with murals and other pieces of art, the place was filled with color and life.
His personal library was twice as immaculate. With mold growing on the books, I saw the actual literary works that DuBois read, researched, wrote, and touched. I was in awe at how many books he had and how many I actually recognized. I saw the book “Up from Slavery” by B.T. Washington, the philosophical opponent of DuBois during the early 20th century, in the cabinet among the collection. I began to smile because I knew the genius of DuBois was the ability to study his opponents. The shelves were tall and wide and I completely felt like living in that room for the rest of my life (but of course I couldn’t, I’d probably starve.)
His master bedroom had been turned into a sprawling display of what I’d like to call, “DuBois’ Scholastic Magic.” Catchy right? Behind sparkling glass cabinets, mannequins held up each of the robes DuBois once wore from all the Universities he attended and taught at: Clark Atlanta, Harvard, Fisk, the University of Ghana, from honorary doctrines to diplomas. To see a Black man attain such glory, such accolades for exercising the human mind is a concept that I could never begin to explain my dear readers, and I bet it is something many Blacks can never come to explain. I mean here I am, trying to find my intellectual heart here in the bowels of West Africa. Not knowing yet who I fully am, standing in the room of a man who found his true home only two years before his death. I cannot begin to explain the connections. It’s simply a powerful feeling.
In traditional African religion the ancestors of a person are believed to never die fully because their spirit continues to live on. I believe this same principle applies for DuBois. When I walked into his burial chamber and saw his beautifully decorated casket, I began to think of all the ways DuBois has influenced and possessed our public intellectuals today. Doc Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, Skip Gates Na’im Akbar, Eddie Glaude are all are the living proof of that spirit. I remember feeling that DuBois’ spirit was in that chamber with me, messaging my shoulders, like the way the trainers do their boxers before the next round. Before I left he whispered to me, “go in there and give em’ hell Miles.” I walked out of the W.E.B. DuBois center with the intentions of doing just that. Watch out American society, ‘cause here I come!
For those who don’t know this great activist, he was a graduate at Harvard, for law (and I believe sociology). He spear headed the N.A.A.C.P, considered to be one of the most influential organizations during the Civil Rights Movement. DuBois is also known for his literary gems, such as: “Souls of Black Folks” and “The Philadelphia Negro.” And he taught and sat on the board of many Universities, namely Clark Atlanta and Fisk. After a long life of activism, DuBois then traveled here to Ghana to help do research for the Black Encyclopedia, under the Nkrumah Administration. At the tender age of 93, he went to Ghana, never to return to the United States. He died in Accra at age 95. It can be argued that he was the greatest public intellectual in world history, and I wouldn’t disagree with such an argument.
Though he is gone from us, I believe that his spirit is still in that house. His house today has been modified into a museum for Pan-Africanist research. It is well known that DuBois dedicated most his life to reaching Africans on the continent and in the Diaspora. (Fact about it, he organized and hosted the four Pan-Africanist Congresses throughout the 1920’s to 1940’s.) In his living room, there is now nothing but a sprawl of rare books and pictures. Pictures of him at his last birthday bash, pictures of him sharing smiles with his wife and friends, pictures of him breaking bread with Ghanaian liberator, Kwame Nkrumah. The floors were lined wall to wall with red carpet, giving a regal touch to the living room. I still couldn’t believe I was in W.E.B. DuBois’ house!
Anyway, in true spirit of this great man, a public library was installed into what used to be his dining room. It was kind of apropos to see that the place DuBois went to fill his belly, the youth now used to feed their intellects. His kitchen had also been modified into an art gallery, where paintings from local kids went up, paying homage to both he and Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president. Ok readers, I’m telling you now, please go and tell MTV to do “Cribs” in this place. It’s the bomb! Laced with murals and other pieces of art, the place was filled with color and life.
His personal library was twice as immaculate. With mold growing on the books, I saw the actual literary works that DuBois read, researched, wrote, and touched. I was in awe at how many books he had and how many I actually recognized. I saw the book “Up from Slavery” by B.T. Washington, the philosophical opponent of DuBois during the early 20th century, in the cabinet among the collection. I began to smile because I knew the genius of DuBois was the ability to study his opponents. The shelves were tall and wide and I completely felt like living in that room for the rest of my life (but of course I couldn’t, I’d probably starve.)
His master bedroom had been turned into a sprawling display of what I’d like to call, “DuBois’ Scholastic Magic.” Catchy right? Behind sparkling glass cabinets, mannequins held up each of the robes DuBois once wore from all the Universities he attended and taught at: Clark Atlanta, Harvard, Fisk, the University of Ghana, from honorary doctrines to diplomas. To see a Black man attain such glory, such accolades for exercising the human mind is a concept that I could never begin to explain my dear readers, and I bet it is something many Blacks can never come to explain. I mean here I am, trying to find my intellectual heart here in the bowels of West Africa. Not knowing yet who I fully am, standing in the room of a man who found his true home only two years before his death. I cannot begin to explain the connections. It’s simply a powerful feeling.
In traditional African religion the ancestors of a person are believed to never die fully because their spirit continues to live on. I believe this same principle applies for DuBois. When I walked into his burial chamber and saw his beautifully decorated casket, I began to think of all the ways DuBois has influenced and possessed our public intellectuals today. Doc Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, Skip Gates Na’im Akbar, Eddie Glaude are all are the living proof of that spirit. I remember feeling that DuBois’ spirit was in that chamber with me, messaging my shoulders, like the way the trainers do their boxers before the next round. Before I left he whispered to me, “go in there and give em’ hell Miles.” I walked out of the W.E.B. DuBois center with the intentions of doing just that. Watch out American society, ‘cause here I come!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Academic Mecca?
We're well into the semester here at the University of Ghana, but it sure doesn't feel like it. For starters, few students take doing homework seriously, and although I'd love to start reading for my classes, many departments have yet to finish photo-copying our reading materials. When we arrived to the school, I was initially frustrated at the fact that many parts of the campus, including our residence hall, were not done being cleaned and primped for the new school year. I was frustrated that it would take three weeks before someone would mow the grass around the library and that garbage still lays strewn across our beautiful, tropical campus. In the past few days, though, I've realized that universities and colleges here in Ghana, and probably in many other countries, are very different from American universities for one simple reason: business. On my first college interview at a small school in Erie, PA, the admissions representative asked me if I knew that college is a business, and I have to make myself look like a good investment to each school I apply to. It's totally not like that here in Ghana. Getting into college isn't nearly as competitive as it is in the US. Schools aren't competing with other schools, either, to attract more students and their money. The government pays for most of Ghana's students to study at the university level, and schools in turn welcome as many students as wish to study. A greater student body shows the rest of the nation, and the world, that Ghanaian students are ready to learn and compete with the rest of the world. I worry a little that with the education Ghanaian students receive from, at least, the University of Ghana, they may not be able to compete with graduates who have had a competitive mind-set about college from the get-go. Are American and European students more willing to sacrifice or go the extra mile to get the competitive edge over international students? I fear, just a little, that that might be the case.
Sometimes I miss neatly manicured hedges and bright green grass that is used to attract students to schools. But now I'm learning to appreciate the basics of school: namely, the academic level to which I am exposed. Several students study here from other African countries because of it's outstanding level of academic rigor. That was hard to believe, since I've been to several classes since the semester has started, and have only had a few lectures to learn from. The learning style is much different and certainly not as creative as in the United States. Here, we are dictated notes which we will regurgitate at the end of the semester in the form of an exam. We've taken active learning approaches to acquiring knowledge. Lecture-based classes are becoming a rarity at my small SUNY school, and taking example from films, poetry, and other media has become more common and much more enjoyable. But then again, are we really expanding the way we can learn, or are we forgetting that school is just a place to get a bare-bones education, and it's our responsibility to supplement our book knowledge with life experiences? I don't know. I'm sure we'll figure it out.
Sometimes I miss neatly manicured hedges and bright green grass that is used to attract students to schools. But now I'm learning to appreciate the basics of school: namely, the academic level to which I am exposed. Several students study here from other African countries because of it's outstanding level of academic rigor. That was hard to believe, since I've been to several classes since the semester has started, and have only had a few lectures to learn from. The learning style is much different and certainly not as creative as in the United States. Here, we are dictated notes which we will regurgitate at the end of the semester in the form of an exam. We've taken active learning approaches to acquiring knowledge. Lecture-based classes are becoming a rarity at my small SUNY school, and taking example from films, poetry, and other media has become more common and much more enjoyable. But then again, are we really expanding the way we can learn, or are we forgetting that school is just a place to get a bare-bones education, and it's our responsibility to supplement our book knowledge with life experiences? I don't know. I'm sure we'll figure it out.
Football, a travel through a unique experience.
Imagine being choked, not literally, but that same intense feeling of being uncomfortable. Add that to the hertz-shattering noises that spews from every corner of your eardrum. Multiply that by the fanatical, nationalistically superior aura brought in the form of a thousand Ghanaian flags, big and small, held by legions more of people from all walks of the Nation-State. Subtract any kind of inhibition or shyness and add to that the gratifying, humbling and warm feeling you get when your favorite team wins. Now put all of those previous figures over 2, multiply it by 100 and you would still only know HALF of what it feels like to go to a professional soccer game in Ghana.
The day was a Sunday and I already forget the exact date, but I remember having a feeling that something bad was going to happen. A guy gets trampled, a riot breaks out, the opposing team, Sudan, would have to be rushed out on gurneys and all of Independence Square would go up in flames. But wait, I thought, “maybe I’m stereotyping this too quickly, maybe every soccer clip-show I’ve ever seen of riots breaking out was only unique to Europe and Latin America. Maybe I’ve been socialized to believe that soccer is nothing more than a savage-foreigner wet dream. All those shows, ‘World’s Most Amazing Videos,’ where the innocent bystander gets his clocked cleaned by fans who were enraged by the loss of their team. But, maybe Ghanaians are different. Maybe they’re more reserved; giving golf claps when their team scored, quietly enjoying the satisfaction of an occasional wave, and NEVER standing when the power forward makes a move for goal. Well probably not, but maybe it’s somewhere in the middle.”
After that very long aside, I found myself wading through a parade. It was me, Emily and the rest of our program-mates, all in awe over the powerful figure of people waiting to get in. Though we were at the stadium 4 hours early, you would never know by the sounds and the amount of spectators. What was crazy was that half of the Ghanaians in attendance didn’t even have tickets, they were just hoping on a blind blessing that they could shimmy past the guards, which usually never happened. Getting in took all the strength we could muster, we were like the cast of “300” and we pushed and shoved, got pushed and shoved, all the way to the cold, iron, gate.
When inside, I was a little more relieved, but still I felt something was going to happen. I don’t know why, I just did. Being in a strange place and sharing an exotic experience outside of one’s norm is scary, but that was the least of my troubles when I got to the usher to be seated.
OH MY GOD
Firstly, I have to say that if colonialism did anything to mess up this country, the introduction of the Roman numeral system must have been a weapon of mass destruction! The stadium is sectioned from 1 to 10, or “I” to “X” I should say. The ushers had a hard time seating us because they couldn’t read the numbers to our section right. So I must have been moved around about three times before I found the dang seat myself!
But when I was finally seated my anxiety left some. I began to make a home for myself amongst the noise and filling seats. It was like I was in a euphoric trance, seeing how the seats in he rafters bore the same colors as the national flag. Seeing the crisply blue sky blowing a few clouds along the lining of the stadium. Seeing that my V.I.P. section was only inhabited by foreigners and rich Ghanaians. Seeing the happy faces of the
Working-class fans as they sang at the top of their voice, proud, as if they were as rich as those in V.I.P. It was like a dream, I mean I don’t even play sports, and I know even less about soccer, but here I am, just chilling out like fan.
But as the game began, the bad feeling I felt actually came. It came in the form of a cantankerous Ghanaian fellow who felt that I was sitting in his seat. “You’re in my seat!” he cried. I looked at him, shocked and pissed at the same time. I looked at his ticket and saw that the seat number was identical to mine, but, his section was in a different Roman numeral! He couldn’t comprehend the number so he mistaken the dang seat for mine! OH MY GOD! After about 20 minutes of arguing with this man, some Ghanaians, worried that the armed soldiers doing security would be alarmed, told the man to sit somewhere else, and he did, ironically in an empty seat that was directly in front of my row. Unbelievable.
Anyway, the game went off without a hitch. But what I thought was supposed to be a soccer game ended up being a karate match! Both Ghana and Sudan were jumping in the air, kicking the ball, doing amazing stuns and acrobatics. Both teams were performing vicious round-houses on the ball as they went for the kill. I thought I lost my ears when Ghana scored the first goal. The energy was absolutely kinetic and the second score by Ghana sparked a wave that lasted 6 staggering go-rounds across the whole stadium! I got a good work out from it. The game ended 2-0 Ghana, a match they needed to win to qualify for the FIFA World Cup in Johannesburg in 2010.
I’m not big on sports, I couldn’t tell you the names of the players, I couldn’t tell you plays they executed, but I can say I’ve been to a game in a soccer-nation and I will never forget the spirit of its fans. And I can also say that when I’m in town, the home team wins.
Miles
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