I
think the biggest question I had for myself was:
“Why am I doing this?”
Back
in April 2019 (“The Year of Return”), I had an exceptionally transformative
experience in Ghana, Togo, and Benin. I was the first in my family to “return”
to the African Continent, first in 2011 while I was doing research in Tanzania,
but more importantly in 2019 when I set foot on the Cape Coast, were my
ancestors were (presumably) deracinated and shipped to Barbados.
From
the moment that I stepped foot in the male (en)slave dungeon, under the church
that was built to define centuries of dehumanized hell, I have been haunted.
I have
been haunted (blessed?) by the ghosts (spirits? energy? life force?) of those
that died – and survived – to get me where I am today.
You
can argue, in a complex and convoluted way, this was my “come to Jesus” moment.
Did I
return?
Or…
Did I
begin?
April
2019 was my baptism. It was not my birth. I was born in Canada. Of Barbadian
parents. But the moment I stepped out of that male (en)slave(d) dungeon, I was
born again. I started to begin my journey of truly emancipating myself from
mental slavery. From truly understanding that I was more than my (curse) of
Blackness. To seeing that Christopher Stuart Taylor did not have limits on who
we was, nor who he can become.
It was
a new beginning.
And it
wasn’t just my beginning.
I
decided that I wanted to bring young Black students from the Diaspora, many of whom
have never been to the Continent and only know their Blackness within the white
supremacist confines of dehumanization and enslavement.
But the
realities of structural inequalities (*ahem* – barriers created by white supremacy)
set in and that initial plan drifted away like a coconut caught in the undertow
of the Atlantic.
The
vision was dying.
The
vision was lost.
The
vision was reimagined.
Did I
want to bring white people on this spiritual journey of Black (re)affirmation?
No.
I’ll be
the first to stand on the pulpit from Sunday to Monday and preach that
whiteness defines the world that I – and we – live in. I wanted to create a
space that was for us.
Black
people.
I
wanted 7 days and 6 nights of Black solidarity. Us walking through the shadows
of the valley of death (literally and figuratively) in the factories of
dehumanization in Ghana. I wanted to connect with their spirits. I wanted to
feel that energy of despair, followed by the euphoria of the prospects of hope,
resilience, and strength.
Cocaine
is a hell of a drug. But losing the “de” in “de-humanization” was the greatest
high in my life.
I
wanted to share in the embodiment of the Adinkra symbols.
I
wanted to share in the moment to fill that emptiness that we Black folk in the
Americas have, but have no idea what is missing. Or how to fill it.
That
was lost.
Was I
skeptical about this group of 11 that included 5 white folks?
I’d be
lying if I said I wasn’t.
I was
too caught up in the pre-trip logistics to think too much about it. I was more
concerned about looking good for the University of Waterloo and proving to them
that this can be done.
That I
can take a group of strangers to “Africa” and they wouldn’t get eaten by lions
or cooked by cannibals.
Yes, I
said it.
In my
mind, I reframed the purpose of this trip to another battle against white
supremacy.
I
wanted to prove a point that my class (The Black Atlantic), and my vision, and
my purpose at the University of Waterloo belonged. Even though I’m in a state
of precarious employment, I was going to point a middle finger to the
institution and say “f**k it – I’m going to show you what I can do.”
I did
not articulate it explicitly, but I know that folks who were in my inner trip
planning circle, started to notice my sentiment as we got closer to our
departure date.
I was
going to make this work.
I
needed to make this work.
This
was a no fail environment. In an environment where things could go wrong with
some catastrophic consequences.
When
we landed in Accra, and met with Musah and the team at Uprise Travel, I
breathed a minor sigh of relief.
We
made it.
Now,
time for the real work to start.
****
My
patience was tested from day one when we went to the tailor for folks to pick
material to have dresses/suits/etc. made.
I was
back holding my breath thinking: “damn, these white folks are going to trample
all over that line from cultural appreciation to cultural appropriation.”
But I
kept my mouth shut.
And
we, with the support of my colleague (my foot/toe injury sibling), had an open
and frank discussion about this topic in our nightly post-dinner debriefs.
I
listened.
I
spoke.
They listened.
They
spoke.
We
listened.
We
spoke.
We
were building something.
Communitas.
****
I wasn’t
as nervous about going to the Cape Coast.
This
was the moment that I wanted from my Black Brothers and Sisters on this trip.
Especially what I wanted for my Mother.
This
was the purpose of the trip.
And we
talked about what each person wanted out of it.
What
it meant to be white and where they should (literally and figuratively) stand
on this tour of the dungeons.
What
it meant to be Black and the emotional rollercoaster that was awaiting them on
the beautiful (with the ugliest history known to human history) shores of the
Cape Coast.
They
listened.
They
spoke.
We
listened.
We
spoke.
We
were building something.
Communitas.
****
I’m
not going to project my feelings on that day on anyone in the group. Black,
white, or Brown.
What I
did see – and hear – was raw emotion that night. I heard pain. I heard
confusion. I heard sadness. I heard hope.
But I
heard.
I
watched and listened to white folks taking a back seat to the voices of
Blackness.
Yes,
there were some tenuous moments. And we weren’t holding hands and singing kumbaya.
Yes, I
cringed at some of the comments made by white folks.
Yes,
my patience was tested. The purpose of my trip was tested.
But we
got through it.
Then
the moment of communitas truly hit
me.
The
day when we went to Assin Manso Ancestral (en)Slave(d) River Site.
When
we didn’t have to talk or plan how we would navigate this spiritual and
emotional moment.
Where
the white and non-Black folk in our group just knew what this site and moment
signified. They stepped back as we were baptized in the river of death, but simultaneously
cleansed our histories of (de)humanization.
It was
in that moment, when I got back on the bus that I realized what we built. Even
if it was fleeting and just in that one particular of time. Even if it was
through some dehydration and intestinal issues. We had built communitas.
And
you know what answered my questions about that line between cultural
appropriation and appreciation?
When
on the last night I saw the clothes they got made from the tailor.
All
beautifully made, but with prints that had absolutely nothing to do with
Ghanaian/Black culture.
They
appreciated and supported a local (Black, Ghanaian, and female) business.
They
got it.
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