As I walked through The El Mina Slave Castle in Accra, Ghana, I could not help but notice them in the midst of my sorrow. I was taken aback by them; their dark, thick lips curved in smiles and laughter, their children running about the fort as if it were a playground, their arguments about the last soccer match and who would be cooking dinner that night. Their faces were casual, looking as if the capture and abuse of millions of dark bodies just like their own had not happened here, looking as if this space held no weight in their hearts. They were native Ghanaians, yet felt even more disconnected from the history of my ancestors than I did. They viewed The El Mina Slave Castle as outsiders looking in, people who were witnessing the pain of another group, failing to realize that this history was of their ancestors, too.
The Ghanaian tourism committee had done a great job creating a scene for us African American mourners. There was the authentic green mold on the walls, the signs which read MALE DUNGEON and FEMALE DUNGEON, the pushing of visitors into the Death Cell where rebellious Africans were sent, the small gate of no return that overlooked the shore, and of course, the gift shop at the end where visitors could purchase a DVD that captures the whole experience for just thirty Ghanaian dollars. The Ghanaian visitors were unphased by it all, much more preoccupied with their real life than the history of a distant, irrelevant past. They had only come because they had heard from a grandparent that it was important to do, something to check off the list of things every Ghanaian should do. They laughed at us silly African Americans who clenched the bars of cells just to feel the grasp of an ancestor. They made a mockery of our anguish as we cried and comforted each other. Silly us, they thought, for thinking this actually matters, for feeling as if it was us who lived and died here. But here is where we did lived and died. Pieces of our souls would always be here, the spirits of our heritage, the blues of our belonging, the memoirs of our existence all stem from this very space.
Sankofa tattoo meaning to go back and fetch your roots in order to inform your future
They tell us our story, they make us cry, then they laugh at our tears. And then they escort us to the gift shop so we can purchase an authentic African mask, or a postcard from the very last place enslaved Africans lived before reaching America. Ghana must realize that roots tourism is much more than just tourism, much deeper than a laugh and a good time, much more meaningful than Disney World and Paradise Island. This trip will shape our self perception, reshape our identities. Yet, for them, it will be another item checked off a list, another museum, another family gathering. We race back to their soil only to find that we have been forgotten.
Volunteering with La Enobal Middle School
AFRICAN AMNESIA
you call me
“the one who went away”
as if me and a group of family and friends
left for vacation
you call me
“nigga”
as if we are not one in the same
as if you and I share not sur names
i see all of me in you
you see none of me in you
or maybe half of me in you
you see none of me in you
i question if I see any of me in you...
we speak the same language
share the same mother
same blood, same speech,
same tongue, same church,
same drums, same work
same hugs, same skin
same skin, same skin
same skin.
same colored people time
you call in Ghana Man time
still we both can agree
we have no sense of time
same eating with hands
same hip movement when we dance
same drum beat
same heart beat
same coke bottle shape
same slim waste
and round face
same thick lips and wide hips
same shut up when elders talkin
same switching when we walkin
same singin on the job
same battle wound scars
same fear of the ocean
same voodoo potions
same watch my sistahs kids
same whoop em wit a switch
if yo kids talkin slick
same rights of passage
same dont talk unless i asked it
same be seen and not heard
same never miss a day of church
same preacher talk for hours
same boy don’t be a coward
same home remedies
same is you feelin me?
same rhythm, same blues
same music, new tunes
same tone of voice
same word of choice
Check out Reeci at www.reeciology.com
B L A C K
my black means your black
but your black don’t mean my black
his black will always mean
nigger.
his black will be me and you black
whether you see that
means not a thing to his detached
psyche, whitey
never cared where a nigger was from.
my black means your black
i got your back
but you refuse to have my back
as if we lack
the same story
i see we lack the same story.
my story begins where yours ends
i went away for vacation
and never returned
you stayed .
i went away for vacation
with family and friends
you never asked how was my vacation
never worried when i didn’t send post cards
never searched shore lines to find me
when it had been months
years
decades
centuries
i am not African American
i am Black American
none of you is me
all of you is me
some of you is me
its
complicated, see...
i sculpted my identity
with Deja Vu of your lullabies
with American twigs and four leaf clovers
with eyes that saw blurred colored lines
on backs of my black
black backs art canvases for white whips
he wanted to paint my identity
he tried to taint my identity
but i sculpted my identity
reclaimed my identity
in our mother’s name
now you have forgotten me.
now you admire me
bob permed head to lyrics
in a language you used to know
in a language created to remember you
a language you claim to not know
a language I know all too well
you speak it, too
you just don’t want to know you do
i know you
remember me, nigga
i’m the one you sold away
you never heard about my vacation?
nigga
you my nigga
i’m yo nigga
we da same exact nigga
no, black African
don’t deny me
African
American
a part of you
will always be with me
you never visited me
during my vacation
well, at least not until I became
F R E E.