As drivers we are required to follow the rules of the road. A yellow light indicates we proceed with caution. Depending on our mood, we may press our foot on the brakes or speed through the intersection before the light turns red. Red means stop, no split second decisions or risk serous consequences. Consistently driving above the speed limit guarantees a ticket is forthcoming; it is just a matter of time. Rules of the road exist to keep us safe. When we ignore them, we do so at our own peril, and in worst-case scenarios, inflict harm on others as well. Ultimately, stop or you will be stopped.
When I get a speeding ticket, I tend to spin it metaphorically, as a sign for me to slow down. For a while I drive more cautiously, slow my frenetic pace, and try to engage more appreciatively with life. Eventually, I pick up speed and return to my previous ways until the universe delivers another red light. In addition to speeding tickets, I am slowed to a crawl when I get sick. Control is lost, and you are at the mercy of medical professionals you may or may know. Life suddenly becomes tentative and terrifying. This week I took ill and was admitted to the hospital with a bacteria infection. I was well acquainted with the staff at Lister Hospital in Accra after taking five students there, and sitting through several shifts on the ward until one student was released. The doctors were hardly surprised when I showed up; in fact, they seemed to be waiting for me.
Despite moving past the half-century mark, for the most part I move about as I always have. The signs of aging are visible, and some mornings my aching bones prevent me from bolting out of bed as I once did. A degenerative meniscus that has yet to be operated on grounded me from running; however, I still go to the gym, ride my bike, lift weights when time allows, and do physical labor around my house. In my mind, I am able to do most things, even when I ought to hold back and ask for help. My kids seem to share this ageless view of me, and since their dad is 18 years older than me, he is the recipient of their indulgence. When I feel sorry for myself I scold them for it. Being a young mom who grew up with her kids and fed into the can do anything image, I take my share of the blame for their treating me as if I am invincible. Perhaps it is wishful thinking on all our part.
The doctors at Lister Hospital in Accra are excellent, as is the overall care. I had complete confidence in them, and when the doctor read my lab results he informed me I had been sick well over a week. He was quite firm about admitting me, and when he discharged me, his instructions were clear – rest is as important as the medication. How did I not notice I wondered? Then again, when you are running 24/7 with your team to ensure your students and every detail of the program is executed to the best of your ability, there is little time to attend to yourself. This happened to me when I brought students to Senegal, and really it is no different than other times I have taken ill while caring for my children and working. Goes with the territory.
When the group departed Wednesday morning for a 3-day trip to Kumasi, I stayed back in Accra. On my first visit to Ghana we did not make it to Kumasi, and was looking forward to my first visit; however, I erred on the side of caution. A schedule packed with activity was not what my doctor had in mind so I complied and remained in Accra alone. Once the bus departed I was torn between regret and feeling confident I made the right decision. I began to read my book and woke up two hours later. I fixed some makeshift soup with chicken broth, an onion, and noodles. After lunch I picked up my book, attempting to read while the World Cup game provided background noise. Three hours later I woke with my book on my chest. I no longer doubted my decision.
Being sick gave me reason to pause for the first time since moving to Austin - actually, well before then. I had been on a constant roller coaster for a long while, traveling back and forth to Texas for the Mart Project, Senegal, and three trips to Europe before March of last year. In the span of a year I left California after 35 years, bought a house and set it up from scratch, and one week after completing the first year of my PhD program I spent five hectic days in California before departing for Ghana where I hit the ground running. I have a weird belief that I can will away illness with mental toughness. Needless to say, though often successful, it does not always work. Adding this to my reluctance to ask for help can be a dangerous combination. The universe as a way of outsmarting us though, and if we poses any sense at all, we will embrace the notion with nothing but gratitude.
Here in Accra I am wrapped in a blanket of solitude. I move slowly, walking to the Koffee Lounge to drink decaf tea, eat food my stomach will tolerate, and get online. This café has become our dinning room with Dinah as our hostess and provider of healthy, delicious foods and a wonderful space to socialize, work, and observe a slice of life in Ghana that closely resembles a café in Austin filled with Ghanaians. Africa is not just aid appeals with faces of starving children; it is modern life with professionals, families, and a diverse population of customers who enjoy good coffee, Asian fusion food, and smoothies. It is excellent service, clean and attractive environments, and uniquely African style not aiming to be a poor imitation of the West.
Being alone in Accra, I have been able to think, read, and most importantly feel the life inside and around me. Walking back and forth to the café street rhythms take hold - music and chatter, laughter of children, street vendors hawking their goods. I am a single entity, glanced at or ignored, moving about as I once did in my previous travels. Being quiet alters your perspective, grateful for a smile or greeting, you become more humble and receptive, less imposing. Only then have I arrived at my destination. Moving quickly and rushing about, whether it is in Austin or Accra, dilutes the essence of absorbing and feeling an environment. We have come to over rely on our props and tools, our access to information in the virtual world preventing us from connecting in real time. Sitting still is scorned as laziness and a waste of time. How else are we supposed to take notice of beauty otherwise overlooked and the nuance of humanity? Incessant chatter prevents listening; constant movement avoids eye contact with a stranger and perhaps the exchange of a smile. I am as guilty as anyone, when I get going nothing seems to slow me down; that is unless I am stopped by forces beyond my control, hence the red light, speeding ticket, or worse yet – becoming ill.
When working with architecture students in Senegal, my colleague Muhsana Ali and I pulled away our student’s props. We confiscated their notebooks, cameras, measuring tools, and sketchbooks. We asked them to feel the land as preparation for their design, and their tools were distracting them. Their anger was not easily masked, or their panic at being stripped of their props. We instructed them to walk the land, smell the scents, listen to the sounds, inventory the colors. Find a spot and sit still, close your eyes so you can begin to visualize a design that is in harmony with the land, the culture, and residents. We may as well have been talking in ancient Greek; however, we were insistent. Creation is emotive as well as cognitive, perhaps more so. Regardless of the distribution, it requires a blending of the senses and takes into consideration context. There is no one path to any destination; however, the ability to stop in our tracks and reflect cannot be underestimated.
Here in Accra I am in pause mode. One moment I am a blank stare, and the next pondering the Chinese presence in Africa. I take my medication and sleep when I am tired. In the quiet I hear my own thoughts unraveling, a car door slam, dogs barking in the distance, and as was the case yesterday, rain pouring down with a vengeance. I feel both insignificant and an important part of the universe, with either way fine by me. Next week at this time I will be in Austin, back in my beloved house with Pepsi and Pearl. All that is Ghana will go with me. Memories of Jonathan walking the streets as if he had lived here all his life, Frank carrying me in circles when I arrived, dancing with Renee at Taverna Tropicana, gut busting laughter with Kwame, long talks with Dorie in the van, watching the students in their individual and group process, waiting for George to arrive when he was only five minutes away ten minutes ago, a decaying slave fort with life swelling around it on a Sunday afternoon, and the kindness of the staff at Lister Hospital when I was my most vulnerable. It takes so little giving to receive. Life offers us infinite possibility for growth, joy, and connection. All we have to do is follow the rules of the road.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ghana Revisited
I traveled to Ghana in 2008 with my son, then 21 years old, in large part for him to retrace his African heritage. As the white mother of an African descent child, I felt honored to accompany my son on this significant journey. Parenting my children meant vigilant navigation of American racism, and the confrontation of painful realities in both subtle and overt ways. Going to Ghana felt proactive, and although we were not sure of what to expect, we approached it with joy and excitement.
We were fortunate to be in the company of friends who knew Ghana well, both Americans and Ghanaians. Though our itinerary included the usual stops such as Accra, Cape Coast and Elmina, our encounters with residents were many. If I had to characterize the weeks spent in Ghana with one word, it would be laughter, day after day. The friendships we made were maintained though frequent emails and phone calls. I felt pride when people frequently commented on my son’s manners, humor, and general ability to engage with Ghanaians. The bonds we formed lent credence to the concept of “friend for life”.
When the opportunity to return to Ghana as a Teaching Assistant for a four week Maymester course was offered to me, I jumped at it. My dear friend Frank Decosta would be joining us as one of the local coordinator. Frank is a lecturer at the university and well versed in all matters Ghanaian. Our reunion resembled one of long lost friends as he carried me around in circles with my students looking on. If I could explain what Ghana feels like to me, that moment would aptly describe it. For those who travel, home exists on so many levels.
Africa is often digested in one all encompassing gulp. To comprehend the diversity of this large, often misunderstood continent, one would have to traverse the landmass from top to bottom, side to side. Hardly practical for most of us, we settle for a visit to one, perhaps two countries if we are lucky. In the absence of the ability to actually make the journey, I can only recommend reading books that provide historical, political, and cultural information to process the magnitude of what Africa has been, and continues to be to the industrialized world.
Regardless of your take on Africa, the historical context and role of the European powers, later America, and now China cannot be ignored. I am not set to preach; however, once you obtain a basic grasp of the interruption caused by carving up land like a chess game with no regard to tribe, language, or culture, the conditions of Africa are less perplexing. The capture of African land and people by Arabs and later Europeans, the designation of European colonies and later nationhood resembled the way Middle East was remapped by the Sykes-Picot Agreement in 1917. Borders were determined by economic self-interest with no consideration given to history and culture, making the these decisions seem reckless and arbitrary from a retrospective vantage point. The havoc wrought by the greed and entitlement of European powers to confiscate resources and conquer without a shred of doubt has resulted in consequences felt to this very day.
The wealth we enjoy in the west was built on the backs of free labor from Africa, the indigenous residents of the Americas, immigrants from China who built railroads, and later other sources of cheap labor including undocumented workers. Americans and Europeans can complain about the cultural intrusion and depletion of social services caused by these outsiders; however, I see no rush to pay higher wages to legal residents or employers refraining from hiring workers they well know are undocumented. As the waters of West Africa are illegally stripped by Western European and Asian countries, those who sustenance depends on the fishing industry ironically set off on treacherous journeys in boats that would otherwise provide their livelihood. These desperate attempts to reach the shores of Europe in hopes of earning wages not found in their home country are often lethal. I observed this in Senegal, and was compelled to create The Senegal Series: The New Slavery, paintings depicting the story of those who embark on the journey in search of a “better life”.
The phenomenon is widespread though, and sadly it extends to places as remote as the small Greek island I have frequented for many years. The increased numbers of Albanians and Romanians working the hotels and construction jobs is pronounced. Years of listening to my European friends criticize the U.S. on racism, political bullying, and consumerism (all well founded) have come back to haunt them. In some cases, they hail from former slave trading nations who were spared the nastiness of slavery on their soil, enjoying a lofty position until the the “immigrant problem" knocked them off their pedistal. Xenophobia, racism, and fear are part of their national landscape just as racial profiling and the achievement gap is part of ours. Being in Ghana and linking the slave trade and their colonial past to our present is more like parallel play than severed ties. The stories continue to cross the Atlantic, and our fates remain intricately intertwined.
While I sat by a student’s sick bed in the hospital (she is fully recovered!), I had time to spare. I began reading Richard Dowden’s Africa: Altered States and Ordinary Miracles. Still only halfway through the 550 pages, I am baffled by the complexity that comprises Africa. I am reminded that we must resist the temptation to cut a broad swath across the continent, rather, inform ourselves of the diversity that Africa is, and how in understanding Africa we better grasp the development of our nation and ourselves. The urge to pathologize Africa as if we are innocent bystanders is as ludicrous as pointing a finger at the Middle East and blaming one side versus the other, or believing the rise of Islamic fervor came from out of the blue. We will continue to be cold cocked if we refuse to acknowledge our role in setting the stage for dictatorships, poverty, and terrorism that has shifted our reality and ability to move about as fearlessly as we once did.
Being in Ghana connects me to history and reminds me our ties are not as buried by the past as we may think. The ability to tell our story, whatever the story may be, is a critical link. The inhibitors of storytelling include include shame and guilt about the past and the role our ancestors may have played. Still, the story matters. My colleague on this trip is a Ghanaian whose great, great grandfather was a chief in Elmina who traded slaves. We drove past the ancestral home that dates back hundreds of years, and where family members still reside. His 101 year old grandmother lived there until she passed recently.
Good and evil are two sides of the same coin and not necessarily exclusive to each other. Redemption offers the opportunity to liberate our spirit and redefine our journey. Contradiction is inherent in all our stories, histories, and attempt to make sense of that which seems unforgivable including slavery, the Holocaust, ethnic cleansing, massacres, and mass starvation. Walking through Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles pushes the bounds of human understanding. The strategy of the built environment is evident in the location of the Anglican chapel above the male slave dungeon, or the Governors quarters above the female slave dungeon. Looking out through the door of no return, the Atlantic Ocean is a mirror to the American present as well as past. The image of my son standing in deep thought before that gateway is one I will never forget.
When we were in Tema a few days ago with a group of students Frank reminded me we were close to an old slave fort he had visited with a mutual friend. Two students of African descent chose to go with us to see it. The fort is in a state of severe decay; however, the structure still reveals details of its past function including dungeons and the quarters of the captors. This historical site is of a much smaller scale compared to the roots tourist destinations of Elmina and Cape Coast. If you were not informed in advance of its historical significance, the fort is all but indistinguishable from other structures that line the shore this coastal village. A family lives in the lower portion, there is a hole in the floor upstairs, and part of the roof is exposed. Nonetheless, walking through the ruin ghosts of the past can be felt, calling to memory against the sound of the mighty Atlantic surf. In a faint whisper voices seem to be saying don’t forget us, we mattered, we were once here.
Emerging from the fort life is everywhere, boats bobbing on the sea, people gathered along the beach eating, visiting, and children running about playing. Long after captured Africans were sent along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, generations lived through colonial rule, independence, the election of governments, and the building of lives and families. We pick up where others leave off, the stories of those before us leading the way. An old slave fort is someone’s residence and a place to gather on a Sunday afternoon, yet it remains a site of memory that no amount of neglect can deny. While the contradiction is confounding, it is also an opening to explore the complex mystery of humanity. Our willingness to comply with evil or act in defiance on behalf of righteousness is more than a polar extreme. We move through life acquiring layers of vision by a willingness to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Ultimately, that is the great equalizer.
I first came to Ghana to help my son connect with his African ancestry as a means to fortify his life as a black male in the United States. I hoped he would fill in the missing pieces of his story as an individual and part of a collective. What began as a mother’s attempt to provide for her child has evolved to a larger narrative, one that encompasses a tapestry of stories, placeholders of memory, the wonder of the human condition, and the part of the equation only explained by magic. Here in Ghana the unfolding continues with more to come.
We were fortunate to be in the company of friends who knew Ghana well, both Americans and Ghanaians. Though our itinerary included the usual stops such as Accra, Cape Coast and Elmina, our encounters with residents were many. If I had to characterize the weeks spent in Ghana with one word, it would be laughter, day after day. The friendships we made were maintained though frequent emails and phone calls. I felt pride when people frequently commented on my son’s manners, humor, and general ability to engage with Ghanaians. The bonds we formed lent credence to the concept of “friend for life”.
When the opportunity to return to Ghana as a Teaching Assistant for a four week Maymester course was offered to me, I jumped at it. My dear friend Frank Decosta would be joining us as one of the local coordinator. Frank is a lecturer at the university and well versed in all matters Ghanaian. Our reunion resembled one of long lost friends as he carried me around in circles with my students looking on. If I could explain what Ghana feels like to me, that moment would aptly describe it. For those who travel, home exists on so many levels.
Africa is often digested in one all encompassing gulp. To comprehend the diversity of this large, often misunderstood continent, one would have to traverse the landmass from top to bottom, side to side. Hardly practical for most of us, we settle for a visit to one, perhaps two countries if we are lucky. In the absence of the ability to actually make the journey, I can only recommend reading books that provide historical, political, and cultural information to process the magnitude of what Africa has been, and continues to be to the industrialized world.
Regardless of your take on Africa, the historical context and role of the European powers, later America, and now China cannot be ignored. I am not set to preach; however, once you obtain a basic grasp of the interruption caused by carving up land like a chess game with no regard to tribe, language, or culture, the conditions of Africa are less perplexing. The capture of African land and people by Arabs and later Europeans, the designation of European colonies and later nationhood resembled the way Middle East was remapped by the Sykes-Picot Agreement in 1917. Borders were determined by economic self-interest with no consideration given to history and culture, making the these decisions seem reckless and arbitrary from a retrospective vantage point. The havoc wrought by the greed and entitlement of European powers to confiscate resources and conquer without a shred of doubt has resulted in consequences felt to this very day.
The wealth we enjoy in the west was built on the backs of free labor from Africa, the indigenous residents of the Americas, immigrants from China who built railroads, and later other sources of cheap labor including undocumented workers. Americans and Europeans can complain about the cultural intrusion and depletion of social services caused by these outsiders; however, I see no rush to pay higher wages to legal residents or employers refraining from hiring workers they well know are undocumented. As the waters of West Africa are illegally stripped by Western European and Asian countries, those who sustenance depends on the fishing industry ironically set off on treacherous journeys in boats that would otherwise provide their livelihood. These desperate attempts to reach the shores of Europe in hopes of earning wages not found in their home country are often lethal. I observed this in Senegal, and was compelled to create The Senegal Series: The New Slavery, paintings depicting the story of those who embark on the journey in search of a “better life”.
The phenomenon is widespread though, and sadly it extends to places as remote as the small Greek island I have frequented for many years. The increased numbers of Albanians and Romanians working the hotels and construction jobs is pronounced. Years of listening to my European friends criticize the U.S. on racism, political bullying, and consumerism (all well founded) have come back to haunt them. In some cases, they hail from former slave trading nations who were spared the nastiness of slavery on their soil, enjoying a lofty position until the the “immigrant problem" knocked them off their pedistal. Xenophobia, racism, and fear are part of their national landscape just as racial profiling and the achievement gap is part of ours. Being in Ghana and linking the slave trade and their colonial past to our present is more like parallel play than severed ties. The stories continue to cross the Atlantic, and our fates remain intricately intertwined.
While I sat by a student’s sick bed in the hospital (she is fully recovered!), I had time to spare. I began reading Richard Dowden’s Africa: Altered States and Ordinary Miracles. Still only halfway through the 550 pages, I am baffled by the complexity that comprises Africa. I am reminded that we must resist the temptation to cut a broad swath across the continent, rather, inform ourselves of the diversity that Africa is, and how in understanding Africa we better grasp the development of our nation and ourselves. The urge to pathologize Africa as if we are innocent bystanders is as ludicrous as pointing a finger at the Middle East and blaming one side versus the other, or believing the rise of Islamic fervor came from out of the blue. We will continue to be cold cocked if we refuse to acknowledge our role in setting the stage for dictatorships, poverty, and terrorism that has shifted our reality and ability to move about as fearlessly as we once did.
Being in Ghana connects me to history and reminds me our ties are not as buried by the past as we may think. The ability to tell our story, whatever the story may be, is a critical link. The inhibitors of storytelling include include shame and guilt about the past and the role our ancestors may have played. Still, the story matters. My colleague on this trip is a Ghanaian whose great, great grandfather was a chief in Elmina who traded slaves. We drove past the ancestral home that dates back hundreds of years, and where family members still reside. His 101 year old grandmother lived there until she passed recently.
Good and evil are two sides of the same coin and not necessarily exclusive to each other. Redemption offers the opportunity to liberate our spirit and redefine our journey. Contradiction is inherent in all our stories, histories, and attempt to make sense of that which seems unforgivable including slavery, the Holocaust, ethnic cleansing, massacres, and mass starvation. Walking through Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles pushes the bounds of human understanding. The strategy of the built environment is evident in the location of the Anglican chapel above the male slave dungeon, or the Governors quarters above the female slave dungeon. Looking out through the door of no return, the Atlantic Ocean is a mirror to the American present as well as past. The image of my son standing in deep thought before that gateway is one I will never forget.
When we were in Tema a few days ago with a group of students Frank reminded me we were close to an old slave fort he had visited with a mutual friend. Two students of African descent chose to go with us to see it. The fort is in a state of severe decay; however, the structure still reveals details of its past function including dungeons and the quarters of the captors. This historical site is of a much smaller scale compared to the roots tourist destinations of Elmina and Cape Coast. If you were not informed in advance of its historical significance, the fort is all but indistinguishable from other structures that line the shore this coastal village. A family lives in the lower portion, there is a hole in the floor upstairs, and part of the roof is exposed. Nonetheless, walking through the ruin ghosts of the past can be felt, calling to memory against the sound of the mighty Atlantic surf. In a faint whisper voices seem to be saying don’t forget us, we mattered, we were once here.
Emerging from the fort life is everywhere, boats bobbing on the sea, people gathered along the beach eating, visiting, and children running about playing. Long after captured Africans were sent along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, generations lived through colonial rule, independence, the election of governments, and the building of lives and families. We pick up where others leave off, the stories of those before us leading the way. An old slave fort is someone’s residence and a place to gather on a Sunday afternoon, yet it remains a site of memory that no amount of neglect can deny. While the contradiction is confounding, it is also an opening to explore the complex mystery of humanity. Our willingness to comply with evil or act in defiance on behalf of righteousness is more than a polar extreme. We move through life acquiring layers of vision by a willingness to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Ultimately, that is the great equalizer.
I first came to Ghana to help my son connect with his African ancestry as a means to fortify his life as a black male in the United States. I hoped he would fill in the missing pieces of his story as an individual and part of a collective. What began as a mother’s attempt to provide for her child has evolved to a larger narrative, one that encompasses a tapestry of stories, placeholders of memory, the wonder of the human condition, and the part of the equation only explained by magic. Here in Ghana the unfolding continues with more to come.
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