Why We Need To Speak Out About Trayvon Martin

I think it is high time we start discussing race relations in my country. Effectively. The Travyon Martin murder that happened in America a short while ago is a testament to the prevailing hatred and racism that is lethal to our youth. It is our duty to protect and encourage our youngest generations. Not shoot them fatally.

In this fast-paced world flooded with even faster technology, it seems we have forgotten ourselves in the process. It seems we have forgotten our eternal connection to each other simply because we are human. In no way is this meant to preach a cliché form of world peace. But it is an invitation to be reminded of our own humanity. 

A good friend recently shared a clip of CNN’s Piers Morgan, “interviewing” Toure on the Trayvon Martin case. It became Morgan’s prerogative to assert himself as an astute, professional journalist of the CNN caliber (if there ever were such a caliber). However, this narcissistic endeavor completely dismissed the seriousness of the Martin case. Morgan, not only revealing his own self-indulgence, made a mockery of the violence that led to Trayvon Martin’s murder and failed to consider how such violence continues to destroy other young Black men in America.

An immeasurably influential professor from my alma mater would simply dismiss Morgan’s claims and in her powerful voice she would tell us, “He is irrelevant to this discussion.” While we hear these words echoing in our minds, urging us to push forward, it is still important to ask ourselves why entertainers like Piers are even given a platform on media outlets like CNN? Ignorance is in high supply and we are lapping it up like thirsty dogs. It is time we demand something more. 

Our American audiences, and world audiences at that, need to gaze with a consciousness, rather than build up a blinding residue of ignorance that veils our senses. To see things clearly and truthfully is our most formidable asset in our anti-racist movement. Instead of being marred by the recidivistic characteristics of hokey news anchors like Piers Morgan, we, like Toure, need to seek the truth. Toure reminds us that without the media, Trayvon Martin's death would have been forgotten. For him, journalists who become advocates can help America function more justly. 

Beyond journalism, we need to remember our own grassroots heritage and become advocates in our communities. In the words of one of the greatest grassroots organizers, Fannie Lou Hamer says, "Sometimes it seems to tell the truth today is to run the risk of being killed. But if I fall, I'll fall five feet four inches forward in the fight for freedom."

History never repeats itself, but it often rhymes.

Mind the Gap, Mind the Gaze.

I find myself living in the British Isles. That great land of the Queen. Of Parliament. Of constant cigarette smoke and centuries old buildings. Of English breakfasts and other such cliches that characterize the UK. I have developed extremely radical views of this country, this county and this school which I attend. Living in London, thus far, has become a form of exile for me. And I do not mean that to have any dramatic, political agenda. I say exile because, although I was not forced out of my home, I cannot yet return home. I have also been forced to refashion and reposition these notions of "home." This reformation is much different than when I was living in Ghana--when home was the current location, time, and space. I was not idealizing a land far away, I was in the land that was the ideal. Perhaps one can criticize my own romanticism of Ghana. Here, however, I am constantly thinking about home being elsewhere. In a sense, it has strengthened my Americanness. The irony. 


I was exchanging emails with a former professor of mine from UCSB, Dr. Mhoze Chikowero, about the problematic nature of SOAS. I wonder why all of my courses are being taught through a colonial/western lens? I expressed to Dr. Chikowero this terrifying curiosity that at once paralyzed me and made me want to take up arms against my former colonizers. It has been the fuel to my raging fire. I will include his entire email at the end of this wordy post, but he said something very profound, that in one sentence reframed how I view SOAS and its position in Academia. 


He told me that he had tried his luck at SOAS when looking outside for graduate school and he remembered "abruptly stopping all the communication when they told me they in fact, don't teach African ideas or history as such, but western ideas about Africa." To contextualize when I received this message, I was in the library waist deep in reading a dense (boring) article about First, Second and Third Cinema and how each layer of cinema is in dialogue with each other--they are all mutually constitutive. It is postcolonial (western) theory, though they would get mad at me for saying so. It is eurocentric in nature--the very impulse to categorize. I laughed out of relief upon receiving this message. Africa has come to rescue me out of these ideological pitfalls, by way of email. And in so doing, Dr. Chikowero has opened up a very interesting conversation. 


What do we mean by African Literature? That is the very course in which I have chosen to pursue, the very title which will be printed on my diploma--if received. However, if we are teaching through a framework of western notions, do we still get to reserve the right, the authority, to call "it" African Literature? It sounds more like cultural studies, postcolonial studies, popular (mis)representation/culture--anything but the specificity of African Literature. And what a betrayal it is, to misrepresent and mistake African Literature in such an essentialist manner. This narrative is not new to Africa and it remains a dangerous trail to embark on. 


This, of course, highlights the significance of the power of naming; how such names can either dismantle or perpetuate the colonial mission we are so adamantly against. And yet, there is a fascination, it seems, with this regime that dehumanizes people. I would argue it is directly related to the love and theft of the Black body, which has been demonized throughout history, its prime perpetrators being those of the west. So while these courses may illuminate the falsification of western representations of Africa, they fail to become anti-racist in one fundamental way. It is, at its core, obsessed with, fascinated and aroused by the idea of pain, brutality, and enslavement to the constructed sub-human. It becomes thrilling. To study African philosophy, life, culture, in a sense becomes mundane because it rejects the embodiment of the grotesque. In fact, it completely subverts the grotesque.


This goes back to our fascination with the gaze--the desire to stare at something so beastly, someone on the cusp of freak. It awakens our own primeval emotions but justifies such inhuman feelings by projecting it on to the Black body--the alien, the Other. This, however, illuminates the very anxieties expressed by eurocentrism in that it reveals the very reason why the gaze is an untrue mystification. 


Yet, the beast in us cannot help but stare.


Letters from Abroad:


Hi Lauren,

Thanks for the fulsome, tremendous response. I have just read your email again and how hilarious!! I am happy you are racing through all these knots and contrary feelings, and enjoying some of the lessons coming there from. I think a good part of what education means is getting through these kinds of quandaries and still finding your way.

I think the gaps that you are facing on courses that would matter most must allow you the independence to do your own readings the way you see them, especially as you have an advisor who is Ghanaian himself.

I tried my luck at SOAS when I was looking outside for graduate school, and I remember abruptly stopping all the communication when they told me that in fact, the don't teach African ideas or history as such, but western ideas about Africa. I was applying to do Development Studies, I think, and what the school told me struck me as quite an unreformed approach to Africa. But I hear SOAS can be a good place to do research -- they reportedly hold all these archives on Africa that I plan to explore some time.

Best,

Mhoze

Not our kind of development.

Famine poverty dirt malnutrition starvation rotting decay AIDS aid disease contagious hostile brutal uncivil tribal wars hot sun animals safari children children children flies trash pollution trees developing poor corrupt development.

I can say, with sincere certainty, that many people would most likely use these words in combination with each other to describe Africa—this great “mysterious” continent that has been in the eye of many a poet and on the maps of many explorers. The narrative is old, pedestrian and worn. We know it, the conscious few. And it dulls our sword. Let me share a narrative that dives into these images that have become so easily and widely accepted they are sterile.

The interim director at my work now shares my “home” in Cantonments. A little awkward? Perhaps. But former Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs), as is she, are very well adept to awkward moments, which really, are only moments of vulnerability. I digress. On our way “home” our conversation was becoming interesting, as she is generally an interesting human being. I expressed my curiosity for African literature and with such enthusiasm and energy she suggested a book by Ben Okri. The Famished Road. I asked her to tell me about it. The road, she says, is built across villages and while it gives new methods for communication, transportation, and the like, it takes away so much because it requires so much, it is literally famished. Ah, Mr. Okri is talking about the concept of development in Nigeria. Beautiful, I thought. Then something interesting happened in the middle of my thought, an interruption—“but not our kind of development,” she said. This reverberation of voice echoed throughout my ears. I was sitting in the back seat of the car but was certain all of Ghana had heard this statement. Not that it was said in any ridiculously loud manner—no. But it was said with such conviction, such acceptance, that it was stunning.

Not our kind of development.

I became quiet. I know how I can get—we know how I can get. I thought it best not to piss off the interim director who is so kind-hearted whilst we have to share the same house for 2 weeks. I wondered what kind of development hers was? And why was I included in it? Ours. I felt like I found myself on the wrong side of enemy territory and was now being forced to become one of their soldiers. I did not sign up for this. She automatically assumed that I agreed with or accepted “this” kind of development as truth, as good, as progress. But even to claim possession over a concept like development is very Eurocentric of “us,” isn’t it?

So here I am, sitting—stuck in this car, about to enter a house, whereby I am sure “our kind of development” will be greeting us with cookies at the front door and I am desperately wanting fufu instead. I am terrified. This is the moment I wished I read DEAD AID by Dambisa Moyo instead of falling asleep the other night for the sole purpose of spitting out some facts, some data, anything concrete that could politely dismantle her statement. These “development” people like facts. But then I realized, it didn’t matter—the facts. The truth is the truth. It will always be there.

How is one kind of development better than the other? That term in and of it is overused, overrated and just plain essentialist. I thought we knew this? I thought this discussion was becoming tiresome because we already knew? But here is the truth behind the lie: they know, the ones who seem to not know. They know that no matter how many times they wash their hands, the blood is still stained on their fingers. 

It is smog. We all see it and yet we still breathe. That would be our kind of development.

Charle, how? Charle, fresh!

I’m staring idly out the window. It’s overcast in Accra today—Mother Nature’s aftermath of a torrential rainstorm from the previous night. And I have Just A Band’s “Usinibore” on blast in my headphones—Benjamin Lebrave of Akwaaba Records introduced me to them. I’m jammin.  

Unrelenting vigor!

The past 2 weeks or so have been action packed. Well, the action mostly commences on the weekends. Such is the life of a workingwoman! Why does my spell check say workingwoman is one word? I never knew! In any event, on June 18, which was the previous Saturday, my work took on Tullow Oil in a friendly football match. I was less than friendly, however. I did a great job yelling and screaming at our opponents. I was also fantastic at jumping in pictures with sweaty footballers to make it appear as though I played with an unrelenting vigor. I have to admit, I did not touch a football the whole today. It should be noted that Tullow Oil showed up in their fancy uniforms with some fancy footwork. But we, the West Africa Trade Hub, have the Fancy Food Show—I’m serious. So they can have their fancy back! We didn’t stand a chance. We knew it. We played, anyways! Onwards and upwards my football soldiers!

After the match, I meandered around the Osu area waiting to take some newly arrived Obrunis to a fast-paced, vibrant market in Accra, Makola (and around). I managed to walk from Oxford St. to Independence Square, then the Osu Cemetery and back. It was nice to take a solo walking tour across Accra. I used to have this idea about walking across Africa. That, of course, was a microscopic taste of what it would be like. But, needless to say, it still seems like a good idea. If anyone is interested, you know where to find me!

After my tour was finished, I crashed a funeral. That’s the best segue I could come up with for this story. I was hoping there would be free food. In fact, I was told there would be free food! I later realized it was just a ploy to get me to show up. Can you imagine? And while everyone was decked out in their funeral attire, which traditionally means hand sewn fabrics crafted in combinations of black and white, black and brown or red patterns, I showed up sweaty, in football shorts and a Borderless t-shirt from the football match earlier. I am learning that life is all about timing. That was really bad timing.

The white saviors finally arrived in Osu, an agreed upon meeting point, where we would begin our market journey. They really were my saviors because they were the perfect excuse I needed to ditch the funeral. And they were white. I love irony, what can I say? The highlight of that trip was eating Waakye, pronounced waa-chay (the "ky" in Twi makes a “ch” sound in English), out of banana leaves! In all my attempts at Ghanaian immersion, I had never done that.

So, that long narrative was just one day. I still have 2 weeks to cover! Should I keep going? I think I shall. Next item on the agenda: Accra by night.

I am single, 22, and I live in Accra. This part of my life is called: go have fun! Fun, I had. This past Friday I went out with 2 girlfriends. We went out. To Monsoon, Champs and Bella Roma, specifically. All I can really say about that night is it involved lots of free drinks, too much tequila, a charismatic manager from Champs and a cleaner from the US Embassy. This can be like Madlibs, you fill in the rest.

Saturday was spent reenergizing my exhausted self. I did laundry. I am only including this tedious bit of information because I did not do it by hand. I did it in a washing machine, in the house I am staying. Did I mention I am staying in Cantonments? A very wealthy, residential area just before you reach Osu. My neighbor drives a Masarati. This is the elite of the elite. I feel a bit out of place. There is a guard who opens the taxi door for me when I come home. He turns the outdoor lights on when dusk is approaching. Just thought I’d set the scene for you.

When I think of Ghana, I picture some kind of cubist image that only has a certain number of pieces completed; and even in its completion it is not quite clear what each part could mean or represent; the possibilities become infinite, relative to space and time, they become my own interpretation and meaning. In coming back, every experience I have here becomes an opportunity to make the image whole. My time here is cubist, in a way. There is a plethora of possibilities to be perceived and received. The 2009 Lauren-in-Ghana would throw up if she found out the 2011 Lauren-in-Ghana was living in Cantonments. But I am after that image of wholeness, the organized confusion that makes you think and delve into a deeper level of self. Cantonments is another part of the whole. Put simply, we cannot essentialize a country to one experience, one moment in time, one trip. By we I mean myself. So, that’s “On Living in Cantonments!”

Benjamin and myself, the djembe apprentice!

Then there was Sunday. As in yesterday. I invited myself to help my friend make drums, djembe drums specifically, at his shop in the Art Center. The Art Center is this interesting craft market behind Tema Station. It’s known for its aggressive vendors, but if you can stick it out you will find that most of these people are very interesting and more than willing to take you under their crafty wing. So, that’s what I did. I thought I’d be able to make a drum. That’s not exactly how it went. Benjamin, one of the apprentices (by the end of the day everyone nearby called me apprentice, too), had me double weaving a ring that would be placed at the top of the drum to hold it in place. What he made in 10 minutes took me almost 2 hours. 

Of course, I am a little less focused when there is hiplife music playing and did more dancing than working. But the point was, I was there! I thought this would be a good idea...

Gives new meaning to "green" transportation.

...And it was until the guy pushing me did not hesitate to trek up a small, rocky passageway that led out of the market to the main road. After my very hard work and sweat, I produced two rings. Clearly, I am a great asset to their shop. Not. But they rewarded me anyways. Edmond, Kwaku, and Benjamin had a jam session with a total of 7 drums. For me! Okay and for their own enjoyment because they really looked like they were in a state of transcendence when they played. Why wouldn’t you be, though? Those drums are powerful, bold, and willful. You do what it tells you to do. It usually will tell you to dance.

Edmond, Kwaku, Benjamin!

In their moment of spirituality, I realized how incredible the day had been. It never gets old—meeting people and forging genuine connections with them. It always breathes a new sense of vitality into me. This is what I love. Finding new ways to interact with people. To challenge yourself, to be afraid to push yourself, but to do it anyways. So we were feeling irie, as Kwaku says, and in the spirit of Jah, we went to feed the gateway to our souls: our stomachs! On our trek to get something to eat, however, I came across a bar that overlooked the coast. They served palm wine. Kwaku wanted to get irie, I was going to give him irie. We drank palm wine out of a calabash. Danced small small. Laughed plenty plenty. 

Benjamin and our irie friend, palm wine!

We finally discovered a chop bar with food, which is hard to find in Ghana on a Sunday. Went back to the shop with our black plastic bags filled with rice, stew and fish and chopped with our hands. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end so glamorously. That food has made the bathroom at my work and me best friends. But it shall be well, because in Ghana, it always is.

In the very profound words of the Jamaican dancehall and reggae artist, Demarco, I love my life.

Life is a blur when you're having fun!

Sankofa.

I have so much to say about everything that has been going on but alas, when I finally sit down to formally write about it, I draw blanks. I think that's very telling, actually. How can I sit down to write about Ghana? I mean, of course, I can and I do. But you know, thinking more analytically it just seems so essentialist. But then again, if words cannot accurately portray my trip here, I need to build a larger repetoire. Okay and get a dictionary to learn how to spell repertoire. I am rambling...

Gwynne, Myself, Ralph, Andrew and Issa at the Gran Marche in Lome, Togo!

It's been about two months (eek!) since I have tried to write in this blog-thing. I took a trip out of the country to this small sliver of a land known as TOGO. I'll put it in caps so you can actually SEE it. It was oh, my fourth time there. It was pretty incredible to go back and visit the people I met back in 2009. I was so amazed at their memory, at my memory! I've said before (on facebook, hehe) that sometimes it is better to go back than to go somewhere new. In going back, we often find new ways of viewing, seeing, interpreting and making meaning of this world. Perhaps that is why we travel. No, that IS why we travel. 


I've noticed something interesting that has been occurring. Well, this is rather introspective but I have become more lenient with things that say, in 2009, I would pick a fight about. For example, arguing over 50 pesewas or even 1 Ghana Cedi seems like a waste of my time. Is this change (pun intended)? Or lethargy after a hard working day? I can't decide but I find it odd because I was definitely the obnoxious obruni (OO) who would fight with the mate over 5 pesewas--yes that really happened, and often. Can you imagine? 


About work. I know I have briefly mentioned this before. I take 3 trotros to get to my office. THREE. That's impressive. I catch a troski from Presec Junction down the road from my hostel that takes me to Madina Station, a grand total of 30p. It should be noted that Madina is about 20 minutes in the opposite direction of where I need to go. From there, I take a shared taxi or trotro to 37 station, whereby I board my third and final car to the grand center of Osu. When I tell my Ghanaian friends this story (I animate with the "o!" and "hei!" and plenty plenty hand gesticulations) they laugh and say "Hei! Charle you have to go back in order to go forward?" I appreciate their laughter, they somehow understand my pain! I reply nonchalantly with, "Charle this be Ghana o! I go back to go forward. You call that Sankofa here. Sometimes, it is necessary." It's true o! So, even on my way to work, or my trek to work, Sankofa is here. The past is forever colliding with the present, forcing us to remember histories we wish to brush aside in order to see a new future. Africa is pretty cyclic, isn't it?

One Month Later...

Hello everyone! I hope this message finds you all well. I finally got around to being proactive about purchasing some wireless internet in my room here and decided to send out an update. 

I have been in Ghana for exactly one month now (already?). Time seems to be going by so slow and fast at once, which is kind of confusing. But, that's life here. I live in a student hostel, Evandy, with two other Ghanaian girls. I travel from Legon to Osu, the cosmopolitan center of Accra. The traffic is bad paaa! I have to take one shuttle from Evandy to the main gate of campus where I catch a trotro to 37 station. From there I pick my final car to Osu. I stay in an office most of the day, so I do not really feel like I am IN Ghana. I feel like I am IN this office. This is life after college, eh? E no be easy, but e go be (pray).

Tomorrow I will travel to Aburi (I hope), to work on some plot of land. It will be nice to get out of Accra for a few days. Oh! I should elaborate on my work small small. We hosted a Global Shea Conference here in Accra to put shea on the map as far as it being the solution to ending "poverty" and promoting industry. Of course, this idea of poverty is problematic. Not to say it does not exist but its root cause is not the west usually dissects. Of course, that is my own thinking. A side note, I met people from South Sudan at this conference--the newest country in the world! That was such a great moment. South Sudan, we are rooting for you!

Burkina Faso is having some issues with their government--they will be okay though, the people are speaking. That is what I have noticed here, or what has been reinforced. There is an inherent consciousness that cannot, will not, be broken. One of the many reasons I love Ghana. However, it seems like every country surrounding Ghana is going through some kind of governmental change. So, Africa in general and West Africa in particular is an interesting place to be right now!

Coming back to a country for the second time is pretty remarkable. I am still amazed that I can walk to campus and people actually remember who I am and the things we used to speak about. I forgot I had a life here, I immersed myself here. To return to that is refreshing. At the same time, I have learned a valuable lesson. We think the grass is always greener and sometimes, it is not. I am learning now to accept things as they are and as they come and to enjoy the moment I have in the present, rather than worrying about the past or what lies ahead. In other words, I miss my home, I miss UCSB, but all of this is to be expected. Chimamanda Adichie says that "you travel to search and you come back home to find yourself there." This holds so much truth. 

So many things have happened but I cannot really recall everything at this moment--go figure. But I am here learning, growing, reflecting, adapting. I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I'll leave you with a short story:

A few days ago on my way to work, I was walking to 37 station--a very busy trotro station. In the street, traffic was zooming but came to a  sudden standstill (as it normally does). I heard my name being called, so I turned. It was a friend from 2009, a Ghanaian student, sitting in the passenger side of a trotro. He said to me "I thought you were joking about coming back to Ghana!" And there I was, standing in the middle of traffic telling him, "No, Eric, I came back. I'm back!" 

Sankofa--go back and fetch from the past.

Let's see what else unfolds. Sending you all lots of love and happiness! I miss you!

Yebehyia,

Abena

The Second Coming

Good evening from Accra, Ghana! So, after much anticipation I finally made my way back to this place, you know... home. The past 7 days have been extremely hectic and exhausting but so wonderful.

I will call this trip my second coming. It's interesting coming back to a place for the second time. Most people take the initiative to travel to other places, without paying notice to the richness in coming BACK to the same place at a different time. I think that you can travel around the world, and we should, I wish to, but that does not necessarily mean we will know the world. I want to know people. So, I am settled in Accra, which I did not have the opportunity to do last time I was here. Everything in Ghana has changed, yet it has stayed the same. For instance, a trotro from Osu to Legon used to be 60 pesewas, it is now 80 pesewas thanks to the rising fuel costs. Pure water is 10 pesewas instead of 5. It still feels like the Ghana I left in 2009, but it is so profoundly distinct. Life has continued without us EAP kids from way back when. But, nevertheless, it feels good to be back.

Work began as soon as possible and I was thrust into planning the Global Shea Conference 2011, put on by the West Africa Trade Hub where we are launching the Global Shea Alliance. This is a huge conference, about 400 people from all over West Africa are coming to Accra to attend. This includes the Vice President of Ghana. The goal is to create a platform for shea, as it has become such a stronghold for creating environmental sustainability and subsequently, it has increased business productivity in a huge way. They call this the multiplier effect. That is, shea and its byproducts (shea butter, etc) are mostly produced by women in West Africa. These women then sell to investors and with that money they reinvest back into their community, or they save it. This is like striking gold. Unfortunately, many governments are not so convinced, so it is WATH's aim as well as the Alliance to prove how shea has developed business throughout West Africa. That's a small update on what I am currently working on.

I lived in Osu for a little while but most of my friends stay at UG (campus). So, I moved to an off campus hostel called Evandy. I share a room with two other Ghanaian girls who are Level 400 (4th year students). They told me last night they really wanted to try apple pie. Isn't that funny? Out of all the things... apple pie. That sounds really good right now, actually.

Ghana, Ghana, Ghana, thank you for embracing me all over again.

More updates/photos to come!

Peace.