Monday, 8/25/97 Vacation reveals racism abroad, home RACISM:
African American student finds African pride in world travels
One night at the age of seven, I asked my grandmother why white
people hated us so much. She answered that God only knew. Suddenly
a rush of fear flooded my body and I hesitantly asked, "Are we
hated all over the world?" My grandmother had traveled extensively
and filled my mind with the wonder of worlds beyond our own vast
States. My grandmother sighed at my question and answered "yes."
However, she must have noticed my despair because she made a quick
appendage: "Well, racism exists everywhere, but we are not always
the hated people. For example, in England people hate the East
Indian community, and in France people hate North Africans." From
my personal experience, my grandmother’s response would have been
complete when she answered "yes," for African Americans are hated
all over the world. Traveling in Europe as an African American has
been a troubling but eye-opening experience. As I travel, each new
country further defines the dichotomy of my culture as an African
American. I am first received by the world as an African. Once my
American nationality is established, I am confronted with disbelief
because my passive disposition contrasts the loud aggressive
stereotypes about Americans. Next, I am often confronted with
disbelief, because I don’t fit the violent portrayals of African
Americans. My experiences in Europe sharply contrast the warmth and
graciousness I was greeted with in Ghana, West Africa, on my first
trip abroad. I started to understand the distinctions between the
dual nature of my identity as an African American. Africa was the
first place that I realized that I am an African, if not to myself,
then to my society. The humidity of Ghana came to feel like a womb
protecting me from the abrasive nature of racism. I experienced
life as a member of the majority for the first time. Ghanaian
culture put many of my cultural mannerisms into a relevant context.
From the head rolling, finger snapping intonations of African
women, to identical folk tales that my Ashanti boyfriend started
and I finished, this country represents an uncelebrated part of my
heritage. It was the first time I was defined as an American. Amid
the "welcome home" greetings, when my nationality was revealed, I
was in demand as a source of stories about the States and American
money. The next year I went to visit my Ghanaian boyfriend in
London. It was winter and the people were as cold and pale as the
weather. I love theater, so London was a convenient place to visit,
hampered only by racism and the weather. My experiences in London
further defined my international African status, as I was treated
like a West African immigrant. The story was the same there as it
is here: the old women clutched their purses when we walked by,
people were hard pressed to sit next to us on the underground, and
the guards in Harrod’s had all eyes on us. When people heard my
American accent in London, their attitudes usually changed. I was
cheerfully accepted as an exotic. If it weren’t for my boyfriend, I
wondered why I, or any other African American, would waste money in
a racist land, when race is not an issue on the diverse and
beautiful continent of Africa. I skipped spring quarter to see
Paris in full bloom. I have always enjoyed the flamboyant French
attitude until I felt the sting of its ruthless jilt. In the spring
on ’95 Paris was wrought with a conservative plague that was
particularly anti-immigrant. There are many African immigrants in
Paris. Although I was unfairly mistaken as one, I identified with
West African immigrants. I felt that Paris was reaping what France
sowed during colonialism. I was accosted by several men cursing my
blackness. I also met some very cultured, intelligent, genteel
people in Paris, but my overwhelming confrontation with racial
insults was shocking in a city that is meant to be a cultural
mecca. My identity as an African was confirmed by my daily Metro
experiences. I could understand just enough French to translate
mothers explaining to their children that "black" and "nigger" mean
the same thing. American nationality was not an asset in Paris. In
Milano, I was touched by the warmth of the Italian people, the
fresh bread and the colorful character of their wine and cheese,
but they are not immune to the virus of racism. The racist bark of
Italians is worse than their bite. Italians like to talk. And so
they did, unabashedly sizing me up while they bitterly discussed
African immigration. One day, as I rode the bus, a little boy
decided my hair must be fake. As he announced this at the top of
his lungs, the whole bus turned around to take a closer look and
cracked up laughing at the idea. There I was, stuck on a bus with
jeering Italian passengers. I understood enough of the language to
know that they were insulting me, yet not enough to articulate an
intelligent response. Luckily there has been an African community
in each of the European cities that I have visited to help me find
my way around and to add a little humanity to my experience in
Europe. I have enjoyed the historic sites and exquisite
architecture of European cities, but their social edict leaves much
to be desired in the way of civilization. I realize the importance
of celebrating my African heritage. In my traveling experience the
world has helped me to define myself as an African independent of
being an American, and I am at peace with the dichotomy of my
culture. Adjoa Middleton