I told myself that no matter what I saw I wouldn’t cry. That Friday afternoon I mentally prepared myself to approach a place flooded with harrowing memories of a dark past–not of my own, but of ancestors that I’ll never know. I felt the presence of millions of men and women–all of them connected to me because of the lineage we share. Bodies and souls stripped from their native land and subjected to more than 400 years of forced labor intertwined with despair and death. Captured, chained, and exploited to build a New World that I today call my homeland—America.
I always knew America was built on the browbeaten backs of my ancestors. I understood the toil of centuries past. I was fully aware of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, having read several history books in my day and having heard stories from the mouths of my parents who made it their duty to make their daughter aware of her past, no matter how dark. Knowledge of one’s history spun from the pages of books and the tongues of men is telling. But seeing the traces of a bruised and battered history is even more powerful.
Just off the coast of West Africa lies a place in Ghana overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The destination—the Cape Coast Castle, is now a tourist attraction. I watch as mostly foreigners walk to and fro, cameras in stow looking for the best angle to catch a glimpse of something strikingly beautiful to send along with the post cards they’ll send to their family, friends, and colleagues back home. Yes, the Cape Coast Castle! Oh, what a majestic sight for a tourist’s eyes to navigate. The pentagon shaped ivory colored structure covering about 3,900ms captivates all those who look upon her. The large triangular courtyard faces seaward giving rise to a stunning ocean view which centuries ago was where slaves were auctioned and branded before being placed in their dungeons. Despite the aesthetic visage of the castle, I look at it in disdain because the atrocities that took place here cannot be excused. The way the sunlight hits the castle attempts to eradicate the stark sadness that still permeates the premises. But I know better. There isn’t a light bright enough to deluge the despair that can still be felt within these walls even after all this time. With each step I take, my feet touch the solid rock surface and I envision the souls of my people. Their feet planted in this very same spot where I now stood. The only difference—my soul would be free once I left the premises, while the souls of my ancestors were trapped. Their footprints that I see as I walk are the remnants of a tragic past.
The tour guide, a Ghanaian male probably in his late 20s gives me and several other students a brief history of the darkness that at one time covered the Cape Coast Castle. The look in his eyes as he recounts the misery of millions upon millions of my ancestors is at times unbearable to witness. The male and female dungeons are deep, dark tunnels in the castle with one way in and one way out, symbolizing the entrapment that was the life of a slave. As I travel through the female slave dungeon I feel the coldness of the pain endured there long ago. Each dungeon had one air vent and opposite each vent was a spy hole, which enabled slave masters to supervise their captives. The walls of the castle were built with lime and sand, allowing the moisture to penetrate the walls evaporating inside to cool down the rooms’ temperature and whitewash the castle as it reflected heat into the air.
In this claustrophobic space where hundreds of women at a time laid their heads to rest, ate (very little), and relieved themselves, the stench of blood, sweat, and feces is an aroma one wants to forget, but cannot because it still lingers. The stains of blood spilled also remain. When sickness ensued as a result of these appalling conditions, the death toll increased. Awaiting shipment to the New World, the only daylight the slaves saw were the few minutes they spent on the courtyard for labor and exercise.
Inside the dungeons men and women were treated like savages. And those that showed resistance—their fate was gloomier. When I was led there, the vision was heartbreaking. When I entered what the tour guide referred to as “the cell,” my tears could not be withheld. Slaves were transported in shackles from their dungeons and pushed into this black hole of silence. In isolation, those that were forced into the cell waited to die from starvation or the lash—whichever came first. The silence and darkness of the cell was so much to bear that some even slowly went blind. Once they were dead or near death they were discarded into the Atlantic, their bodies washed away for eternity. With no knowledge of what conditions awaited them in the New World and frustrated with life in the dungeons, some slaves saw suicide as an escape. The plunge into the sea for many was like entering the gates of heaven. The sour taste of tears dripping downward, reaching the corner of my mouth made my head swell with pain. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. I had to stay in this moment to truly take in all that had happened in the cell. I stood motionless, a solemn look in my eyes as the tour guide said a prayer for all those that had passed on.
As I left the grounds of the castle that Friday afternoon, I realized I had an overwhelmingly emotional experience that I couldn’t clearly convey into words. Like I said before, I was well aware of what happened centuries ago. But the moments I spent inside the castle allowed me to internally feel the pain of the strife my ancestors endured. Maybe it was the imagery or maybe it was just the aura of the place still infested with sadness and turmoil. Whatever it was, it encompassed my entire being that afternoon. It created a storm in my heart as tears fell and my body weakened. Entering the grounds of the Cape Coast Castle was like entering a realm of darkness. For them it was hell because there was no turning back. For me it was only dark territory. And I was relieved to escape and see the light, unlike those from generations past.
• 11:17 pm 0
Class is In Session…And So Are Stereotypes
I’ve been enrolled at courses at the University of Ghana for over two months now and as expected I’ve noticed some differences between higher education here and higher education at my home institution back in America. The workload is not as heavy and many of the classes are pretty laid-back, meaning that some students can still successfully pass their classes without always coming to class. The teaching style relies heavily on the lecture. Students take notes, many times writing down the professors’ lecture word-for-word. Class discussions are minimal and at times nonexistent.
Usually one will find his or herself listening to the professor lecture every week and then at the culmination of the semester a final exam will be administered. However, even I have enough sense to recognize that each professor is different and that what is expected of students in one class differs from the next. Which is why I was absolutely appalled by the generalizations one of my African-American literature professors made who is a visiting professor from an Ivy League institution in the U.S.
Before getting to what she said, I’ll explain the dynamics of the class on that Monday afternoon. The class was assigned several texts to read from Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes. Unlike most of my courses, this particular course is comprised of mostly international students. Now I’m not sure whether or not my colleagues were unaware there was an assignment or if they just assumed they could wing it. Whatever the case was, as soon as the professor announced that we would be having a class discussion on the readings that day, about 5 or 6 American students abruptly left the classroom. Their excuse: they didn’t read and therefore weren’t prepared to participate in the discussion. Now of course, my professor had briefly left the room so she did not see them leave.
When the professor returned to the classroom to begin class she asked the remaining handful of students, “where is everyone today? It looks like there are a lot of American students out today.” No one said a word. I for one wasn’t going to because I’ve never been one to rat anyone out.
We started class and the professor asked a Ghanaian male student a question about Hurston’s work. The student looked puzzled and couldn’t answer the question. “Have you done the reading?” the professor asked the student. Still no response from the student. “Look, it’s a yes or no question. Have you read or not?” the professor said in a condescending tone. The student finally responded, saying he hadn’t read the assignment. “You see how easy that was. Now you’re not wasting our time,” she said crossly. Embarrassed, the student sulked in his seat and was silent for the remainder of the class. She continued calling on different students to see if they had read. In this particular case it turned out that most of the American students had read and the Ghanaian students hadn’t.
Clearly the professor was annoyed that so many of her students weren’t prepared for her class, which is understandable. But, the statements she made next were what I had a problem with. “So have any of you actually done the reading? I know what the problem is. I know the Ghanaian students aren’t used to actually being expected to do their assignments. You’re used to having the lecturer lecture and that is all. Well, in America we are expected to complete our reading assignments and as a matter of fact we have something in America called pop quizzes and if I want to, I can give the class one next time to make sure that you’re reading. That’s true isn’t it that Ghanaian professors don’t ever call on students because they don’t expect them to have read, is that right.”
Clearly the professor was implying that it wasn’t a coincidence that all the Ghanaian students weren’t prepared for class that day. Apparently, Ghanaian students are used to having lower academic expectations. They’re not expected to work hard, the professor thought.
As the class continued, she referred Changes, by Ama Ata Aidoo, a Ghanaian author. She asked if anyone had read the novel before. I was the only one in the class that had read the book. And this was in my opinion an coincidence. I had only read the book because I had taken a global women writer’s literature course back in America. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have come across it otherwise. Some of the Ghanaian students told the professor that they were familiar with some of Aidoo’s poetry, but not the novels. The professor made it seem as if they should have read the book, especially since they are Ghanaian. “How could you have not read that novel. I’m really surprised at that! So when will you get to that,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
In reading this one may not think what the professor said was bad at all, but if one thinks about it one will realize that she was making generalizations about Ghanaian students, which is unacceptable and offensive. Imagine I am a student from an HBCU who is studying for a semester a predominantly white college. I am the only student who hasn’t read the assignment and the professor decides to attribute that to my HBCU education for which I’ve always been given low expectations (which isn’t true of course, but nevertheless what some people assume). I feel as though many people, my professor included would cry racism if this scenario unfolded. And they’d be right, wouldn’t they?
The professor insinuated that Ghanaian students were used to lower expectations in the classroom, which is definitely a generalization. What bothered me the most about the situation was that the professor had no idea that just minutes before her tirade, American students cut the class because they weren’t prepared. So this whole time she is putting American students on a pedestal and talking down to Ghanaian students as if they are somehow naturally used to not taking the classroom seriously. If the American students who were unprepared had stayed in the class, instead of cutting, the professor would have realized that being unprepared for class is not a Ghanaian thing at all. It’s a personal thing. Some students choose to do their work, some don’t. Some don’t show up for class at all. It’s that simple. It really is.
Now I’m pretty sure the professor didn’t think even for a second that she was out of line with the statements she made. Not only were her comments hurtful to Ghanaian students, but they also placed American students in a superior light, which should not be the case. American students are no more studious or conscientious than Ghanaian students.
Students no matter where they hail are all different and should be judged individually, not as a group. Generalizing groups of people should never be tolerated, especially in an academic environment. And this particular generalization coming from an American just further confirms the stereotype that Americans think they are better than everyone else, which is a stereotype we as Americans shouldn’t want to fulfill.
Filed under: Culture & Commentary , Academia, Americans, College, Culture, essay, Ghana, literature, Stereotypes, University of Ghana, West Africa