Think Cultural appropriation’s bad? Try Cultural misappropriation and see how the hell you feel! How “Come by ya” became “Kumbaya,” and other white fuckery

This, is a serious nit I need to pick, more with my Black Fam than white folk (since stealing and distorting our culture often, and even with our help, is the norm — especially these days). But you guys? You non-boulé folk who’ve not been compromised? SOME of you should know, or at least learn better. And the rest of y’all boulé folk — cut this shit out!

“Come By Ya” (in the Gullah patois of my birth) is in NO WAY a feel-good, folk “camp song” born of some African language (well it wasn’t until white folk chose to steal and rework it that way, that is) — nor is it this JOKE of a touchy-feely, white misappropriation they like to throw around, based on their own white fuckery.

“Come By Ya” was a F*CKIN’ LAMENT of the enslaved Black folk of the Georgia and South Carolina Sea Islands. It was a pained entreaty, a cry for help — TO.WHITE.JESUS (with whom they’d been deeply indoctrinated) — for spiritual, physical and emotional rescue, from the HORRORS inflicted upon them by those same Bible-thumpin’, so-called Christian, white folk, who’d brought them to Him in the first place!

I’m here to tell you Fam — indoctrination soaked in naked terror really works!

 I was born and raised in Charleston, SC 66 seasons ago. My family are Gullah people born & raised on Edisto Island, a Sea Island not far from the city proper. My maternal grandmother and grandfather were born in 1908 and 1913 respectively. And from her Black Methodist church, to his Black Baptist church, I learned this old, Negro spiritual at both their knees, led by the oldest member of the congregation — my entire, damned life!

The last time I heard and sang it, was at my younger, first cousin, Rhonda’s funeral in January 2018. Held at my grandfather’s church on the Island (at which Mother Emanuel’s new pastor, Rev. Eric C.S. Manning spoke), it was appropriately, the Benediction selection because at that moment, we were all “singin’, cryin’ and needin’ rescue and relief from the pain her death wrought. I remember thinking to myself, “These damed folk, with no damned knowledge of how we, the descendants of formerly enslaved people lived and believed, had bastardized something that for us, meant a soothing — a Balm in Gilead.”

I’ve long since stopped believing in white Jesus but, I’ll NEVER stop loving those spirituals that, over my lifetime, have always made me feel whole and connected to my people.

As usual though, white folk keep trying to take credit for “discovering it” (like that lost-assed Christopher Columbus) or in fact, writing it. From the Library of Congress (please do click on the player and listen to the 1926 song, sung by Henry Wylie of Darien, GA of McIntosh County) and as you read, notice where this white guy claims he got this from):

Kumbaya: History of an Old Song

I am so sick and damned tired of white folk’s first, appropriation, then misappropriation of something that means the world to me. And worse, I’m equally sick and tired of supposedly “educated” Black folk using “Kumbaya” in the same way! Our stories and voices have long been stolen and used to fit the white gaze, so much so that even Black folk don’t have a damned clue of the origins of the words they speak, let alone their meanings and their history— even though we should! But, as Zora taught, “All my skinfolk ain’t my kinfolk.” 

Since the days of slavery, White supremacy hates the not-knowing (which is why the MAGA folk always blow their tops when they hear someone speaking a language they don’t know). And while it’s mostly true the slavers erased our languages and forbade us to speak them, they were sh*t out of luck when it came to my Gullah/Geechee people of the Sea Islands of SC and GA. And because they were SOL, we had Harriett Tubman, Denmark Vesey and The Stono Rebellion just to name a few. But they’re hip to it now and, as usual, under the guise of “helping” (that whole “White Savior” thing) they’ve got a plan to make sure it never happens again. Hell, even Yale’s got their fingers in the Gullah honeypot!

Ava, Ava, Ava -- "Queen Sugar" just f*cked me the hell up! -- Pt. 1

"Inseparable" -- how I always want authentic Black women to be!

For a myriad of reasons, it's been a few years since I've watched American Idol.  So you can imagine my surprise and delight in stumbling upon it last night, to not only find that my beautiful, "homegirl," Candice Glover -- had won the whole shebang!!

And unlike the Changeling and his "homeboy," Lincoln -- I'm certain it's safe for me to say that we are not just from the same place, we are of that place, sharing in a collection of innate life experiences and "systems of reality" (as James Baldwin put it) unique to our existences in that place (I'm homesick y'all, can you tell?). This young sister, like my family, is from one of the Sea Islands of South Carolina, all of which (along with those in North Carolina, Georgia and Florida), continue to struggle mightily to preserve our West African heritage through the Gullah and Geechee cultures.  I'm not at all surprised at this young woman's voice, because I know "from whence it came."

Candice, as I'm sure everyone in St. Helena and Beaufort are -- I am so damned proud of you (Whitney lives on, Sister) and your stick-to-it-tiveness!  Hope this is the start of our hearing and having some more great singers, and more great music like you shared throughout the show -- before I drop dead (and yes, I went to YouTube today and listened to all of her performances for the entire show)!

But wait y'all!  Here's the absolutely wonderful icing on the cake -- this, soulful, double-dose of sweet, young, Black womanhood:



Jennifer:  "Sang Candice!" -- I swear, homegirl took me back home to those incredibly, powerful Black choirs, in churches all across the South with those two little words!  And "sang" Candice did!


(P.S. Screw you, Simon Cowell!)

Being on the "right" side of history and humanity matters to me...

I've followed Black Agenda Report for some time now.  The first reason?  Clear and critical thinking that has always confirmed for me that -- I was not alone.  Second?  That I wasn't losing my damned mind being against the Changeling and his ilk from the get-go.

Not saying I wasn't initially hoodwinked and bamboozled by the only viable, "female" contender for a minute -- cuz I was (chalk that up to the fact that Cynthia McKinney, for whom I voted in 2008, was so Angry-Black-Woman-demonized, she didn't stand a chance and, to my having experienced more than my share of "long-legged Mac Daddies" (as my sister, Sugar used to call the Changeling back in the day -- Sugar, where in the hayell are you??) than the law allowed.

Look, I feel this mixed little boy's confusion, raised by his white mother's half of the family while not looking like them (let's not forget their connection to the Geithner family, m'kay?), with no connection to his African-ness other than his name and a Black wife, with South  Carolina, Gullah roots.  I even  get how having a white grandmama who clutched her purse and pearls when Black folk (who looked like him!) approached, would make him feel that being accepted, adored and written about by white America made him feel more important than being truly humane, like Dr. King (whom he channels whenever necessary), honest -- and Black.  I also get how he needed to feel powerful, important, relevant and most importantly, accepted in these alleged, united states -- by any means necessary (his only connection to Malcolm, please hear me).

But what I don't get is -- notwithstanding all of his "lookin' like us" shit  -- why WE don't, as young sister Lauryn sang,  "Rebel" against the Trojan Horse, megalomaniacal puppetry in which he indulges.

Not casting aside the many, critically thinking others in the following video, I have to say that Kali Akuno and Abayomi Azikiwe, both, have it exactly right in this great compilation of facts.  Family please -- do listen, and maybe learn a thing or two:

A "Homegoing" - Part 5a: Neocolonialism and Juffureh

I'd initially included "neo-colonialism" in the title for this piece but, with all the current examples of European and American, wink-and-a-nod R2P policies (encompassing regime change, to include out and out murder - and bragging about it {smdh}); the continued land-grabbing in Africa; and The shadow war in Syria (all which have transpired since Part 4!), I figured belaboring that point would've been moot.

So instead, I thought I'd do a Part 5(a), sharing some more "being there" and then, closing with my trip to Juffureh.  And then - because this post is already wa-a-ay long (Yeah, you might want to read it in shifts or something.  If nothing else, do, at least watch the slide show at the end!), I'll do a retrospective of The Center in Part 5(b).

Again, my apologies for leaving you hanging.  But as I said before, "Life just keeps happening!"

~#~

Leaving the LAICO

I made a beeline to the shower after my day at the rice farm and got ready for dinner.  Since Gerald had called, saying they'd be picking me up at check-out time the next day, I figured I'd pack my stuff, and spend the evening saying my goodbyes to those who'd made my introduction to The Gambia such a meaningful experience during my short stay at the LAICO Atlantic.

Stopping by Ibrahim, the sand-painter's table after eating, I got a huge hug and a promise to make me something "beau-ti-ful" on my next trip.  Laughing, I told him there'd definitely be a "next trip," so I was holding him to that (and expecting a  second-timer's discount!).

Heading toward my room, I saw Bintou ("but everybody calls me Mama") setting up the lobby bar.  I couldn't just say goodbye to this young sister, because for the short time I was there, she was - in so many delightful ways - one of those "archetypal dreams" of that "temple of my familiar."  So instead, I decided to sit and have a drink and talk.

One drink became two, then two became three as we talked and laughed about our families; our birth order (Bintou is the name given the youngest daughter and I'm the youngest daughter too); foods we liked (I already told ya'll, I love me some rice!  But I also like boiled peanuts and sweet potatoes - both of which my Grandmama grew in South Carolina and, are locally grown in The Gambia; what we each wanted to be when we grew up (What? I still have dreams!) and music - the rhythms of which we both agreed came first, then the words.  For all that "distance created, created deliberately" which continues to render our circumstances decidedly different - it was apparent that we were the ones, "more alike than we were unalike."

Then - I heard the music start in the club next to the bar.  Mama and I looked toward the door, then back at each other - and burst out laughing!  Draining my glass, I said,  "Hell, check-out's not 'til noon!  I think a little leg-shakin's in order!  Flashing that beautiful smile, she said, "I'm on til midnight or I'd go wit you!"  We hugged, promised to stay in touch and in I went.

I walked through the doors, surveyed the landscape and immediately spotted Ansumana dancing.  I'd met this young brother working the evening shift the day I arrived.  He'd said then - "Just remember 'handsome' and you'll remember my name!"  Crackin' the hell up, I asked, "Has that line ever worked for you??  Smiling broadly, he just slowly shook his head up and down like my youngest does - when the answer is absolute.  Witnessing the veritable stream of European women offering to buy him drinks and pulling him to the dance floor - I had no reason to doubt him.

He'd been a font of information since I got there, suggesting places in Banjul I should see; telling me how other parts of the country compared to the capital; schooling me about local reactions to, and interactions with, foreigners - especially foreign women (priceless, dead-on info, I promise you!).

I went over and plopped down on a stool at the bar and ordered a Guinness (thought I'd switch from the drinks I'd been having so I could be sure to get my old ass up in the morning - bad idea).  When Ansumana came off the dance floor, he took the stool next to me. I knew he'd worked earlier that day, so I asked why he was still there.  He said whenever he had the breakfast shift the next day, he'd just stay over in Banjul rather than going home to his village.  "Tonight though, my job is lookin' out for you my Sistah, he said laughing.  "Cuz trust - dese guys in here watchin' you!"

To throes of laughter from the bartender, I shot back, "Hell, no need for them to be watchin' me!  I'm old enough to be all their Mamas!  And besides, there's plenty women in here!"  Then Ansumana said, "But Sistah, you different from dem, You Black - and American!"

Asking what that had to do with anything, he said, "First of all, cuz we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here - at least not until the Roots Festival.  And second, you Blacks in America, you know how to fight for your rights - and win!"  I felt an uneasy sense of shame at his first observation, and while deeply humbled by the second, all I could think was, "Yeah, we used to."

I got this email from Mariatou after I'd returned, confirming his first observation:
Hi Deborah how are you doing, greetings from Gerald to you and my family...an how is the weather there? say hi to your husband an your boys for me, i miss you so much...the festival have started since last Sunday and a lot of black Americans are around, Luciano and some musician from Senegal, i wish you are around to witness a real roots festival. i will keep in touch with you thanks a lot bye for now...(She also told me they'd renamed James Island, now calling it, "Kunta Kinteh Island" during the festival)

Ansumana's, "...we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here" hit me somewhere deeply.  Silent for a moment, I mulled over why I'd taken more than 50 years to finally get there. In the spirit of Baldwin's "do your first works over" - I had to own that, growing up, and for a very long time after, I'd not only believed a lot of the stories fed me by my country about this continent, I'd also internalized the negative thoughts and feelings that had come along with them (divide-and-conquer seeds, perfectly sown).

My reverie was interrupted by the sound of bottles hitting the bar in front of me.  The bartender had given us another round and they were waiting on me for a toast.  Clicking our bottles, we toasted my "coming home" - and I have to say, it felt pretty damned good.  The three of us talked and laughed the night away over quite a few more bottles of Guinness.  And as the DJ put on the last song of the night, Ansumana jumped off his stool with a smile and a sweeping, "Madame...?"

A sucker for that "Madame" thing since I first heard it in the Banjul airport, I hopped off my stool and went out on the dance floor to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean.  I remember saying aloud (to no one in  particular), "Yes, a little leg-shakin is always good for the soul - especially to Mike!"  I'm old-er, what can I say?!

When the music stopped and the lights came on, he walked me to the hallway leading to my room, saying to call him once I got to the new hotel - so he could show me the nightlife in Senegambia (which according to him, was way better than Banjul).  I put his number in my phone and promised I would.  Once I started exploring though, I never got a chance to call, nor sample the Senegambia nightlife!

On to Bakau

The three Sidekicks were there on the dot at check-out to pick me up the next day.  I'd totally slept through my 10 a.m. wake-up call (like I said - switching to beer was a bad idea!).  Instead, it was the annoying and incessant ring I'd assigned to Gerald on my cell phone that woke me.  He was saying something about being just around the corner.  Figuring they'd arrive before I could shower and get dressed, I ran into the bathroom, made the sign-of-the-cross, brushed my teeth and threw on a sun-dress.

On the drive from Banjul to Bakau, I kept asking Gerald questions about the hotel.  Finally, he said, "Oh Deborah, don't worry, you will love this hotel!"  And he was right.  From the time we pulled up to the Ocean Bay Hotel Resort (located directly across the street from the U.N. building), to the day that I left - I not only loved this hotel - but I loved the people who worked there as well!

As we piled out of the car, the bellman greeted Gerald as if he were an old friend (which he indeed was, having stayed there for many months on end, for a few years).  Following him in, I noticed an enlarged replica of the photo on the right, prominently displayed on an easel outside the front door.  Curious, I asked what it was and what it meant.

He explained the statue stood on the island of Juffureh (made famous by Alex Haley's 1976 book - "Roots: The saga of an American Family").  The "Never Again!" he said, referred to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, its complete meaning - "Never Again in Chains."  I made a mental note to ask Mariatou how soon we could go there.

The lobby was a veritable Babel - abuzz with people from all corners of the world.  Some were checking in, while others - at tables and sofas spread around the lobby - were having drinks and/or food from the lobby bar, or hanging around the flat screen watching "football" (soccer to me).  When we reached the busy front desk, Gerald asked for "The Director" and we were sent down a short hall to his office.

He was a big man in stature - bespectacled, with coal-black skin, a booming voice and a ready smile.  Following the introductions, I asked if they were always so busy. He said, "Yes usually, especially with Christmas approaching."   But the reason they were so busy this time, was because of Laurent Gbagbo's refusal to abdicate the Cote d'Ivoire presidency.  As it turns out, the U.N. had evacuated all of its "essential personnel" from Abidjan - to The Gambia.

Let me interrupt the story and be clear here.  What I knew about Cote d'Ivoire previously, could fit on the flat side of a cocoa bean - literally.  And at first, I had the typical, colonized-mind, knee-jerk, American reaction: "He LOST the election!  What do you mean he REFUSES to step down?!"  But as I continued to follow the brewing conflict on the local and BBC news (most of the TV programming available aside from a couple movie channels), and interacted with some of the U.N.'s "essential personnel" -  my Spidey-senses started tingling.

So, I decided to talk with, and listen to - some damned West Africans (to include calling my Ivorian, Senegalese-twistin' sister-friend back home, leaving a rambling message asking after her family in her village - and peppered with plenty of "What the hells??")!

I was grateful for the opportunity to be there, getting my own bird's eye view of that whole, "two sides to every story, and then the truth" thing vis-à-vis neo-colonialists in modern-day Africa and this UN-monitored, "election."  And after kicking it around in my head for awhile, it began to make a a whole lot more sense to me.  My conclusion by the end of my stay?  There's never a dearth of those like the Changeling, willing to help feed those "I'm king of the world" beasts.

The Sidekicks, going back to the Center, said they'd come back for me the next day.  With a kiss on each cheek, Gerald assured me he was leaving me in good hands - and he was.  As I waited, half-listening as "The Director" handled a billing problem with one of the front-desk staff, I perused the pictures he had on a wall.  I didn't know any of the people with whom he was smiling and shaking hands, but I could tell they were African dignitaries of some sort.

Once he was convinced of the error, he firmly directed its correction and then turned his attention to me asking, "So where are you from?" When I said America, he asked puzzled, "So how do you know Pinedo?!"  I related the whole, met-in-Florida-ten-years-ago-when-I'd-interviewed-him-for-a-piece-in-the-local-newspaper-and-we'd-kept-in-touch-ever-since story. He asked if this was my first time in Africa, and again, I felt that creeping shame, hot on the back of my neck.  I answered, "Yes - but I'm sure it won't be my last."  We also talked  about the crumbs I'd been trying to follow, tracing my Sea-Island family roots back to West Africa.  With a hearty laugh, he said, "If anybody can help you with that - it's Pinedo!"

After signing everything, I got my "hotel passport" and the same bellman I'd met earlier escorted me to my room.  As we walked past the library toward my room, there was an old man on his hands and knees - plugging bald spots on the lawn (Oh I know - we're so evolved now, with our riding lawn mowers and/or gardeners!).  But in a strange and beautifully reaffirming way, it reminded me of how we've always been able to brilliantly do more - with less!  One thing's for sure, it made me appreciate the lushness all around me even more!

Aside from no in-room WiFi, I had no complaints about the LAICO during the few days I spent there.  But I have to say that this hotel, definitely helped ease my transition from those oh, so evolved, Western expectations - to the total reality that is The Gambia.

Once inside, the bellman showed me how to use my key-card to work the lights, explained the mini-bar/fridge thing, showed me how to operate the armoire safe and connect to the WiFi.  He opened the balcony curtains, to reveal a partial view of the pool through a rainbow of bouganvilleas (probably my most favorite flowering plant because they're a deceivingly, sturdy beauty with protective thorns - kind of like me!) - and I was mighty glad I'd trusted Gerald and his "arrangements."

For a damned-near germophobe, the room was perfect!  Deciding to take that shower I'd missed, I checked the grout (some things are harder to unlearn than others!), and then, bolstered by my few days of practice at the LAICO, I jumped into the small shower stall with my Butterfly Flower, a steady stream of  hot water - and found myself,  languishing!

After Skyping the husband to let him know I was safe and sound, I headed to dinner, but first - I stopped at the lobby bar for a Guinness and a chat (best source of information, I found).  The bartender gave me the lay of the land, suggested some dishes I should try and was again, surprised to find out I was from America.

An Australian couple came and sat on the two stools next to me.  We had some interesting conversations about Australia  (about which I know little), America (about which they knew even less)  and I don't know why, but we ended up talking about knowing different languages (well - more like our apparent unwillingness to embrace different languages).

It may have had more to do with me than them, because so far, I'd been pleasantly surprised to find, that even though each tribal group still maintained their own, distinct, cultural traditions and languages - many, if not most, were not only able to communicate with each other in English (the official language of the country) and some French, but in each other's tribal languages as well (unless that's a recent development, it kinda dispels that whole, "we couldn't talk to each other while chained together in the belly of a slave ship" thing - No?).

Having missed breakfast after over-sleeping, my stomach began to complain - loudly.  So, saying goodbye to everybody, I grabbed my unfinished Guinness and headed outside to the dining area around the pool.  After ordering, I just sat there, people-watching.  And aside from all the different accents I could hear, what I noticed most - from folk dressing formally for dinner, to "afternoon tea," to the way some guests treated the wait-staff - was the degree to which Europe's colonial influences were still so deeply embedded in the country. 

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as they were once a British colony which, geographically, is way closer to them, than they are to us - but I was.  However, when this local, cultural group performed, I was immediately pleased at how the mere sight of the "Hammer pants," coupled with the rhythm of the dance - instantly narrowed that "distance created, created deliberately" about which Baldwin spoke!  I went to bed early - and slept like a log.

The Sidekicks came for me a little after noon the next day.  When I got in the car, Gerald announced enthusiastically, "We're going to the Spanish man's house where I'm staying.  And I'm cooking!"

Juan and Gerald had become friends over time (since his earlier days of visiting The Gambia and staying at Ocean Bay).  So, since Gerald was in-country and Juan was in Spain, he was able to stay at the little house, not far from the hotel.  I'd later learn, there are quite a few Europeans, Lybians, Lebanese, Chinese  - and even a smattering of Americans - who've bought, and/or developed property in the country, renting them fairly inexpensively.

John's wife and daughter, along with her sister and her husband, visiting from Senegal, were waiting for us when we arrived.  Since they all spoke some English - and French - I thought it'd be the perfect time for me to practice a little.  Trust me, a Bachelor's degree in French does not a Francophone make!  My abysmal efforts gave new meaning to the phrase, "use it or lose it."  But they were all, very patient and gracious with my trying.

After the introductions and some small talk, I went outside on the patio for a cigarette.  Mariatou, John and his brother-in-law joined me, while Gerald and the sisters started dinner.  Soon, the delicious aroma of food coming from the kitchen won out and  I went back inside to see what was cooking.

Né and her daughter, Awa (that's her elbow in the photo on the left) were keeping an eye on the Chicken Yassa and potatoes on the small stove, while Gerald seasoned the freshly caught Ladyfish that he'd just cleaned and filleted.  I thought to myself, "Dinner's definitely gonna be lip-smackin'!" - and it was (do note the huge pot of rice sitting in front of Né in the photo on the right - I felt right at home!).  The best part of the day though - even better than the meal - was being, in community, with folk from the community who all looked like me, slowly working on closing that "distance."

Juffureh

Mariatou, and I made the trip from Bakau to Juffureh with Moussa.  He'd worked for Gerald when he started building the Center. Now, he apparently either drove a taxi, or hung out with the guys who do drive taxis.  He'd arranged our 7:30 a.m. taxi ride to the Banjul ferry, then shepherded us through the crowds in the ferry terminal and onboard.  And when we arrived in Barra, he negotiated the taxi fare from there, to Juffureh and back.

   
I tell you, if I'd not seen the levelling work being done on the road leading to the village (coating everything in its path with a thick, red sand that reminded me of "the red clay hills of Georgia"), I'd have said that the small fishing village of Juffureh hadn't changed much since Alex Haley traced his ancestral roots there in the late 1970s.

As a matter of fact, the thatched-roof huts of handmade mud bricks; donkeys, goats, cows and actual "macacas" (nod to stupid) freely roaming the tree-lined roads; the mortar-and-pestle sound of "Woman’s Wuck" (as detailed by Judith Carney in Chapter 4 of her wonderfully written, "Black Rice"); with a slew of little kids running around, laughing and playing barefoot in the dirt - all combined to make me feel I'd been transported to a place of little or no change at all.

We came upon this woman winnowing rice outside her compound. Instantly, I recognized the "basket" bridge between this West African village and my Charleston, SC roots. She spoke no English, but she carried on a lively conversation with Moussa, while Mariatou explained this part of the seed-to-table process to my forgotten self.

If you ever visit the Old Slave Market (we called it "Market," they call it "Mart" - go figure) in downtown Charleston, you can still find Black women making and selling beautifully woven, Sweet Grass baskets like the one she's using in the video.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.  Rather than just telling the story of my visit to Juffureh, I also wanted to share it in these photos.  I suggest watching it in full-screen, not only so you can see the, tiny, little words - but so you can pause it, and read some of the signs and excerpts.

No folks, I saw no slick Westernized malls, skyscrapers or subway trains in The Gambia (but, whether brought by owners, or sold through auctions or dealers - I did see plenty expensive, late-model Western vehicles!).  And for purely selfish, "Back to the Future" reasons,  I liked it like that.  Seems to me, the only harm in having an, "If I knew then, what I know now" do-over - is not learning a damned thing from it.  Me?  I want to learn...

UPDATE:  Ivory Coast elections bolster French recolonization plans

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 5b:  The Center

A "Homegoing" - Part 4b: Links, lineage and the legacy of "Black Rice"

I left Ibrahim to his sand painting and went to the lobby where I found Gerald and John laughing and talking animatedly with a young woman in uniform.

Reminding me of a younger version of my older sister, she had the same unmade-up smooth, dark skin, almond-shaped eyes, great cheekbones and a beautiful, slightly gapped-toothed grin.  Her name was Mariatou and she was Mandinka.

She reached to shake my hand and holding it with my right hand, I put my other arm around her shoulder, laughing as said, "Sorry - I'm a hugger!"  The ice immediately broken, she was a hugger too (and the exact same age as my youngest)!

Working at the Center not far from her village, the guys had taken a break to pick her up when she got off work and brought her to Banjul to meet me - and they were going back, leaving me to my own devices for the evening.  But first, we all got a little better acquainted over a Guinness for Gerald and me, and Fantas for John and Mariatou.

"She's no bumster!" Gerald assured me, saying he'd known Mariatou ever since he started building the Center years ago.  He trusted her implicitly - and knowing Gerald - so did I.

Having been a former, British colony, the official language taught in schools - is English, so there was no language barrier between the two of us.  She turned to me and said, "If you would like, tomorrow, I will take you to my village so you can see true Gambian culture!"  While the hotel provided a comfortable "familiar" to which I could return each night, I'd certainly not crossed that "distance, deliberately created" to which Mr. Baldwin referred, just to sit in it!  I told her I would very much like.

For some time now, I've been following the bread crumbs that link my South Carolina Gullah heritage, to a lineage and legacy that had been marginalized my entire life.  I knew nothing of Africa save those images of starving Biafran babies with swollen bellies and flies all over them in televised pleas for donations from white folk from UNICEF when I was around 12 (something about which my cousin reminded me when I talked to her on the phone right after I got back.  "Why you wanna go over there? Remember dem babies?!  My explanation was very long-winded.).

The history we learned in Catholic school inculcated our minds with visions of savages on that "Dark Continent over there," where benevolent missionaries risked themselves to spread the civilizing gospel - an oxymoron that always makes me think of this enduring (if not exact), Jomo Kenyatta quote:

When the missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land.  They taught us to pray with our eyes closed.  When we opened them, we had the Bible in our hand and they had the land.

In addition to visiting her mother's compound and rice farm, she said she'd also take me to visit her father's compound.  The immediate, confused (read - ignorant American) look on my face had everybody cracking up!  Once they got over the bends, they explained that her family was Muslim and it was perfectly acceptable in The Gambia for her father to have a second wife - and he did.  Saying, that as a visitor, I could respect that as a part of the culture however - "Couldn't be me."

By the time we  finished our drinks and said goodbye, I was excited and ready for the next day because I felt an education coming on that I'd never had before!

I went back out near the pool where a local cultural group was performing to smoke a cigarette.  Okay, this is the part where I tell you my non-computer-wonk-ass, recently and accidentally deleted quite a few photos and videos I'd been organizing to post in this series - among them - a video of this cultural group doing a ceremonial circumcision dance.  However, with the help of the recently returned husband, I was able to recover some of them (taking a computer class or two - just as soon as I quit kicking my own ass for that mess!).  I did find a pretty shitty video I'd taken on my new phone that night (still don't know what I'm doing with that damned thing either!) 

Anyway, I know it's hard to see here, but take my word for it - that "temple of my familiar" was doing some kind of serious liberation-dance on my  soul as I watched this group perform!  It immediately reminded me of that, "standin' on the history" nod in this trailer for "Faubourg Tremé: the Untold Story of Black New Orleans":

I went back inside brimming with anticipation.  Like a kid getting ready for the first day of school, I laid some Capri jeans, a top, some clean underwear and a pair of thonged, flip-flop sandals out on the second twin-bed and tried to go to sleep so I'd be well rested (didn't unpack, Gerald had informed me he'd made those "arrangements").  After tossing and turning for about an hour, I decided the only way sleep was coming soon, was "on the wings of Lunesta."  I took one and passed the hell out.

Once again, unaided by the alarm, I got up early and went to breakfast.  I came back and anxiously got ready even though she wasn't coming until sometime around noon.  When she finally called from the lobby, I grabbed my straw, hold-everything bag and headed out.  She explained, "Since we were on our own today, we'll have to take a taxi."  I said okay and we walked out to the street to flag one.

As it turns out, it was three taxis and a multi-passenger sort of mini-bus called a "tonka-tonka!"  I don't remember all of the villages through which we traveled and changed taxis, but I know we traveled south through Serrekunda and down to the "traffic light" in Brikama, a bustling crossroads.  There, we caught a tonka-tonka headed west to her village.  It let us out on the main road at the head of the road leading to her mother's compound.

I can only describe that ride as a cross-continental, "back-to-the-future" experience!  Squeezed into my seat by the crush of people and goods on the tonka-tonka, Rev. Deas and his own "multi-passenger bus" (actually at first, it was a big station wagon, then he got a passenger-panel van-looking thing) popped into my head.  He'd leave his church on the island every Saturday morning around 6 a.m. and pick up people who didn't have cars and needed/wanted to go "to town" to shop - for a fee.  Like in Brikama, there was even a sister "traffic light" of sorts (more a blinking light) through which he traveled, where you could get picked up or dropped off.  We called it the "Tin Store light" and it was a little more than halfway between the country and the city.

Mostly, he'd drop everybody off near the Edwards five-and-dime on King St. wherefrom they'd disperse via city bus, taxis or rides from family or friends.  If they weren't staying over, they'd reassemble at the same spot  - with everything they bought (clothes, groceries, you name it!) - at the pre-appointed 6 p.m. for the drive back to the island.  Judging by how far toward the beach you lived, you knew you'd either be getting out soon, or - be squeezed up against a door, or a person, for a little while longer.  But just like on the tonka-tonka, you'd get a little breathing room once passengers were disgorged along the way. 

You could also "Catch Rev. Deas" one-way, from town to the country as Mama would have us do when we wanted to go hang-out with the cousins on Saturday night (my brother and I hung-out with the the uncle and cousins our age - my sister, aunts and older cousins went out partying!).  She'd come pick us up the next day after church.  And no, we didn't miss church.  No matter how late we stayed up - or out, we went to my grandmother's A.M.E. church, or my grandfather's Baptist church services at 11 a.m. -sharp.  Stragglers who'd made my grandmother late to "chuch," were invited to pick their switch from any of the bushes outside in the yard.

From the first taxi ride out of Banjul, to the tonka-tonka, the trip through the countryside flooded my brain with back-in-the-day memories of leaving "the city" of Charleston and heading to my grandmother's house out on the island - "in the country."  The further south you went on Highway 17 in that 45 minutes, paved roads gave way to - Legend Oaks, forming a cool canopy over your journey through a landscape dotted with farms and little homes (some mere shacks) with their doors and window frames painted blue to keep out evil spirits; and "Do-Drop Inns" along the main road, not far from the little family stores, pregnant with a little bit of everything you needed (ours was "Doll's Store, a short walk from my grandmother's house - though a ride was much better if you could get one!); and dirt roads, leading to similar family "compounds," with relatives' houses a mere, hop, skip and a jump away.

Of course, as with countless other areas in this country where Black folk have lived - especially near water -gentrification has reared its ugly head, forever changing the landscape and invisibilizing the Blacks who remain.

As we walked the dirt road to the compound, I kept asking her, "How come my feet are covered with sand and yours aren't??"  We were both wearing the same kind of thonged sandals, yet my feet, below the ankle, were covered in sand while hers were not.  She laughed and said, "Because I'm used to it."  I laughed saying, "Look, I walked dirt roads just like these when I was young - sometimes barefoot, sometimes not - but I never remember being so used to it I didn't get sand between my toes!  Hell, "fly-toe" was always on my mind !" (Don't know the medical term for it - but we got it in the creases of our toes - often.)
  

Being greeted by, and introduced to, several people along the way, we reached the compound, encircled by a cinder-block fence where she, her mother and her older sister and children lived.  Fussing about how the children had thrown stuff on the ground after she'd just swept around the entrance before she left, I was reminded of how my Mama complained about the very same thing whenever she got off work and I'd not swept the sidewalk clean of all sand and debris in the front of our rented, Reid St. abode downtown.  The old Charleston House had a small yard, but no grass, so one of my after-school chores was to make sure the front was clean and dust-free.  As Mariatou groused, I heard Mama in my head, calling my name in her usual loud, pronouncing-every-syllable way - "Deb-o-r-a-h-h-h!  How come you ain't swept these steps yet!"

Inside the compound, there were chickens, goats and a well where they drew water (Yes, I said "well" and "drew water" - there is no public water service to the village.  We entered the one-level house from a covered porch leading into the living room.  It was a simple, unadorned structure, with swept-clean, concrete floors, two couches and room enough for everybody in the family.  A wall unit faced the door with family photos, accompanied by some large bowls on the top, and a TV in the center.

I met one of her older sisters who also spoke English, along with a friend of hers who was visiting with her one and half year-old son.  As soon as that boy saw me, he started to cry loudly, yelling, "Tubaab!  Tubaab!" (the Gambian word for foreigner - usually white) in between breaths.  When I reached for him, he cowered in his mother's arms, just shaking his head and crying uncontrollably.  I'd never met a little one I couldn't cajole into my arms, but this little guy, so keenly aware of my different-ness even though I was Black too, wasn't havin' any of it.  Everybody laughed as I backed away saying, "No problem, Man!  I ain't tryin' to make you cry!"  He finally settled down, but continued to watched me cautiously.
 

Mariatou took me down a short hall to show me her room, and the large bed, covered with a mosquito net that her father had had made for her.  Back in the front-room, she told me the large bowls atop the wall unit were serving bowls from which everyone in the family ate - together.  She proudly took down a picture of her eldest sister who's been living in Sweden for the past 13 years or so.  She'd been married to a Gambian man, but had divorced him and left the country, not having returned since then.

Her mother was out at the farm which was a short distance away, so we decided to visit her Dad's compound first.   His second wife was sitting outside the front door with some kids playing around her.  She was a young, light-skinned woman (she'd been two years behind Mariatou in school) with two little ones under 4 years old.  Here's a short video of them that I was able to restore.  The two little ones on his left are his, and the other little girl is a playmate.

Afterward, we went inside and he asked his wife to make us some chai tea.  We sat for awhile, discussing a little politics (to include the Changeling); a little religion (Muslim/Christian); a little about his country and how proud he was of Mariatou.  She beamed.  We had another cup of tea and then she said, if we were going to the farm, we'd better get going.  I thanked her father for the tea and conversation, said goodbye to the children and his wife and we left.

On the walk back to the main road where we'd get a taxi to the rice farm, she talked about how much she loved her father and I told her I could see it.  She said she knew it was hard for me to understand, but - I interrupted her saying,  "I came here to observe and learn, not to judge.  Like I said before - as a visitor, I respect that it's a part of your culture and I've not come here to change it, however - Couldn't be me.  And anyway, all that really matters is that you love him and understand it, right?" 

As she smiled and held my hand as we walked back to the main road - me flip-flopping sand everywhere - I had yet another déjà vu moment, remembering the countless times my cousin, Myra and I had walked, hand-in-hand, from our grandmother's house to her house around the bend.  It made me smile as we got into the taxi ride and went to her Mum's rice farm.

"Black Rice"

"African growers and pounders of rice, enslaved in the Americas, desired to consume their dietary staple in the lands of their bondage.  In South Carolina they found and environment eminently suitable for the cultivation of rice.  The wetlands where they experimented with rice growing in fact showed planters the way to use an African indigenous knowledge system for their own mercantile objectives.  Slaves with expertise in rice farming used that knowledge to negotiate a system of labor demands similar to that known to them with indigenous African slavery.  Planters, on the other hand, saw the means to control this black expertise for the their own ends.  During the charter generations of slavery in South Carolina, this African and gendered knowledge system did result in a mitigated form of labor over that known in other slave societies of the Americas...

... African knowledge of rice farming established, then, the basis for the Carolina economy.  But by the mid-eighteenth century rice plantations had increasingly come to resemble those of sugar, imposing brutal demands on labor.  Slaves with knowledge of growing rice had to submit to the ultimate irony of seeing their traditional agriculture emerge as the first food commodity traded across oceans on a large scale by capitalists who then took complete credit for discovering such an "ingenious" crop for the Carolina and Georgia floodplains.  For this reason, the words "black rice" fittingly describe their struggle to endure slavery amid the enormity of the travail they faced to survive." (emphasis mine)

- Black Rice - Judith A. Carney
Chapter 4: This Was "Woman's Wuck"

The taxi deposited us again, at the head of the road leading to the rice farm. As we reached an opening in what I thought was merely tall grass (turns out it was rice growing, as far as the eye could see!), Mariatou held my hand, guiding me through a path over low, marshy ground to a clearing where we came upon a group of women (flip-flops were not what I should have been wearing!). They were Mandinka, one of the largest ethnic groups in West Africa; Wolof and, Jola (Diola - French transliteration) - all coming together, co-op like, to help her mother get all the rice cut.

She greeted them respectfully, asking where her mother was.  A woman, later introduced to me as her aunt, Fatou (name given to the eldest girl in the family) pointed across the field and called out her name, "Kaddy!  Kaddy!"  She looked up and waved and started making her way toward us.  While we waited, Mariatou introduced me to each of the women, translating my return greetings in each of the women's languages.  Watching as they quickly worked the already cut mound of rice into neat little bundles on the ground, I was at once, humbled and empowered by this gathering of strong women working together.

As she explained to them that I'd never seen rice in its natural state before,one of the women, Bintou (name given to the youngest girl in the family), gave me her knife, grabbed my hand smiling and showed me how to cut and bundle the rice with Mariatou translating her instructions. We all laughed out loud when I made one, exactly like the ones on the ground. Mariatou explained that once all the rice was cut and bundled, they would carry it back to the compound and pound it, removing the husks - and from that pounding, comes the white grains we see in grocery stores! The rice would later be bagged and stored - some to eat, some to sell (And no rest for the weary! In a recent conversation with Mariatou, she advised Kaddy'd already planted, among other vegetables, some tomatoes, ground nuts (peanuts) - a popular export, ground eggs (eggplants) and sweet potatoes!)

Her mother finally made her way across the field to where we were standing. With a big smile, she greeted me first, with a firm handshake - and then a hug. She'd never gone to school, so she spoke no English. Mariatou translated for us as we talked about me, America, her daughter, my grandmother - and rice.

They still had plenty work to do, so she walked us back through the field to the main road. Walking ahead of us, I kept hearing this clicking sound - like the one you make trying to "scratch" whatever's irritating that space in your nasal cavity.  I asked Mariatou what it was and she said it was her mother, scaring away any snakes that might be up ahead. All bug-eyed and nervous now, I said, "Snakes! I think we need to walk a little bit faster!" It hadn't even occurred to me that there had to have been snakes in the marshy field!

This outing had definitely been déjà vu all over again! By the time we came along, "the African and gendered knowledge system of rice growing" was mirrored in my grandmother's fields. And it WAS "woman's wuck." From season to season, she was out there from "dayclean" to sundown - hoeing, planting and harvesting vegetables like tomatoes and cucumbers; yellow, zuchini and acorn squash; peanuts; watermelon; corn; okra and sweet potatoes.

Those of us (mostly female) big enough to go and "pick" on the white man's farms, did - earning money based on how many bushel baskets were picked. At day's end, half went to my grandmother and we got to keep the other half. After the first few times out, she kept me home to run her roadside stand, selling her home-grown vegetables to the white folk headed to the beach saying, "Debbie, you pick too slo', hunnah can' mek no money like dat!" Fine with me, I hated the way okra ate up my hands and arms anyway.

The European marginalization, followed by their usual appropriation of yet another important part of our culture was, and continues to be, despicable. But most importantly, it was soul-crushing. In reviewing Carney's book, Drew Gilpin Faust of The New York Times said it most succinctly:

"Between the end of the 17th century and the Civil War, hundreds of thousands of people of African descent toiled in swamps, ditches and fields cultivating rice, a crop that by the time of the American Revolution had created a planter aristocracy wealthier than any other group in the British colonies. The high concentrations of slaves in rice-growing areas produced as well a black culture that remained closer to its African roots than that of any other North American slave society. Yet even in South Carolina, where they were a majority of the population, blacks have remained underrepresented in the historical record, partly because they were unable to leave the rich written legacy that immortalized their owners, partly because historians have failed to look closely enough at the evidence that has survived. In "Black Rice," Judith A. Carney, a professor of geography at the University of California, Los Angeles, finds new "ways to give voice to the historical silences of slavery." Exploring crops, landscapes and agricultural practices in Africa and America, she demonstrates the critical role Africans played in the creation of the system of rice production that provided the foundation of Carolina's wealth." (emphasis mine)

Imagine if, instead of having been made to feel ashamed of our language and this legacy all of our lives, Black folk - especially women - had grown up knowing and learning about, and being proud of, the major contributions we'd made to these United States!!

I'd lay money on the fact that it would have made a huge difference - not only in how we now see our soul-crushed selves in this country and the world, but also in how we see our brothers and sisters in the diaspora. I doubt any of us would then, be lining up behind the Changeling (second-generation African that he is) and his white handlers as they wage war on an African country whose only imminent threat to this country is the rejection of neo-colonialist hegemony through self-determination.

If you are Black and from South Carolina in general, or the Sea Islands in particular - I recommend a thorough reading of Carney's book, along with those of Peter H. Wood ("Black Majority"),Wilbur Cross ("Gullah Culture in America"), Lorenzo Dow Turner ("Africanisms in the Gullah Dialect"), J.H. Easterby ("The South Carolina Rice Plantation") and Prof. Daniel C. Littlefield.

I promise, you will not only come away with a much better understanding of what our people brought to America's table (no pun intended), but also, and most importantly - with a feeling of immense pride and connectedness based on what's expressed here, in the introduction to Carney's book:

The millions of Africans who were dragged to the New World were not blank slates upon which European civilizations would write at will.  They were peoples with complex social, political, and religious systems of their own.  By forced transportation and incessant violence slavery was able to interdict the transfer of those systems as systems; none could be carried intact across the sea.  But it could not crush the intellects, habits of mind, and spirits of its victims.  They survived in spite of everything, their children survived and in them survived Africa. (all emphasis mine)

-Sidney W. Mintz, introduction to the 1990 edition of

The Myth of the Negro Past by Melville Herskovitz 

To be continued:  A "Homegoing" - Part 5a:  Neocolonialism, Juffureh and The Center

A "Home-going" - Part 1: Why I went to The Gambia

When most people talk about a "home-going" - they're talking about a death and a burial.  And in a sense, so am I, though not of a corporal kind.

My recent "home-going," involved the death and burial of a way of thinking about Africa - shared, I know, by many Blacks in America.  Since the beginning of our existence in this country up to this day, we've been taught to see Africa as the swollen-bellied, uncivilized "Dark Continent," unable to govern its people, or solve its own problems without the all-knowing, allegedly benevolent hand of the "civilized" West firmly on the wheel.

"I have said that the Civilized have never been able to honor, recognize, or describe the Savage. Once they had decided that he was savage, there was nothing to honor, recognize or describe."

James Baldwin

Mr. Baldwin succinctly encapsulates the deeply embedded mantra of white supremacy which is, and has been, the reason for the steady diet of disinformation, misinformation and miseducation we've been fed about Africa by our stellar education system, the mainstream media, our perfectly run government - and our health care system.

In just two sentences, he clearly explains, that which continues to give this supposed, "civilized" society, the conscience-free license to kill, experiment upon, imprison, and otherwise keep their foot on the necks of other human beings who are also, as Baldwin, never fails to point out - their "fellow countrymen."

Reading (a lot of Baldwin!), listening and interacting with others outside my familiar, has definitely made me a better critical thinker.  I know that my mind is no longer completely inculcated with the double-talk of western superiority in general, and "American Exceptionalism" - in particular.  But, what I also know is - I still have a whole lot more learning to do.  Yet sometimes, all of that constant peeling back of layers becomes a little overwhelming, especially as more layers are constantly being added (like "Selection 2008!").

And by November 2010 - I was not only overwhelmed, I was tired.

Tired - of all the political gamesmanship continuing to discount real people's lives in favor of corporate "persons;" tired of all the craziness in defense of "American exceptionalism" - through decidedly crazy, and unexceptional acts; tired of mainstream media parrots pundits, informing and enlightening less, while promoting themselves more; tired of all things Changeling, to be sure; and particularly tired, of watching my kinfolk, seemingly so ashamed of who we are in our entirety, trippin' all over themselves to embrace the hegemony of the "exceptionalists" just because we've got some "skinfolk" in the Burning House.

So, right after seeing "For Colored Girls" (YES, the rash of ignoble commentary surrounding Perry's film also made my "tired of" list), I found myself contemplating an escape from the madness for a little while.  I called my friend, Gerald Pinedo in Germany - to see what he was up to, grumble about politics and the Changeling (he's more patient with him than I), and invite myself for a visit since I'd never been to Europe before.  I figured with so many bases dotting the landscape, it was definitely doable from my end - especially if I could get a Space-A flight from the MAC terminal here, and a room at one of the many inexpensive "lodges" the military so graciously provides!
 

A little background

I met Gerald, an artist, sculptor, lecturer and researcher of the slave trade (I know, I've tried to get him to let me update that woefully out-of-date site!), through a mutual friend in December 2001.  After one of his research trips to Cuba, he'd come to Key West to prepare for his Black History Month exhibition at the San Carlos in 2002.  I wanted to interview him for one of my weekly columns.

He, my then-71 year old Jewish friend, Rhoda and I - had many a lively,late-night discussion about why Blacks and Cubans in America were not aware of their true roots.  He was amazed, that when he asked the question - "Where are you from?" - during several interviews he'd conducted locally, the answers never involved any African roots.  What he'd found for the most part, were Cubans, and Blacks who claimed the Bahamas as their place of origin (as many in Key West do) - who seemed to have totally discounted the fact that African slaves were brought to, or through, those islands during the slave trade - and us, who had no clue whatsoever, where our true roots lay.

I offered that the question holds a totally different meaning - at least for Blacks in America. His reply was an immediate, "Why should it?"

We met again in 2003 during a series of events hosted by the Mel Fisher Maritime Heritage Society, which included a Jan. 7 - 16 port visit by the newly commissioned, Freedom Schooner Amistad (the Amistad case was argued and won by former president, John Quincey Adams - after he'd left the White House). 

I'd run into Corey Malcom and Lisa Petrone at Goombay in October 2002.  They told me they'd heard about the "Dialogues on Race" I'd been having around town and up the Keys, and thought it'd be a great addition to the planned schedule of events - if I was interested.  Of course I was!  "Legacy of the Amistad: A Conversation" became a means to openly and honestly discuss race in America on a much larger scale than I'd ever been used to.

Gerald was back in Key West to give an encore of his own exhibit featuring an abundance of original documents and artifacts from the slave trade, along with his own paintings and sculpture.  Since he was staying through Black History Month, the husband and I got to learn and see, so much more than either of us had ever been exposed to before.

Back to the future 

During the phone call, Gerald said he wouldn't be in Germany for awhile.  He was leaving for The Gambia in November to continue working on his "Center" for the African diaspora that he'd begun almost five years ago. He'd bought the land, the building was up, and he had to go pay the land taxes and oversee the installation of tile, plumbing and windows.

I was at once, excited and crestfallen.  Excited because it seemed he was finally going to see his life's work come to fruition (and trust me, it HAS been his life's work!).  Crestfallen, because I'd be stuck among the "exceptionalists" - still (What? It's not like I lied to him about why I wanted to come over there!). I asked him when he'd be back, and he said in a few months or so. Sighing (because I knew it'd be at least four more months away) I said, "Well, maybe when the husband gets back, we'll both come and hangout with you for awhile. He'll have plenty leave!"

All of a sudden he said excitedly, "You should come there!!  Have you ever been??" 

I told him that I hadn't, but had always wanted to go - especially after I'd stumbled upon information linking the Gullah language and culture of my Sea Island relatives and ancestors, to West Africa (probably Sierra Leone, Senegal or - The Gambia).

I realized my words were coming faster and with more animation as I told him, "I know slaves from these three places were brought, across the Middle Passage - directly to the Sea Islands - not only because of the mirror-imaged, climate conditions of West Africa - but because of their superior skills in cultivating rice - a very profitable cash crop for the mostly Charleston-dwelling masters!"  (And yes, I love me some rice!)

We were both completely excited now.  Then, in his thick German accent, he said,  "De-bo-rah!  Every Black American should go home at least once in their lives!"

It hit me in the head like one of those old V-8 commercials!  And as I thought about his suggestion (for a hot minute),  I couldn't ignore the rising in my head, of Brother Malcolm's searing questions - asked, some 50 years ago:



And I said,  "You know Gerald, you're absolutely right!  Then - I went to work...

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 2a:  "Getting there" lessons