2012 BID Fellowship in Brasil: Part 2

One of the most amazing things about the BID Fellowship experience for me, was learning from and sharing with Bahian poets, writers, and culture-keepers. Thanks to the amazing folks at the Secretaria da Cultura do Estado da Bahia, we had the unique opportunity to visit the home of legendary poet Jose Carlos Limeira. Mr. Limeira gave us a comprehensive review of Bahian culture past and present and then, generously, invited us to present. 

Kwame reading one of his poems in Jose Carlos Limeira's living room 

Kwame Alexander who founded the BID Fellowship gave a powerful talk on the resistance tradition of African-American culture with specific focus on song and literature. He spoke accompanied by poets and BID Fellows Deanna Nikaido and Maritza Riveira, and BID Fellow, Teacher, and Musician Randy Preston who helped illustrate his points about how Negro Spirituals and literature were used to communicate messages among our mothers, fathers, uncles, and aunties who had to endure slavery, and later by the likes of Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, etc who powerfully documented the black experience in the Harlem Renaissance. He went on to reference the works of J. California Cooper, Nikki Giovanni, Toni Morrison, and others who continued the activist tradition of black literature, ultimately gaining the attention of the publishing industry. 

BID Fellow Chris Colderley, a sharp poet and English teacher, followed with a thoroughly persuasive presentation on why students need to be taught poetry in schools.  He spoke of not only the ability of poetry to help students build facility with written and vocal expression, but of poetry's power to transform the way we look at the world. Of course, we were all sold.

I jumped in here to give a personal talk about how I came to write African stories. Here's a transcript of what I shared below.  It's long so I won't be offended if you read it in sips.

Poets Jose Carlos Limeira & Livia Natalia 

"I came to love African Literature by way of African-American literature. Conveniently—and controversially—corralled into the black book section of my bookstore (and on my big sister’s bookshelf), I discovered April Sinclair’s Coffee Will Make You Black, Bebe Moore Campbell’s Your Blues Ain’t Like Mine, James Baldwin’s Just Above My Head, Gloria Naylor’s The Women of Brewster Place, Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby, Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, Maya Angelou’s All God’s Children Need Travelling Shoes, and so many others.

These books became my gateway to the works of other black authors who weren’t American. By way of black book anthologies, I found Antiguan writer Jamaica Kincaid, and through stellar word of mouth I picked up Haitian author Edwidge Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory and Krik Krak, for example. Some referenced Africa explicitly—like The Color Purple, All God’s Children or Lorraine Hansberry’s play A Raisin in the Sun—while others told stories that I saw shadows of my African story in.

Whether exploring the complexities of the black immigrant experience or the unique dynamic between Africans and African-Americans, or the particulars of being a woman, these books each offered me a distinct mirror. It was liberating to see myself, albeit slightly refracted, on these pages; and so I moved on to African literature.

Now, before I discuss the African books that inspired me, I think it bears explaining that growing up in New York as the daughter of Ghanaian immigrants, my definition of blackness was shaped by African-American culture.  My parents had grown up in Ghana and had experienced the downsides of colonialism, neo-colonialism, and racism, but their identities were not carved by race. Their priority was to get an education, make money, and send it back home. Everything was about “back home” for them. There was always an exit plan—a place they would escape to.

But for me, “home” was our working-class neighborhood in Queens, New York. My friends were the children of immigrants from Panama, Jamaica, Trinidad, and Haiti, and families who had moved to New York from the South. We children came from other places, but we were New Yorkers. And to prove it, we made fun of anything that threatened that identity. I made fun of Haitians. African-Americans made fun of me calling me “African booty scratcher.” Etcetera.

It didn’t help that the Ethiopian famine was in heavy rotation on the news in the early ‘80s. The images of African children covered in flies, their bellies bloated with malnutrition, made me cringe. If that was Africa, I wanted no part of it.

So, in 1990, when my parents took us to Ghana for vacation, my American identity firmly in place, I entered the country feeling superior to, and amused by, all that was “different.” I did not know that my parents had planned that vacation to be a permanent one.

Stuck in Ghana, and now enrolled in a boarding school two hours’ drive from my relatives’ home in Accra, I was forced to confront why it was that I felt better than those born in Ghana. I had to start examining why it was that in Africa, water, electricity, paved roads, and other things I had come to take for granted like cookies and soda and dessert were luxuries.

I was only 15, when I graduated from secondary school in Ghana and returned to the States, so I won’t pretend to have become Kwame Nkrumah. I was relieved to be back in the land of creature comforts, but, still, my perspective on who I was and where I came from had changed—expanded.

I had become proud of my expanded story and wanted to share it; so once again I looked to the African-American experience for help finding my voice. As an Africana Studies and Political Science major in college, I was inspired by the African-American political movement and sparked to find that Ghana’s first president Kwame Nkrumah also got his training from the burgeoning Civil Rights movement, using it to lead Ghana to Independence. In March 1957, Martin Luther King, Jr and his wife Coretta Scott King attended Ghana’s inaugural Independence Day celebration—at the personal invitation of Kwame Nkrumah himself.

In secondary school in Ghana, we read Ghanaian poet and author Ama Ata Aidoo’s Dilemma of a Ghost and South African author Peter Abrams’ Mine Boy, among others; but it was a few years after college, that I started to read African literature for pleasure. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and A Man of the People. Buchi Emecheta’s The Joys of Motherhood and The Bride Price. Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus and Half of a Yellow Sun. Ayesha Haruna Attah’s Harmattan Rain. 

Instantly familiar, these books were the closing of the circle for me, helping fill in the gaps from a historical perspective as to why millions of Africans fled their native countries in the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s—my parents among them. They spoke of post-Independence struggles, war, gender, and life. Kids going to school. Parents going to work. Couples making love. This was the Africa I had experienced in all its dichotomies, and it was the Africa I wanted to write about.

It was during this period that I started to write what would become my first novel, Powder Necklace—an African story by way of London and New York.

The African story is global.

We know that the African experience is not restricted to tales of village life, or the impact of colonialism or neocolonialism, or immigration. Should African stories, by necessity, be about protagonists living in Africa, or do stories about African protagonists qualify—no matter where they may reside? Or does it come down to the author’s nationality? For example, is white British author Chris Cleave’s book Little Bee about a Nigerian girl in England as African as Nigerian author Chimamanda Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun?

In Brasil, for example, which has the largest population of African descendants outside of Africa; where Acaraje stands sell treats from Nigeria, and traditional African religions are the cultural norm, how do we classify the works of writers like Jorge Amado, Damaris Cruz, or Maria Firmina dos Reis and Machado de Assis?

The African story starts on the continent of Africa, but it has literally travelled around the world—just like the African people. It is a story that has birthed so many other stories—and that needs to be acknowledged and embraced.  Chimamanda Adichie poignantly spoke about the danger of the single story, particularly as it relates to the African story, and I wholeheartedly agree.

The current and next generations of literature students and teachers need to understand the connections between African literature and literary works from other continents; and grasp the influence Africa has had on global literature. African literature—black literature—needs to be talked about, handled, and appreciated, in its fullest context.

But first, we the people need to understand and appreciate ourselves in our fullest context. We’ll need to stop thinking of ourselves as a minority, when in fact, people of African descent are a global majority. Once and for all, we need to know with all confidence that our story—in all its origins and permutations—is worth telling. Because it is."