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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

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