Extended Weekend in Review

I am doing a bit of multitasking today, writing to you from class in between taking notes. The conversation is on censorship and is slowly getting heated. I am a little nervous because we are about to watch the Rodney King film. The subject of the conversation is about how viewers can disagree in viewing something and further, about what one may define as racist may not be defined as racist by others. Tomorrow is the pornography/censorship conversation and we are building towards that. It wouldn’t be a class on sex without this conversation. I have so much more to say on this censorship/freedom of speech business but my happenstance in Amsterdam is the subject of this blog so allow me to now defer to that subject.

On Thursday the new Batman movie, The Dark Knight, debuted in the Netherlands. A group of my classmates and I agreed to do dinner and a movie. Going to the movies was an interesting experience. Theaters in Amsterdam have furnishings similar to that of U.S. cinemas: overpriced food, reminders about turning off your cell phones before the movie and commercials along with approximately 10 minutes of previews.

There are some differences though. Beer is standard fare and it’s relatively cheap: 3 euros. The commercials are entirely in Dutch. The film is in English with Dutch subtitles. This meant that Americans were out of luck when Batman’s crusade extended to global parameters and some of the dialogue was in Chinese. It was also awkward to hear sporadic snickering during a few American jokes.

But there are some moments of comedy that are more universal than others.

Specifically, Morgan Freeman’s character had the entire audience in stitches when he responded to one of Bruce Wayne’s employees who pilfered through financial records, stumbled upon evidence of Batman’s identity and demanded millions of dollars in hush money. Freeman said something along the lines of, “Let me get this straight, you think that your boss is a vigilante that runs the streets at night beating criminals with his bare hands and you want to black mail him?” He continued, “Good Luck!”

As I watched the movie, I gleefully remembered “Pows!” and “Zaps!” in the place of violent scenes from the Batman series decades ago. I thought of Michael Keaton, Danny Devito, Jack Nicholson, Val Kilmer and others. As I conferred with American students, I realized that the mosaic of memories that overcame me and my connection to them were a part of my identity as a child raised in America. It was an interesting, curious kind of solidarity considering America is a place where differences of identity seem to occupy more media space than similarities. All in all, as a political junkie I loved the film and specifically enjoyed the late Heath Ledger and the diverse representations of Black men. However, Batman has much work to do on the woman front.

Friday was one of the first hot days I have had in Amsterdam in recent memory. I reveled in my alone time and spent the morning taking a 40-minute trek to the Cobra Museum to view an exhibit on sexuality and gender that was underwhelming. I then spent my afternoon in Biljmer AKA Black Amsterdam going shopping for a traditional Ghanaian dinner of fufu and soup. I have never felt so grateful to be bilingual. Twi-speaking Ghanaians were everywhere in Biljmer pointing me in the direction of freshly-slaughtered chicken—sorry PETA folks—fufu flour and fresh vegetables. I saw the beauty of New York Harlemites and the sense of black community present on U Street in Washington, DC simply by taking a train a few stops away from my Amsterdam dormitory.

It was a stark contrast from my trip to the Albert Heijn later that evening where I bought seasonings, tomato sauce and bottled water. Albert Heijn is THE supermarket chain in Amsterdam and it comes equipped with many quirks. First, Albert Heijn does not take American credit cards which contrasts from many of the businesses in Europe. Next, when you arrive to the supermarket you have to rent your shopping cart for 50 euro cents, which you get back at the end. However, it’s a terrible inconvenience if you are out of change upon arrival. Lastly, you have to bag your own groceries. And if you want a bag that is not going to break on you half way home you have to pay 20 euro cents per bag for your items. So picture, for just a second, my American behind trying to navigate through this gauntlet of inconveniences. All I can say is that I am lucky to have made it home alive.

Saturday, I spent a significant amount of time looking for souvenirs for family and friends in the states. Amsterdam is full of markets of inexpensive goodies that resemble the setup of flea markets in America. As Amsterdam is comprised of people from all over the world, these markets are a site of inter-cultural sharing which presents an interesting challenge when trying to find a gift that is Amsterdamesque in nature. Gladly I was able to find a few trinkets I cannot share here because I want them to actually be a surprise.

I also hit up some department stores and observed an altercation with a consumer and sales representative where the store would not give a discount for a dirty/defective piece of clothing. I found out that this was more of a European policy than a store policy which was not surprising considering that customer service is literally a foreign concept. When I walked into stores there wasn’t the quintessential vulture-like sales representative swooping down trying to convince you that your wants are your needs. There is a hands-off approach to consumerism that is as refreshing as it is lonely. It is nice to have peace of mind when you are on a mission for a specific find. However, those clingy sales reps are a reservoir of information that often cut your search-time in half when they are ubiquitous in their presence. I have a few more gifts to go, so I hope to not disappoint.

That evening I attended a popular dance club in Amsterdam called Escape. My entourage was comprised of 5 cute Pakistani men, most of them were vacationing from Germany. It was nice to get dressed up and enjoy 90s hip hop and House music, two genres which reign at dance clubs in Amsterdam. However, this club was not refuge from the contemporary hip hop scene. At one point in the evening they actually passed out lollipops as a prelude to Lil’ Wayne’s international hit “Lollipop.” And the DJ’s here are not as friendly as American DJ’s in so far as making requests are viewed more as impositions than suggestions. The night took the turn for the worse when I slipped during a two-step and the slit in my dress extended to my panty line! When I went to use the bathroom to see how bad it was, I was refused entrance because I didn’t have 50 euro cents to appease the bathroom guard. I reached behind me, clenched the bottom of my dress in a fist and made a bee line to the door. Thank the Goddess for sewing Grandmothers and dance moves that don’t tear dresses beyond repair.

On Sunday I attended the Kwaku festival, a yearly festival that runs for several weeks which involves the Surinamese, Ghanaians, Nigerians, Indonesians and other communities of color in Amsterdam. At the festival, I caught the tail end of a conference on Black women being held there. I witnessed a beautiful spoken word piece discussing the struggles of Black women living in Denmark. The speaker talked about challenges in getting one’s hair done, finding that aisle in drug stores of ethnic hair products, or in grocery stores of ethnic foods. The piece was also preoccupied with a growing notion that women of color, specifically black women traveling or moving freely is often associated with transactional sex. It immediately brought me to the testimonies of many of my classmates who are women of color who were aggressively questioned about their sexual intentions in the Netherlands when applying for visas from their home countries—a serendipitous unintended consequence of many policies that have been implemented in combating sex trafficking. The woman’s poem struck a powerful chord with me and added more fodder to this debate that I have been having with myself about whether identity engenders common experiences. The jury is still out.

After the conference I headed to mingle with locals and stumbled upon a huge banner with a Ghanaian flag with the words “Home Sweet Home” emblazoned on it. There we found a buffet of Ghanaian food: fried plantain, boiled cornmeal, rice with beans and goat meat stew, kabobs and many, many others. When I told the cook I wanted hot sauce, she knew exactly what I meant. She grounded tomatoes, onions and whole Jamaican peppers to make a delicious concoction of spices for me to accompany my rice and plantains all for 8 euros.

In the end, I had a blast in my last full weekend in Amsterdam!

Computer on the Fritz

Hello all,

My computer is on the fritz and has been with Mac specialists for about a week. So I have limited access to my blog account, but I will try to get something posted on the live sex show, Amsterdam service and Black Lola soon.

Another note

Hi all,

This is a friendly note to say that I would post again to update everyone on my trip with summer school colleagues to the live sex show at Cassa Rossa, but I have a few assignments due tomorrow that I am still working on. So look out for a Black Lola/Sex show post in a few days.

Cheers,

Rose

Van Gogh Museum: A Review on Certain Souvenirs

It’s 60 degrees Fahrenheit today. My hair is wet from my rosemary, lavender and peppermint oil tonic and I am sitting by the door in Orloff, shivering and somehow managing to reflect on an excellent trip I took yesterday to the Van Gogh Museum.

I was thoroughly impressed by Van Gogh’s work. As I walked around the three floors of the museum with hundreds of eager tourists and locals, I was convinced that this man was not just a talented artist. He was an activist who often took on projects to represent the everyday lives of marginalized people simply by giving them visibility.

Van Gogh, (1853-1890) whose last name is pronounced more like the “h-o” in “hot” than the word “go” once wrote that he had a strong desire to leave “a certain souvenir” to human kind “in the form of drawings or paintings, not made to comply with this or that school but to express genuine human feeling.” And his offering was as qualitative as it was quantitative. He left behind 900 paintings, 1100 drawings and 800 letters. I’ll leave it to Wiki to give you the main details on his journey along the way, but I will give you my impression on a few of his works that particularly moved me.

Most of us are familiar with Van Gogh’s “Irises,” “Starry Night,” or probably his most famous “Sunflowers.” But by the time I got to see the original works I was so flowered and starry-nighted out that I was more interested in discovering his artistry that received less recognition. Below please see the following works: “Self Portrait as an Artist;” “Head of a Woman;” “The Potato Eaters;” “Gauguin’s Chair;” “Almond Blossom” and “The Garden of St. Paul’s Hospital.”

Self Portrait as an Artist


This is my favorite of all of his paintings. It’s obvious that this was a good day for the artist. What you can’t tell in the jpeg is that the color is screaming with happiness. The detail is amazing. His tiny brush strokes are a unique take on pointillism. His hairs are blazing with greens, pinks, yellows and reds. The museum describes this painting as the portrait of an artist ready to claim fame for his excellent works. This really touched me because I know what it is like to take a picture that is a sure-fire winner, the ones that get the honor of being your profile picture on Facebook. If Van Gogh had lived in this time, I have no doubt that this would be the headshot he used for everything. It is also a moving painting because we know that he struggled deeply with his emotions. And this portrait isn’t just a great painting but a symbol of Van Gogh’s victory over his inner demons, if even for just one day.


Head of a Woman

As I am a proud feminist, it was great to see an artist have so many representations of women in his work. I was also happy to learn that many of the women he painted portraits of were either laborers or sex workers. From what I can tell, he never hypersexualized women in his representations of them. I came to appreciate this because the second week of my sexuality course covered extensively how artists of the 19th century and the 20th century went to great lengths to demonize women in sex work as vile, infected individuals. Van Gogh painted them simply as they were: people.






The Potato Eaters


His commitment to representing the common person as well as further developing his craft shines through in “The Potato Eaters.” This is one of Van Gogh’s first portraits of an entire family. Before then he was more committed to giving life to “still life” paintings and individual human faces in portraits. He had visited many laborers and painted this family from memory. This was a family that worked to the flat bone and represented the underbelly of the classes. The title speaks to the fact that the poorest of all people in the 19th century ate potatoes, as they were the cheapest to grow and lasted the longest. In the actual painting, the family’s skin actually looks like the skin of potatoes. Van Gogh once said of the family featured in this painting, “They themselves have dug over the earth with the same hands they are poking in the dish.”

Gauguin’s Chair


Embedded in this painting is the angst experienced in a famous friendship Van Gogh had with the contemporary artist Paul Gauguin. The two argued so passionately about art that Van Gogh was moved to create this painting as a disdainful critique of Gauguin’s work. The books in the chair are meant to signify that Gauguin heavily relied on other works of art to create his own. Another dig Van Gogh took at his friend was that he relied on candlelight instead of natural light to create his masterpieces. It is rumored that Van Gogh eventually sliced off his ear because of this heightened conflict. I like this painting because it shows a completely different side of the artist. It reminded me of the debut of Beyonce’s “Birthday” album amidst rumors of her then boyfriend Jay-Z’s alleged infidelity. This painting like Beyonce’s “Birthday” album was half artistry, half confession. This emotional quality of quarrels with loved ones is unmistakably human.


Almond Blossom


The blue in the original work is like no blue I have ever seen before. It’s not nearly as turquoise as this jpeg foists it off to be. It’s almost like a blue sky flirting with the ocean. Van Gogh was moved to create “Almond Blossom” when his nephew was born. All I could think of while I drooled over this work of art was a Van Gogh-blue dress made just for me.




The Garden of St. Paul’s Hospital


Van Gogh wrote of this painting, “You will fully understand how the combination of red ochre, green […] and black stripes used in the outlines evoke the torment sometimes suffered by certain of my companions in adversity.” Not too long after Van Gogh sliced his ear, he admitted himself into a mental hospital. He was known to spend his days in the garden of the hospital painting. Towards the end of his life, he created several paintings a day, many of them artistic representations of his current state. Some physicians described Van Gogh’s condition as epilepsy, by others as bipolar disorder. I was so taken by his commitment to empathize with others, even in suffering. He had this ability to transform negative to positive. In the end, I think this message of resiliency, of transcendence is what he tried so earnestly to convey to humanity in his paintings, these certain souvenirs.

I must give a hat tip to Wikimedia for providing most of these pictures with a happy message that the copyright had expired and that these were free to use for the general public. Additionally, I must offer a disclaimer that these representations are a glimpse of his original work for purposes of explication only.

Thanks for reading. You can donate to RoseGoestoAmsterdam here.

Journeys on the way to Köln, Germany: Familiar Faces in Foreign Places

This is the life. I am sitting in Orloff Café, a trendy natural foods eatery equipped with Internet a few blocks away from my dormitory in Amsterdam. I am currently feasting on tomato soup splashed with pesto and basil. Jack Johnson’s remake of John Lennon’s “Imagine” is playing in the background to my soup slurping and key typing. After perusing U.S. headlines about Jesse Jackson’s gaffe and Nas losing the battle to title his album the N-word, I figure I should supremely update you on last weekend’s trip to Köln, Germany (pronounced like the word Cologne), the Common concert and the many journeys had along the way.

Last weekend was full of ups and downs. For starters, on the way to the train station I got into an all-out brawl with a taxi driver who tried to charge me double the price to get to my destination.

Upon arrival to the train station, I challenged the price. He then proceeded to drive me back to my original destination, the courtyard of my dormitory complex. As I went to retrieve my luggage, which contained among other things my newly copped Parisian dress, he ran out of his car infuriated. Unbeknownst to me, this middle-aged, minimal English-speaking man still expected 75 percent of his overpriced fare!

As I made my way to my dorm to browse the net for the next train scheduled to Germany, the cab driver grabbed the opposite end of my suitcase. After about three minutes of the biggest tug-of war battle I have fought since 7th grade, a student and a Resident Assistant (RA) broke us out of our trance.

While I am Ghanaian by origin, I am a New Yorker by birth. As such, disputes with cab drivers are familiar terrain. But the Parisian dress, language barrier and this man’s aggressiveness severely obstructed any alternate diplomatic route.

After about another 30 minutes of negotiations between me, the cab driver, an RA who was presently subbing as a Dutch/English translator, a Canadian student and the many students who now excitedly watched the outcome of my predicament from their windows, the dispute was settled.

Luckily, considering I had an open ticket, meaning I could take any train that was leaving to Germany on that day, all wasn’t lost. I arrived at the station 30 minutes before the next scheduled train to find out that the train was delayed by another 30 minutes, and it was leaving from Utrecht, a neighboring rural town. As I stared at the digital monitor entertaining the prospect of hanging it up for the day, I was interrupted by a French accent of a man who was equally dismayed by the announcement.

We paired up, and began our search for our train to Utrecht. Cyril was a 30something French ex-pat living in Mexico as a photographer who paid the bills working as a tour guide. His business in Köln was hanging out with old friends before joining his family a few days later for a wedding. I told him about my studies in Amsterdam and the invitation to Köln I received from sorority sisters to attend a concert that featured Common, a US rapper.

We successfully boarded our train, which was a snazzier version of an Amtrak with Greyhound pricing deals, international destination perks and drug-sniffing dogs. Three hours and Cyril’s beautiful photography collection later, I was in Köln in search of another train to my sorority sisters’ hotel in Rodenkirchen, Germany, a town 10 minutes outside of Köln.

Upon arrival, there were name shouts followed by mad dashes to give hugs and jumping up and down in delight. It was the kind of behavior that was standard fare for seeing familiar faces in a foreign country. Our goals: German sausage and a photo-op with the caramel goodness that is Common.

But the first order of business was laying baggage to rest and getting food. Two British men that were our wheels for the evening accompanied my two friends and I. This large group made for great conversation and company until we all had to decide what to eat in a country that was light on their English fluency. It took us 30 minutes to order food. When the meal arrived and everyone had satisfaction written on their faces, I was convinced even further about the abilities of the higher power. We spent the remainder of the evening careening around the city taking in the sights of Germany’s landscape while singing 90s Rhythm and Blues hits.

The next morning, we shrugged off hangovers and were amped to meet the man who represented so much in our coming of age stories. To take an aside, to stress the musical importance of Common, formerly known as Common Sense, one of his first singles “Retrospect for Life” is a song about a man who is told by his partner she is pregnant and has an internal discourse about either sticking around or cutting and running.

The music video walks in the shoes of his partner and the strife she could possibly experience if the father, played by Common, evades his paternal responsibility. The video ends with him coming back joyously to support her in her pregnancy. Back then, it was a bold statement about shared parenthood and the lives of single black mothers, a topic seldom discussed by his hip-hop contemporaries.

Common took other risks in his career in daring to be different with a positive pro-woman message. This is affirmed in the music video for “Come Close” a wedding proposal song that features a man, played by Common, proposing to his deaf girlfriend. This was groundbreaking terrain at a time when women with disabilities were completely invisible in the music video world, let alone proposed to.

What undoubtedly also came to mind that morning as we dressed was Common’s career making song “The Light,” a song with then girlfriend, Erykah Badu about love and mutual respect shared between a man and a woman.

It is true that Common’s releases in recent history have been light on groundbreaking and leaning towards contributing to the worldwide project of hypersexualizing black women in the media. Yet, he still manages to glide above the fray with urban struggle conscious, gender power relations focused content that makes patronizing him irresistible.

So, with these thoughts on our mind, it took us 3 hours to get ready. Each sister pampered the other, shared beauty secrets, offered constructive criticism on skirt/blouse combinations, and threw accessories into the center of the room for the taking.

After we were dolled to fabulousity it was time to eat. The first viable option was a Mexican restaurant, Conchita's Cantina, that cooked the spiciest, best Mexican food I have eaten in a long time. It gave me the mojo necessary to scale the campgrounds of the site of Common’s concert in heels.


Summer Jam was held a few miles away from the center of Köln. The campgrounds were perhaps one of the most hippie-communesque sights I have ever seen. Tents were littered around like the 2006 non-profit experiment for the homeless in France. The attendants were people from all over Germany and Europe who gathered to pay close to 100 euros (about $160) for an entire weekend of reggae and hip-hop. Needless to say, the general population on the ground was roughing it and we were a trio that stuck out like a sore thumb among the barefoot and non-bathed.



As a friend of a friend of one of my sorority sisters were able to offer us complimentary tickets to the concert, our energies were focused on devising a plan to get us back stage. Common didn’t go on until 11:30pm that night so we killed time by socializing, and asking around for the best sausages in town.

That was when I hit another speed bump in my travels. The first place we settled on refused to serve us because of our race and ordered our cab driver to take us somewhere else.

Ouch.

We stayed positive in the face of racism and our cab driver found us a substitute that had the Serena vs. Venus tennis championship match on. We found this ironic considering that Common’s current alleged sweetie was Serena Williams. Then, sadly, I was hit by a bout of nausea and sickness so hard I couldn’t even feast with my companions on the famous German sausage. As they toasted, I kept the porcelain goddess company until my bug cleared up in time to leave. The gregarious bar owner was so nice he agreed to personally drive us back to the concert.


We then all took turns negotiating with different guards to no avail, making progress in some areas, yielding nothing in others. Soon it was time to see him perform. We crossed our fingers in unison and hoped for a strike of luck after the performance.

Sweat poured from him as he gave the crowd his all for what seemed like 90 minutes. We jammed to our 90s hits and bonded with the international crowd in one voice. Before ending, that fateful time came around when Common selected one woman from the crowd to dance with him. We propped up our sorority sister that was the biggest fan out of three of us in the hopes that he would select her. Saaadly, a woman outshined us that was a dead ringer for Lisa Bonet. When she got on stage she straddled Common, much to his delight, and grinded him to the disgust of all the women in the crowd. The Lisa Bonet look-a-like was so overcome with passion for Common that she didn’t notice that her gyrating had exposed her right breast to onlookers in the crowd!

It was a bizarre scene to witness at a concert of a man who was rumored to be joined at the hip with a tennis star that lost her championship a few hours earlier. Perhaps his relationship with Serena had ended. Or, their arrangement permitted this variety of grinding as part of his job responsibilities. One can never tell.

After the performance, we called out to his band after much of the crowd had disappeared. After a few minutes of conversation, the photo-op was ours. However, I couldn’t help but shake the awkward feeling of it all. My feminism rears its head in everything.

Yet and still, I am human.

In the picture below, I am smiling so hard my eyes are blinded and my cheeks are about to snap. Before the picture, Common complimented my outfit and positioned his hunky, masculine hand around my waist before settling on my shoulder. It is a feeling I will always remember with great fondness.




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Paris: French Lessons, Fashion & Food

It all began on a Euroline bus, Europe’s version of the Greyhound sans the Amish and the storytellers. I took the overnight bus with my new friend Christine, a German blonde bombshell from Germany that also attended the Black Europe Program. She was one of the coolest people I had ever met. She got into racial justice after taking classes on something called “Whiteness Studies.”

In any case, half-way there Christine began to inform me about the French’s negative disposition towards foreigners who don’t speak their language. Thus, before we decided to pass out I received my first and only French lesson. After a brief survey of my likes and dislikes we commenced the lesson and this is what I learned:

Bonjour.
Hello.

Au Revoir.
Good-bye.

Bon Soir.
Good Evening.

Bon Nuit.
Good Night.

Oui.
Yes.

Je voudrais un cafe avec un croissant s'il vous plaît.
May I please have a croissant and coffee?

Je voudrais manger des pommes de terre et poulet.
I would like to eat potatoes and chicken.

L'addition, s'il vous plaît.
Check, please.

Les toilettes, s'il vous plaît?
Toilet please?

Je veux partir.
Let us leave.

Ne me touche pas.
Don't touch me.

Ça me plaît pas du tout, sa.
I really don't like that.

J'aime (bien) sa!
I love it!

Jolie (robe) !
Very nice (dress)!

After a few recitations, I was able to dine, shop and exchange pleasantries—well, except with the street harassers. Unfortunately, I had to use my “Don’t touch me/I really don’t like that/Let us leave” combo more times than I care to remember. A pick up line does not suffice for attention getters in the city famous for The Louvre. A “Bonjour” was likely to be accompanied by a grab of the right arm from the opposite sex. Luckily, I am as gregarious as I am diplomatic so I returned to my Amsterdam quarters mostly unscathed.

Dining, however, was quite the challenge. It wasn’t enough that during lunch I agreed to ape the gestures of my voyeuristic colleagues that insisted we eat and watch silently the passerby’s. I tried crepes, espressos sans coffee and bread without butter.

I didn’t get officially burned until dinner the second night I was there. Many who know me know that I am a certified challenge as a restaurant patron. More often than not, what I want is not on the menu. I am beyond picky; I am particularly, particular about my food. In the states, occasionally, I try new things. Now that I am abroad, trying something new is an everyday occurrence. And if the Russian Roulette, euro style, isn’t bad enough, in non-English speaking countries I am required to either starve or completely relinquish control so my fluent, native language-speaking friends can translate all my questions. Embracing patience when something gets lost in the sauce is a tedious task.

And so, I let go and let God when my fried rice, grilled chicken and side salad turned out to be crusty white rice, days old lettuce and slabs of partially cooked, unseasoned, sliced chicken (off of the breast.) To fully grasp my discontent, one must know that my Ghanaian grandmother raised me. She takes more of the attributes of a “Big Mama” than a “Nana.” Thus, she specially prepared most of the food I ate until I was 18. To the non-Ghanaian tongue it’s usually the type of food that requires an abundance of water and milk on-call. Carbs and tomato-based sauces are essential to Ghanaian cuisine. Needless to say, considering that Italy is not on my itinerary, dining is an everyday struggle.

Luckily, I was struck by some good luck that assuaged my meal anxiety. On my way to Paris, my bank records reflected that I had just received my economic stimulus check. Given my distrust for another one of Bush’s gimmicks, I vowed that when I received my money, I would spend it in Europe. And so, my Black European colleagues and I hit the streets for one prize that I could call my own: A Parisian dress.

No complaints here about Paris and fashion. But for me it’s all in the fit, the material and the wear. I ended up settling on a satin orange number that hung in a window at a little boutique called Les Petites. Jolie indeed!

Of course, as I am a sightseer, a lot of my time was spent waiting in line at the Eiffel Tower, which is one of the most wondrous sights I have ever seen. Also, Sunday afternoon I went on a Parisian stroll through one of the national parks. It was a little odd to see what appeared to be an entire community doing Pilates, aerobics, and jogging in the wild. But I guess that’s how they reconcile those crepes and croissants!



Wish me luck! Tomorrow I have my first natural hair appointment in Amsterdam. I have been told it will involve a needle and thread…details to follow.

Thanks for reading. You can donate to RoseGoestoAmsterdam here.

Impressions of the Red Light District

So I am in Amsterdam sitting in Blom, a restaurant that has the best fresh-squeezed orange juice I have ever tasted. It’s a hot, damp day interrupted by the occasional sun shower. Yet it’s as good a day as any to win the war against writer’s block and update you on my travels, thoughts and happenings.

So on to my visit to the Prostitution Information Center (PIC) & Red Light District.

I have long been a proponent of accepting the choices of sex workers, and any woman’s decision regarding her body. But I must admit that I was drawn into a twinge of squeamishness and discomfort. It wasn’t necessarily the scantily clad women. After all, in college I was a full-fledged member of a sorority. Suffice it to say the pajama parties aren’t entirely a myth.

What made me retreat was the entire scenery around sex that accompanies the red light district. Particularly, I am referring to the sexual paraphernalia, the swarms of men and the state sponsorship of it all.

Starting at the end, to fully grasp the state sponsorship piece you must be in the know of the main orders of operation regarding sex work in Amsterdam courtesy of the PIC.

1. You must be 18 or older.
2. You must be a citizen of the EU.
3. Men who approach the door full with neon lights and a scantily clad woman inquiring about a service initiate transactions. If the woman agrees she permits him entrance. If she refuses she closes the door.
4. In your “transaction,” you have the right to refuse breast touching and kissing. (The main services provided are penile/vaginal penetration and felatio.)
5. Payment rates start at 35+ euros for every 15 minutes. (Women of color and Eastern European women generally make less money.)
6. To rent a room/doorway in the Red Light District you must pay 90-120 euros each evening.
7. Each room has a hidden panic button if something should go wrong. (The police response time is approximately a minute and a half.)
8. Each sex worker must be tested for STIs monthly. (This would also technically mean that if a woman contracted something, she would have a strong case to receive disability. However, to my knowledge this has not been tested.)

Also, while the Red Light District appears to be segregated, the state mandates no particular arrangement. It is the women who choose to work beside their friends. And because of the larger de-facto segregation of Western society, their friends tend to be of the same racial or ethnic makeup.

Additionally, while the patrons of the Red Light District are disproportionately men, a select few of the women who work there entertain women and couples. However, I have been told it is unlikely.

My grievances?

My main issue begins with article 2. Over the past two weeks I have been studying Black Europeans and by extension the intersection of race, immigration status, ethnicity and religion. In this course we reviewed much of the scholarship around the oppression of people of color in Europe. One of the distinct differences between the struggle for justice for African Americans and Afro-Europeans—along with that little thing we had decades ago called the civil rights movement—is that citizenship is not always a likelihood in Europe. Bringing sex work back into the fold, one can only wonder how many women of color are instantly relegated to the underground sex work industry and as a result the carnivorous nature of prostitution’s accoutrements because they lack documentation. Citizenship should not be a prerequisite for employment if the state is serious about protecting all women.

Another problem that I have with the state’s sponsorship of sex work is the discrimination against would-be woman patrons and people of different sexual orientations. Currently, the institution of The Red Light District disproportionately privileges heterosexual men with the opportunity to purchase sex. Now, I should disclose that when I talk to folks in my growing Dutch network about my beliefs, they say that places exist within nooks and crannies of Holland that service other sexual demographics. When I requested information about the location of such places, it is lost on them. I should also note that the PIC did not have any information on these places. Bottom line, even if these places exist a service must be provided for people of all sexual persuasions of **equal comparison.** By that I mean it should have all the bells and whistles that accompany The Red Light District i.e. location, diversity, quantity and sexual paraphernalia etc.

And that leads me to the entire sexual environment that Amsterdam reeks of: white, heterosexual, male fantasy. It’s in the postcards of women’s vaginas; The J. Lo sculpture that sits in the main window of Madame Tussauds Museum with two man-hand prints on her derriere; the lingeriesque costumes of every profession that adorn the windows of sex shops. On the occasional instance that women of color are included their representations are often racialized. Subtle references are made to her “spiciness,” “sassiness” or “jungle-like” tendencies.

And what offerings, you ask, do they have for heterosexual women? Well, save the ubiquitous phallic symbols, in a major sex museum on Damrak street, one of their main attractions is a white, bald, hairy, overweight mannequin that snatches open his trench coat to expose himself.

And how can one even begin to speak to the swarms of men from all over the world that are permanent fixtures of the district? Some men approach these doors unashamed of the fact that they wear wedding rings, catcalling at these women, and treating them as if they are sub-human. I witnessed this up close during a recent encounter with a Red Light District patron that did more than ruffle my feathers.

Because of the adjacency of the district to everything in Amsterdam (it’s a 15 minute walk from my house) it’s not unlikely that I’ll be in the neighborhood on my way to make a Chinese food run. On my way to drop off my dry-cleaning late one afternoon, I witnessed two men soliciting a ménage a trios from a worker. She refused and chose not to open her door. The men went on to curse this woman out in Spanish reserving the little English they knew to call her a “skank bitch.” Disturbed, I proceeded to the cleaners with the woman’s powerless expression in my periphery.

Something about it just singed me. There’s no police force with a minute and a half response time for the likes of men who deploy verbal violence. It just seemed so wrong that anyone’s child regardless of her self-identified profession would be deserving of such a derogatory label.

And while this is my longest blog entry to date, it doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface on the issues I must reconcile as a feminist about sex work—state sponsored or otherwise. Over the next few weeks I hope to learn more about the district that Amsterdam is known for. But this time I am not going to rely on the scholarship of a second hand source. I will go to the women in the work. Stay tuned.

Thanks for reading. You can donate to RoseGoestoAmsterdam here.

Brussels, Belgium: The Chocolate Factory Sans Charlie

So I am sitting here eating pan-fried spaghetti—dorms didn’t come with a microwave—from this afternoon’s excursion to Brussels, Belgium. My trip to the Prostitution Information Center (PIC) was postponed to later this week. But I wanted to fill everyone in on my time in Brussels AKA The Chocolate Factory Sans Charlie.

To preface my account of this excursion, I want to first say that I traveled with great anxiety. Many of my family members told me not to go because of the racism relatives had experienced there and the police system’s inattentiveness to complaints of violence and intimidation from skinheads. When I arose at 6:30am on Friday morning, I weighed the costs and benefits. After resolving that I survived organizing in Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida and South Carolina more or less unscathed, I shoved some toiletries and clothes in an overnight bag and made my way on the bus.

Three hours later, I arrived at the Jacque Brel Youth Hostel. Now, this guy is literally the John Lennon of Belgium. His name adorns street signs, restaurants, rooms and buildings. For those of us looking to eclipse our mortality, get the songwriting! In any event, I teamed up with three great girls in my Black Europe Studies group, two of which are based in the United States and the other is in London. Together we staked our claim in various tourist and non-tourist spots.

First item on the agenda: Eat a Belgian waffle. We succeeded in that and I had my very first sampling of Canadian syrup while the others feasted on Nutella and whip cream. The Belgian's take on the ego-waffle that was a staple of my childhood is a meeting between a pancake and a sugar cookie. Us in the United States do not take full advantage of our northern neighbor Canada with regards to their complements to this breakfast eatery. Upon return, I will be hastily crossing the border.

Next order of business was purchasing Belgian chocolate for us and loved ones back home. For this we hit up Leonidas Belgian Chocolates. They are literally the Starbucks of Belgian Chocolate. They had milk chocolate samples that were to DIE for. My mother always tells me that Ghanaians don’t eat chocolate, but I think I am about to call her bluff when I return this August.

We then spent some formal time at the European Commission. Sadly, I nodded off through the 70+ slides in the Power Point presentation on the pledge process that are the EU’s guidelines for rejecting and accepting applicant countries. More criticism to follow on that at another time.

Our travels brought us to immigrant community hot spots on streets like Rue Williams Straat (street) and the most dainty Moroccan restaraunt, Saveurs d'ailleurs. This place was so fly (literally) that pastries were weekly flown from Morocco to be served freshly to a diverse community of locals and European and American tourists.

We also toured the Botanical Gardens which is positioned in Brussels like an island of foliage amidst a sea of Corporate Europe. It was bizarre to see Best Westerns, Sheratons, Hiltons and Comfort Inns dominating in a city with architecture that rivaled Spain. At the gardens, my comrades and I took some time to be present and enjoy the gift of studying abroad. We took pictures of statues that strangely outnumbered tourists, parents pushing strollers and lovers.

Towards the end of the tour we caught a glimpse of the famous urinating boy AKA “mannaken-pis.” Look out Carrie Bradshaw, it is said that he has a wardrobe of more than 600 outfits. Today he donned a uniform reminiscent of an '80s US police officer with hat in tow.

I experienced all this without any racist verbal injuries on my person. The experiences and tastes were well worth the trip!

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Intro to Amsterdam

I can’t believe I am studying Blackness in Europe in Amsterdam.

To tell the whole truth, just a few days ago I was extremely anxious about the trip. I was hit with a wave of panic and suddenly I understood the mentality of the handful of friends I made over the years who once born in their hometowns where there to stay for life. For that brief moment, I ached to prolong the stability I found in my peripatetic life as an organizer.

During that time, I made friends who would ring the 2008 New Year with me in New Hampshire volunteering on the presidential primary, who woke up with me at 5 a.m. to drive to West Virginia to be in solidarity with Megan Williams in the aftermath of her attack, who traveled miles to attend my Ida B. Wells Lecture on the negative portrayals of women and people of color in the music industry.

I wasn’t just bidding farewell to a sexy organizer job in Washington, D.C.; I was saying goodbye to the bazillions of politically minded friends and mentors that nurtured my budding feminism into a social justice consciousness rooted in intersectionality.

Three days before my plane would careen across the Atlantic Ocean, these thoughts would perplex me and fill me with fear.

Beyond the class credits, paid tuition and riveting subject matter three major factors eventually strapped me in the chair.

First, I had incredible support from these aforementioned friends and family. They called to check on me in the days leading up to the trip and many donated financially to my study abroad efforts in recognition of the poor Dollar-Euro conversion rates.

Secondly, I had the spirit of Audre Lorde with me. Her chapters/sermons from her “Cancer Journals” talked me out of using fear as a reason to not take a once-in-a lifetime opportunity.

Lastly, I was swayed by a moment of racial solidarity. The IIE partnered with the National Center for Education Statistics to produce a report in 2006 that stated that although African Americans represent 14 percent of the folks in postsecondary student enrollment, only 3.4 percent studied abroad.

The next thing I knew, I was the only black woman on a flight to the Netherlands.

It has been only a few days and I have already arrived to amazing and challenging sights. First there is the obvious: I am in Europe not Mars. As such, many of the basics still apply. A diamond ring on the ring finger still means married. A rainbow still means queer pride. In the places where I expected Martians there were Subway Sandwich eateries, Kentucky Fried Chicken’s, McDonald’s, T-Mobile stores and advertisements for the Incredible Hulk Movie. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Mayonnaise poured on French fries, the idiotic spellings of Dutch words where vowels and consonants were unabashedly in succession, the engulfing scent of Marijuana and the foreign clothing labels I would have been tempted to double take. Despite the fact that I could kick myself for forgetting my shoe boots, I am warmed by the genuine friendliness and allophilia of the Dutch people.

I am also stunned by the ubiquitous nature of bikes, bodies of dammed water and most of all American hip hop music. In Amsterdam’s equivalent to Old Navy, I heard and saw a music video of Lil’ Wayne’s “Lollipop” in the women’s clothing section. Dr. Dre’s oldie “Let Me Ride” blasted from a Hashish/Coffee Shop while Fergie and Nelly danced in a muted “Party People” music video in the background. Even a store that closely resembled a bodega was blasting Lupe Fiasco’s “Superstar.”

This anecdotal assessment doesn’t even factor in the convertibles and open-windowed ilk who blast the likes of Kanye and Jay-Z in weather that barely grazes 70 degrees. I have also noticed a strong presence of locks, black and white interracial dating and Ghanaian natives who speak Twi, my second language. All this, and I haven’t event visited Bylmer, also known to the Dutch as Bijlmer, which many Black folks that I conversed with on the street identify as “Black Amsterdam.”

I am also intrigued by what I am learning about myself as a first generation Ghanaian American. One of the conveners of my program, who is an educated, extensively published Ghanaian native elaborated on the meaning of my last name: Afriyie. While I knew the general meaning, “from goodness” and “from well,” he offered another analysis. By his account, it meant “right on time.” “When a baby is born at the height of the father’s business,” he said, “they call her Afriyie because she picked the perfect time to come.”

It is my hope that over the next six weeks, my timing in Amsterdam lives up to the true meaning of my name.

Thanks for reading. You can donate to RoseGoestoAmsterdam here.