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!
Thanks for reading. You can donate to RoseGoestoAmsterdam here.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
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.
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.
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