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.

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