An unusual lesson on racial identity.
Who am I?
Well, I knew what I was not.
I am not White!
I demanded it. I said it definitively. I knew it.
At the convent in Jirapa, Ghana, the concrete floor of the outdoor kitchen was covered in ash from burnt coal that fell off the earthen stove. The outdoor kitchen was modest and fairly large; it was fully built from the earth, unfinished wood, and discarded metal. Like all evenings at the covenant, the women were busy preparing dinner meals for the local community. And as for me: I was barely on the threshold of the outdoor kitchen when the Reverend Mother, Sister Marcelina drew up a ratty wooden box to sit beside me. She did not look at me. Instead, she shaved away the skin of yams onto the cluttered floor.
“What has trouble you? What is the matter? Why are you upset?” She grabbed another yam to shave.
I know who I am. I know who I am.
“I am not White!” But this time, I had spoken less confidently than I had in my mind. As usual, whenever my emotions are strong, my hands begin to shake. I tried to say it again.
“I am not White,” I said through very angry tears. “So why do you call me, Nasala?”