Written on April 9th, 2020.

I am writing this entry in early April 2020 and posted a photo from February 17, 2020.

If and when we look back at this photo in a few years, the dates might seem quite insignificant.

However, it is very important that I timestamp this entry.

Why?

I'm writing it at the height (beginning? middle?) of a global pandemic.

A pandemic where terms like "social distancing," "flatten the curve," "N95," and "speaking moistly" are entrenched in our daily (Canadian) vernacular.

So why this photo?

A key purpose of this trip was for us (i.e. the white folk on the trip) to understand our positionality and whiteness within white supremacist systems of oppression (or racist power through racist policies). We (I in particular) had some tense conversations about 'non-Blacks' engaging in 'Black' topics/history/discourses.

I wanted whites to not only understand their (white) privilege, but to feel it.

But how can I reposition (reimagine) this photo in the context of my own privilege?

There is a growing conversation (and rightfully so) on the dispropotionate impacts of this pandemic on Black people in the United States. And a growing conversation on the lack of information on the impacts of Blacks in Canada.

But what about all those folks that we met in Accra, Cape Coast, and Kumasi? Those whose livelihoods depend on a tourism industry that is practically non-existent?

What about the owner (and my friend) of the company that exceeded our wildest dreams, who is smiling in this photo? What about our driver who did a phenonemal job navigating the traffic-jammed streets of Accra so we could take a photo?

This is where I have to pause. And bring forward an intersectional mea culpa of my privilege as a member of the intelligentsia.

Yes, I am Black.

Yes, folks that look like me are dying at much higher rates due to this virus.

Yes, folks that look like me are risking their lives providing 'essential' services, so I can order groceries online and be 'safe.'

Yes, folks that look like me in Canada, and across the globe, are losing their jobs and livelihoods due to the economic fall-out of this pandemic.

But, like the (white) folks on this trip, I must sit with the fact that I'm living (and writing this post) in relative security.

I have a job (in two industries that typically weather the impacts of an economic downturn).

I can distance socially.

I can afford (literally and figuratively) to withstand a recession.

I am Black.

But...

...I will be okay.

I can't say the same for the happiest person in this photo.

My visit to the Assin Manso Ancestral River Site was an emotional part of the trip.

Our guide Kwome Azuma, took us through a vivid walk to the river site. I was amazed to think that the enslaved people who had experienced such a long, harrowing journey still had strength and energy when they arrived at that spot.

It would have been interesting to know if the original captors accompanied these enslaved people all the way, or if there was a plan to hand them over to others at specific points on their journey.

I felt a sense of closeness when I touched the water. As I left the river through “the gate of return,” there was a feeling of hope.

Seeing the burial place of the enslaved African-American and the enslaved Jamaican really connected with me. I felt even more connected when Kwome Azuma informed us that the burial place under construction would hold the remains of an enslaved person from Barbados.

Our small talk in the bright, open, and white-walled Accra International Airport was to the sound of live jazz--“I’m Emma, I’m in the second year of my Bachelor of Arts undergrad, I’m majoring in Anthropology and minoring in History.” But why was I in Ghana? Well, because my interests and values brought me there. My values as my guiding force, and my interests piqued by aspects of my identity shaping my experiences, this felt like a big conversation for a group who just travelled for thirty hours. Not too big for here, however.

The more technical answer is that I was in Ghana for quasi anthropological fieldwork. It was an opportunity for me to practice core anthropological theory and method, such as ethnographic research, which catered to mine and my professor, Dr. Jennifer Long’s, interests in racism and whiteness. We would partake in guided Heritage Slave Trade Tourism (in anthropology we call this “participant observation”) and write about our experiences in a personal tale afterward (aka this blog).

In Anthropology we call a personal tale something a little different: an autoethnography. Autoethnographies are qualitative, focusing on first person writing to explore personal experiences in relation to greater social, cultural, and political meanings.

Welcome to my autoethnography, the subject? Me, a white Canadian woman analysing her relationship to spaces in the country of Ghana. The purpose? To critically analyse white identity in spaces with racial context through my experiences with physical and emotional feeling to what I hear, see, taste, smell, and touch.

After weeks of planning and reading in Critical Race Theory (CRT), Black Feminist Thought (BFT), and a little in Critical Whiteness Studies (CWS), we had arrived. The sticky Ghanaian heat which had my clothes clinging to my body the moment we walked off the plane reminded me of back home, in Edmonton, Alberta, about a week before.

I was in my local gym, nude and wrapped in a towel, sweating in a small steam room shared by another white woman. Our small talk was about the books we each were reading, mine being Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi provoking the conversation of my oncoming travels to Ghana. “Why are you going to Ghana?” she asked, shortly followed by “is it for volunteerism?” You see, this question served as a signal of this woman’s conceptualizations of the world. In order for you to understand what I mean, I must take you back in time and explain a bit of myself.

Stick around and you will learn about how I locate myself in this autoethnographic work, and why it is important to do so.

Pre-trip preparation is always a fun time. For all of January, Jenn and I debated what clothes to pack for our travels throughout Ghana. It wasn’t just the heat and mosquitos we were worried about, but how to NOT look like problematic white people in Africa. You might be surprised how quickly your wardrobe starts to resemble the exterminator from Jumanji (1995) when trying to find comfortable, cool and inconspicuous clothing for the heat and coverage. We knew we would stand out for being white, but we didn’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves with our clothing.

For me, a part of this deep concern for how my white identity might be perceived or impact harm on others can be drawn back to my desire for personal psychological improvement, and the first years in which I learned about anti-racism, which was namely through social media. For the purposes of this blog, I will refer to my online learning as “Mainstream Anti-Racism” or MAR for short. While learning MAR, I also began to learn about CRT, BFT, and CWS through school, which, it is my understanding that is theory of which much of MAR is drawn from. However, what I consider as the key difference, is the platform. I found MAR on social media, specifically Instagram. I read of theory from strangers online, essentially.

Before getting to the psychological, I want to tell a bit of my MAR learning journey.

I first encountered intersectional feminism for the first time on Instagram, which lead me to MAR, where I would learn of systematic and systemic racial inequality, and eventually white supremacy. White supremacy, as defined by anti-racist educator Layla F. Saad (2020), is:

“a racist ideology that is based upon the belief that white people are superior in many ways to people of other races and that therefore, white people should be dominant over other races. White supremacy is not just an attitude or a way of thinking. It also extends to how systems and institutions are structured to uphold this white dominance. (p. 12)”

Later and through anthropology at MacEwan University I learned that “race” as a concept was not biologically real. There is no scientific evidence to support the notion that within the human race there are sub-races. In fact, scientific evidence indicates that despite how different we may appear, our biological makeup is nearly exactly the same.

What I would later learn in my studies of history and anthropology, is that white supremacist ideology was at the foundation of much nation-building, and as such it still remains in place all over the world today. I could not believe it! Not only was the world structured by white supremacist ideas, but white supremacist ideas that were based on false science that everyone believed in without even realizing they believed in it. And that there were subdisciplines organized around the dismantling of white supremacy from academia and law (CRT, BFT, and CWs), surprised me even more.

My shock indicated my privilege. I had gone twenty years of my life not thinking about how my white skin shaped my experiences, yet pulling on racial stereotypes to understand BIPOC experiences. For folks who are racialized, that is, assumed a certain race based on their physical features or “identity markers,” they experience daily ways in which their race matters, and moreover is the reason for their being harmed.

After that, I didn’t just want to make myself a better person, then, but a better white person. I began to value self-awareness and self-criticism more and more.

My realization of my white privilege in academic work also marked a shift. The culmination of my knowledge both inside and outside of academia resulted in an epiphany moment: who I was didn’t just shape my experiences, it shaped how I accessed and retained knowledge. My education had been so white up until the moment social media allowed me access to the vastly diverse and complex marginalized voices, that I didn’t even realize there was a problem. Thankfully, Black, Indigenous and People of Colour (BIPOC) told me all about such problems.

What did it mean, if at the very basis of my knowledge, was my whiteness? Where else was my whiteness shaping me, without my knowing? Where else were other privileges shaping me, saving me, protecting me, helping me without my even knowing? I would have to be aware, all the time, and it would take practice but ultimately lead to good things.

This is why I grew to love anthropology, its basic component being self-reflexivity. Researchers in the discipline aim to first, display how their social interests brought them to their academic niche, and second, acknowledge how their social position and identity influence their findings (Hartigan, 2015, p. 198). As I learned about self-reflexivity I felt a sense of pride. I thought that this is something I had been trying to do for a long time, but on and psychological and personal level.

What I did not yet realize is how MAR and my self-improvement efforts would shape me in ways I only know through retrospection, of which the following posts will attempt to grapple with.

In case you missed it, the end of my last blog wrapped up with a content warning. As the purpose of these posts are to dissect my whiteness, they could be triggering or infuriating to a Black, Indigenous or Person of Colour (BIPOC).

I wrote extensively about my experiences in Ghanaian spaces while centring my whiteness in relation to the space. I even wrote about the plane ride from Amsterdam to Accra, and how it was my first time being a minority on a flight. Was it a coincidence that on a mostly black occupied flight, that a white, Jesus-looking bearded fellow preached Christianity from the plane pulpit (I mean the open space next to the bathrooms)? I don’t think so.

I wondered deeply about how my whiteness shaped how I felt and interacted in said spaces, and I questioned every discomfort I felt or assumption I made without thinking. There was so much to dissect, and what I found was this repetitive thought process in which I identified a racist behaviour, classified it under MAR’s (Mainstream Anti-Racism's) racist typology, criticized myself for doing it despite knowing better, inheriting the shame and guilt associated with that, then moving on to the next racist behaviour. This loop was present from our first day in Ghana.

It was the first night we had sat together as a group after a day of touring. I had experienced black brilliance all that day, having visited W.E.B. Du Bois’ former home and now museum, the Diaspora African Forum, and an international elementary school. In learning of the Pan-African movement, and in Du Bois’ renouncing his US citizenship to return to Ghana, I felt inspired.

One of the members of our group had worn a shirt during our travel days which read something like “I am my ancestors wildest dreams,” of which a similar quote was printed on the cement wall, where members of the black diaspora had their names plaqued to mark their return home. It felt symbolic. The resilience and resistance was awe inspiring. But my thoughts had been spiralling: how much brilliance I, as a white person, was allowed to celebrate. There had to be a balance, right? I needed to also acknowledge my European ancestors efforts to stifle any resistance, to perpetuate violent white supremacy.

I did my best to be present that day despite my thoughts. I tried to feel the rooms where Du Bois once sat. I thought about my whiteness there, and what it meant. Did it mark a societal shift that Du Bois may have hoped for, where white people came to explore and acknowledge our shared history, while also acknowledging the truth of our role in that shared history?

Instead of bringing up this question, instead what I found myself doing that evening with our group was expressing the guilt I had carried that day, for the violence of the past and present. It wasn’t long before other BIPOC group members were saying that white folks should not feel guilty for the actions of their ancestors. This is an occurrence I had heard all about in online MAR spaces called white guilt. This is where a white person (me) expresses guilt in order to receive forgiveness from BIPOC, which requires some form of emotional labour on their end. I had watched many a white woman be shamed and ostracized in online spaces for this behaviour.

The thing is that, I felt I needed to say this, despite knowing exactly what I was doing. Why? Perhaps, more so for myself. I had never allowed myself to acknowledge this guilt I carried because I was taught that in expressing it I was a bad ally. But I had always felt it, and in ignoring it, it grew.

I think I felt safe there, with our mixed group, to finally say this and be heard. I was heard and met with compassion, of which I am grateful. While online, I had watched white folks be shamed ruthlessly for expressing their guilt, despite having no understanding of how their behaviour was problematic and harmful. Was I more violent for doing it with awareness? Possibly. I left the group discussion feeling shame for having asked it.

The truth was, and is, that I have always carried guilt and shame. Even before my involvement in MAR, guilt and shame had presented themselves in my life. I learned such emotions as natural responses to my existence as a kid. They have been the main forces which shape my behaviour. They are, in a sense, part of my identity. However, this is not something I had quite realized yet, and wouldn’t until a counselling session in early April.

Thus, what I didn’t recognize then was the small steps I was taking in the direction of my healing, however, at the expense of the BIPOC folks on our trip. I was acknowledging my feelings. This is something that going forward I know better than to do again in a space with BIPOC. But I had, in a sense, finally relieved myself from the guilt which had been effectively inhibiting my participation in meaningful and tangible anti-racism work.

I wrote about this in my journal, and as I had learned to do as a child, I found new guilt to carry. Instead of recognizing the opportunity to heal, I found shame in the expression of my guilt. Shame on me, I shouldn’t have involved BIPOC like that, indirectly requiring their forgiveness. I should have expressed it and found support in the white folks who may or may not have been feeling the same. This brought guilt, though I knew I shouldn’t be feeling it, because it was an unproductive emotion. Jenn and I had beat this dead horse in the past, guilt was not productive. But I felt it! And felt more guilt for feeling guilt in the first place!

This was despite having spent four years learning, being self-critical and aware to the best of my ability, and having Jenn by my side to hold me accountable. I had exactly what I needed to be a better ally, and yet there I was struggling.

Despite the cyclical and seemingly unproductive thought processes I was experiencing, there was still much opportunity to learn and grow in other ways. Our travels every day did just this, and Jenn and I would fill some of our longer bus rides with chats about our whiteness as we had noticed it presenting in our relatedness to space.

While in and around Kumasi, a city located in central Ghana and home to the Asante people, I learned of their culture and history.

I wondered at how much Ghanaian cultures had been adapted for the white gaze in a tourist economy, and how much of their history was made more palatable to our Western worldview so that we would spend money. The same can be said for tourism around the world, where culture is performed and sold as part of a capitalist economy.

In the context of Ghana, where European’s came and then enslaved and sold the black body for profit hundreds of years ago, how did the meaning of a tourist economy change to reflect such a history? Ethnic groups who sell their culture often do so for livelihood, so the relationship between buyer and seller is at its core a power imbalance. The buyer, white or not, is exploiting a person and their economized culture for material gain. What if a buyer is a white European?

Add in there a globalized white supremacist societal framework undergirded by the ideology, and the power imbalance will increase. Groups or communities who sell their culture for the tourist economy may do so out of a desire to share, but how much more likely is it that they resorted to such a livelihood as a result of their countries economic ruin post-colonialism? And what does my participation in that economy mean? Can it be ethical?

This feeling felt further confirmed on one bus ride, where our tour guide, Mussah, told us about how the highly marketed and successful DNA testing for your genetic or ancestral makeup helped the tourist economy in Ghana. He said that many people on his tours did the test, found a percentage of their ancestral lineage Ghanaian, and made the choice to “return home.” I asked if this included white people, and he said most.

How villainously ironic is it that European’s colonized West Africa, enslaved black bodies to sell in the slave economy, earned massive amounts of wealth off of such while destroying the communities left behind, and when they no longer could reap the same profits, left the often devastated nations to fend for themselves, only for European descendants to return hundreds of years later on the premise of “getting in touch with their heritage” as per pseudoscience through buying African culture from an economy built on said ruins?

There is so much room for white shame and guilt in these conversations. Well, there was for me, and I wonder about other white people’s experiences. Perhaps it was because of my lack of cultural connection, that the first time I heard of my European ancestry was in their participation of a slave economy, in creating social Darwinism, in building Western knowledge which centred the white experience and excluded others, in building an economy that exploited land and people and women and children. I wasn’t proud, I was ashamed and sad. And such feelings only exasperated my guilt and shame further.

I have grown to believe that many Mainstream Anti-Racism (MAR) online spaces can be toxic and ineffective in helping white people deal with their racism. This is not to say that Black, Indigenous and People of Colour’s reactions to white racism are unfounded. However, when white people who are called-out and publicly shamed for being racist, what if they suffer from mental health issues? I can’t imagine how they would possibly and magically see through their racism, overcome it, and become a better person through such a dynamic. What I can imagine is their doubling down on their white supremacist ideology.

It is important to acknowledge the reality of online anti-racism as a space of learning. Social media has proven a revolutionary tool for marginalized voices to be empowered and heard. This means that more and more white people are being confronted with a narrative which challenges their colour blind existence, where race has never mattered. What happens when white folks go into MAR online spaces with the baggage of their mental health issues? Read the comment sections and you will know.

I wonder how this fits in with Jenn’s idea of a “white adjacent space.” Perhaps this is the space where white folks can centre their emotional relation to their anti-racism work. They can learn about issues of race, racism, and white supremacy at societal levels somewhere that holds space for their individual emotions of which such learning provokes. By separating ourselves, we avoid harming the BIPOC, who understandably should not be asked to hold the capacity, patience, or strength to make space for white emotions of their racism. In remaining adjacent, we avoid falling back into a white worldview.

I see now that in every turn I took, my mental health issues were right there and ready to greet me. How would I miss this in a discipline and area of knowledge which centres identity epistemologically? My guilt and shame, very individual emotions, were interacting with my understandings of societal, or collective, workings.

Critical Race Theory, BFT, Critical Whiteness Studies, and MAR all tell us to locate ourselves in the work. We are asked to identify how our physical identity shapes our lives, whether through our skin colour, gender, ability, eye shape, hair texture, or dress influence others perceptions and relations to us, and in our relation to them and the spaces we are in. We are asked to identify our identity in relation to our history and the present, in our home, at work, at school, and in public spaces, and in greater society.

But not once do we think to ask how we might need to help ourselves, first. How many people do you know who cross your boundaries? Who don’t establish their own boundaries? Who don’t understand boundaries? Who let people cross their boundaries every day? How many people do you know who can’t talk about their feelings without getting angry? Who can’t foster emotional connections? Who run from commitment? Who project their insecurities through the judgement of others? Who are unwilling to listen to criticism? Who are stubborn? Who are scared? Who are unwilling to be themselves?

Everyone knows someone, and everyone is someone.

How can we ask white people to be introspective and acknowledging of their racism, without acknowledging the personal work required to create a head space where we can think critically of ourselves and of society? Without doing so, is it possible that we will somehow project our personal struggles into our anti-racism efforts in a way that will lead to harming BIPOC? Is that what has already been happening?

I think that as white women we must be willing to change and grow if we’re going create tangible anti-racism change. We must be open to introspection, reflection, and criticism. And most of all, we must be compassionate toward ourselves and others. Without compassion, the weight of our struggles and mistakes can become too much to bear, and shift into devious forms like guilt or shame, and believe me, those emotions won’t get you anywhere. And we cannot expect BIPOC to hold compassion for us. If we are willing to acknowledge our emotional relationality to anti-racism, then we must acknowledge how those on the receiving end of racism might experience white people in anti-racism spaces.

Going forward, I look forward to exploring how anthropological knowledge regarding social relations might be incorporated with the emotional response of guilt and shame.

If anyone is familiar with any overlap between anthropology and psychology, I would be very interested to hear more!

But I heed Jenn’s warning, and hope others would do the same. Psychology as a discipline is that of Western science, carrying with it the weight of colonial, patriarchal, and capitalist thought