Race in Ghana

I will tell you up front that this column will not offer enough space to present even a beginning picture of the complexity of race in Ghana. I’ll weave observations throughout all of my columns, but consider this a broad introduction.

For starters, you should know that I am white and female. I chose to come to Ghana, in part, because I wanted to experience what it feels like to be in the racial minority. Of course, my experience here cannot compare to that of minorities in the United States; for one, I am still privileged here. There is nowhere in the world that I can go where my white skin will not privilege me. I know I say this with the ease of white skin, but the degree to which whiteness is prized in Ghana is actually depressing. Some Ghanaian men and women use skin-lightening cream to become paler. Even billboards use white models, although the main consumer base is African. In some ways the standards of beauty are different here, but choosing to not use native Ghanaian models denies that blackness can also be beautiful, desirable and elegant.

White women -- or anyone who could be mistaken for white -- are practically idolized in Ghana. It is not uncommon for us to receive marriage proposals from strangers, and when walking through markets I have experienced men reaching out to touch my arms and neck. Existing on this cultural pedestal makes any sort of friendship or relationship with men challenging. I constantly question whether they are interested only, or at least primarily, because I am white. Can they see me as a person, or do they let my skin speak for me?

No matter how long I stay here in Ghana, I could never pass for native. I am marked as a foreigner, and so I feel as if I receive opportunities and favors that I should not be given. I wish I could cast off those distinctions and be here on my own merits, but that is, of course, impossible. I am also conscious that there will be no way to properly convey the complexity of my experiences here when I transition back into my life in the States. If I wear my specially tailored, African-print dress around Tufts, it may be viewed as cultural appropriation. Can I ever earn it? Do I need to? Does bargaining in Twi, building a relationship with a seamstress or riding a packed trotro at rush hour make it any more acceptable? I am wearing this dress not because I seek to make myself out to be African, nor to Westernize something African, but rather out of recognition and love for a culture that I am embracing.

In addition to standing out as I do, my non-white peers deal with their own specific challenges. All Asian-Americans are called Chinese; Latina women are considered white. For black Americans this is no “return to the homeland,” as they come to a place still fixated on whiteness. As much as coming to Ghana has been an opportunity to discover a new culture, it also reflects back onto our own and has spurred me to open important conversations about race. Does being here, as a black individual who has lived in a country that essentially criminalizes blackness, offer any sort of release? Is ethnic diversity desirable in a country like Ghana, where foreign influence usually means dilution of the culture in favor of Westernization? How can I build relationships with Ghanaians without the barrier of my skin color? I don’t expect easy answers to these questions, but I hope my time in Ghana may begin to offer clarity.