A First Time for Everything: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

(c) Maddi Bazzocco

Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.

The afternoon meal is far heavier than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).

Meal times are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.

Frederick – or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.

I get on well with Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising African children in a predominantly white environment. 

I’m conflicted. I’ve always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one joins.  It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.

In the case of my academic colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the Med.

(c) Patrick Tomasso

It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me (involuntarily)  apart from an otherwise sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.

Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs.  It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice before our combined intervention.

The Hispanophone presentations tend to be better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can better enjoy the rest of the conference.

That same night, a delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East Africa and the British West Indies. She is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.

Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.

(c) Denise Jans

Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed. All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.

On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay). 

On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.

Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to lead it. 

I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!) future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care. 

He speaks of opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.

Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.

It’s a warm day;  a far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.

It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.

A First Time for Everything: Part I

 5 + 1/2 minute read

(c) Dan Dimmock

Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice. 

The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time, I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.  This will be my maiden voyage; the first academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian giant, almost two full decades after my first.

The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms in time for us to be reassured.

Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded. It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel. 

Brigitta invites me to take the window seat on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to this resolve.

The conference will take place in a small city with a large university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly late.

The majority of conference participants are staying in the same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria. 

Each room is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window, on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees. 

The programme begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which almost always overrun.

Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of the frontier.

(c) Rut Miit

The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.  I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels, long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.

By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.)  I’m thus pleasantly surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of them  - universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural inequalities that pervade wider society.

Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate. There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.

African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal). 

Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence movements).

  A few other black participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European representation.

The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding). Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.

Part II

Jam-Packed

 9 min. read

The Equinox is behind us and Northern Hemisphere Autumn is well underway. Whilst I’ll miss the abundant light, longer days and (snatches) of good weather, my memories of summer 2024 might not be as tinged with the usual nostalgia. The season has been challenging for my morale; particularly at its height in August. 

I return from my second excursion to Croatia exhausted.  I-need-another-break-to-recover-from-my-holiday-cliché exhausted. The excess scrutiny from certain yokels contributes to my mental fatigue.  Compared to my first, now almost mythic trip to Croatia, this one is less charmed.  

The exhaustion continues well after my return to Belgium. Post-birthday angst,  about all the things I haven’t achieved at my age, hits with a vengeance. I’ve also not recovered financially as quickly as I’d hoped after years of precarity. Perhaps I was naïve to think it would be that easy. It isn't straightforward moving on without the cushion of savings. Several things I couldn’t afford to do before, important but not urgent, now require my attention. Furthermore, due to a shift in contractual T&Cs and energy companies’ overall greed, I suddenly have a hefty annual electricity bill. 

My anxiety is sky high, leading to a malaise that itself sets off a vicious cycle. I’m too agitated for decent sleep, flooded by invasive thoughts. The lack of rest in turn contributes to the malaise and so on. I’m bouncing off the walls. I continue to go on campus so that I don’t feel too isolated at home. I sense that generally fewer Bruxellois-e-s take lengthy breaks in August. Nevertheless, at one point, there are only two of us in the sizeable open plan workspace.

Despite my efforts to socialise and take advantage of several attractive summer activities happening across Brussels, I still feel intensely alienated. The malaise starts to affect my motivation. The plan is to spend August on focused reading. I make the error of starting with some of the driest and most technical aspects of my studies. In addition, the University requires new PhD candidates to complete compulsory online courses. These are broadly soul-sapping administrative affairs.  Although I power through, all this consumes mental energy that I hardly have to spare. 

(image courtesy of Buzzfeed)

It's an odd experience. The whole concept of summertime sadness has largely been alien to me. I didn’t even know some folk dealt with vernal-related depression until fairly recently. Unlike the gloomy, dark and wet hibernal seasons, how could anybody begrudge light and sunny summer? True, I’ve had the occasional emotionally difficult summer but that had more to do with insufficient social stimulation.  This feels like a different animal, more akin to what I've frequently experienced before spring begins in earnest. 

In any case, this isn’t related to the weather so much as my current life season, notwithstanding the reprisal of my studies. I’m full of gratitude for my PhD adventure; a thick silver lining in my otherwise ambiguously grey Belgian experience.  

That’s another thing I’ve been coming to terms with. My ambivalence towards Belgium isn’t just a passing phase. Nor is it limited to one particular crisis such as a pandemic or job insecurity. 

Whether it’s the bureaucracy, the unimpressive infrastructure (in spite of very high taxes), how hard it is to create a community, or the generalised discourteousness, it’s just not my cup of tea.  That's the verdict after four years of more or less giving it the benefit of the doubt. The benchmark used to be whether I felt better in Belgium than when I left France. For the first time, I must admit a similar disenchantment has set in. And yet the Almighty clearly has plans for me in the Land of Waffles, Beer and Chocolate; at least, for the next few years. I therefore make my peace with it, like being in a (privileged) state of exile. Similarly, the timely reading of A War of Loves by David Bennett helps me be better reconciled with my longer-than-anticipated single status.

Elsewhere, from late summer until well into autumn my diary will be replete with meaningful activity. At the end of August, I attend a well-needed one-day silent retreat. These events are unsettling and emotionally demanding in the most beautiful and constructive ways. The following day, I attend a Pan-African cultural festival to support dance session en masse led by my most talented Afro-Zumba instructor. A number of other regulars from the class also show up. I feel like I'm in a musical. Without a doubt, it's one of the highlights of the summer.

Early September also marks my third trip to the socio-political and cultural festival, Manifiesta. For the first time, I’m more directly involved in organising events which demands a weekend long stay, as opposed to my usual day visit. I book a delightful en suite that alas, I’m too busy to properly enjoy beyond showers and bedtime. En route to the festival on the first day, happenstance would have it that I stumble across Auntie J from the UK, flanked by a couple of mates. Ever since I told her about the festival, she’s been itching to attend. Her initial plan was to bring a sizeable posse but in the end, it whittles down to a trio.

I’m co-moderating a Francophone event organised by peace and anti-colonial campaigners, Intal. The panel discussion covers resource sovereignty in Africa, ever-draconian European migration policies concerning inflows from the Global South, and the success of popular uprisings in Senegal. It’s one of the first events of the festival, so we’re not expecting a big turnout. Yet the room is jam-packed and there’s not enough time to take all the questions during the Q&A session.  The team is left feeling exuberant.

Apart from the illustrious international roster of guest speakers – from UK economist Grace Blakeley to the dynamic Franco-African domestic worker turned trade unionist and politician, Rachel Kéké  – it’s like a Who’s Who from the world of CSO’s and activism on the ground. I bump into many a comrade. Amongst them is Suki, whom I met when I was working on the Equality Pact in Marseille, where she's normally based. She’s since quit the project, disillusioned with management. 

Whilst volunteering at one of the pop-up bars, I serve an American pundit, with whom I’m familiar from his occasional stints on Novara Media. He’s a lot more obnoxious in real life. I meet a Dutch woman who studied Portuguese and happened to have taken lessons with one of my former bandmates from my Bossa Nova/MPB days. I bump into an amiable young Afro-Caribbean fellow whom I recognise from a predominantly black church that I sometimes visit. I’m ecstatic to meet another Christian in this context. I bound over to him, effusive with encouraging words about how important it is for us to be there. Social justice is Kingdom Business too.

Once again, I hang out with some of Jeremy Corbyn’s crew. JC is back this year, promoting a book he’s co-written with one time anti-Apartheid campaigner, ex-ANC politician and vocal anti-Zionist, Andrew Feinstein.  Music is also an indispensable part of the Manifiesta programme, with both local and international guests performing. Tiken Jah Fakoly and the UK rapper-activist, Lowkey are amongst this year's high profile line-up. Intal have invited a musician acquaintance of mine, Diese Mbangue, to perform after he lit up one of our smaller events earlier in the year with a solo acoustic set. For Manifiesta, Diese returns with his full band for what turns out to be an electrifying performance.

A couple of weeks after the festival, I’m off to Strasbourg for the first time since 2021.

En route by coach, I’m witness to a theft in plain sight. At Brussels Midi station, a dubious looking fellow boards the bus shortly after I get on. The inspector doesn't stop him, and yet he has too sketchy an air to go unnoticed. I can't tell if he's about to hold up the coach or have a funny turn. I eventually presume he's legit however, since none of the other passengers intervene when he takes a bag from the luggage rack. Nevertheless, sensing something suspect, a few of them spring to action to check on their own belongings. 

By the time the girlfriend/wife of the unfortunate proprietor realises what’s happened, the culprit is too far and too quick for the couple to chase him down. Her significant other alternates between expletive rage and tearful distress. He exclaims that all his possessions - except his passport - are in that rucksack. After screaming (understandably) at the driver and inspector for their incompetence over security, the couple alight to make what will most likely be a futile police report. I offer to provide a witness statement but the fellow is too distracted. I feel distraught for him, as well as guilty. I was immediately suspicious but didn’t react when none of the passengers seemed fazed.  

Several hours later, an old friend, Françoise, collects me from Strasbourg coach station in the wee small hours of the morning.  Françoise has kindly invited me to stay with her and her bibliophile sister, Magritte. That not only takes care of accommodation but provides plenty of opportunity for Françoise and I to catch-up. (Ironically, although we do have a number of lengthy conversations about the dire state of French politics, the siblings’ favourite 70s and 80s pop/rock bands and Magritte’s enviably vast personal library, I barely update Françoise on what’s been happening on my end.)

The aim is to squeeze in as many visits over a long weekend, as well as to hop across the French/German border for some (still) mouth-watering bargains in Kehl. It’s an overly-ambitious itinerary, which circumstances will curb in an ultimately helpful way. A number of friends happen to be out of town that weekend. Another acquaintance definitively quits Strasbourg for the countryside mere weeks before my visit. The upshot is that I spend quality time with those I do manage to see. In the three years since my last trip there have been weddings, pregnancies, sicknesses, recoveries, trials, tribulations and triumphs.

The weather is marvellous for this time of year; ideal for several wistful strolls through the city. I pass by Temple Neuf for its ongoing weekly meditation session. I've missed it. In the absence of the main pastor, members of the congregation step in to hold a special commemorative service marking the World Week for Peace in Palestine & Israel. I’m somewhat impressed by how much Palestinian suffering is centred; something that is shamefully absent from many mainstream church spaces. 

That same evening, Françoise generously offers to accompany me to the weekly rehearsal of HRGS; the choir to which we once belonged and where we first met. I plan to make an unannounced cameo. A few members are aware I’m in town but I’ve made no official arrangements to drop by. 

We are warmly received. Whilst much of the choir is now unfamiliar, there’s enough of the old guard to bridge the gap between past and present. I’m asked to reprise one of my old solos, which in itself shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’m still more unprepared than I should be. Blame it on nerves, says Françoise. I'd rather not.

Meanwhile, after several of the veterans demand where she’s been, she decides to rejoin the choir. (Privately, she will later divulge that she took an indefinite hiatus by being reluctantly dragged into internal choral politics.)

My visit to my old Strasbourg church becomes fraught for reasons too long to elaborate here. Once again, internal politics to which I’m not otherwise privy are at play. The day is fortunately redeemed by plans to spend the afternoon with erstwhile Strasbourg acquaintance, Sérafine, at her capacious flat in Kehl. She prepares a delicious pasta lunch and we while away hours covering a gamut of weighty themes. Both of us have lived through substantial changes in the intervening years.

I round off my Strasbourg trip by meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi. Dividing his time now between Paris and Alsace, he's obtained a set of wheels for the commute. We catch-up in his car, whilst Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album provides the nostalgic soundtrack to our overdue exchange.

Soundtrack: Timeless by Kaytranada, Milton + Esperanza by Milton Nascimento & Esperanza Spalding and Open Hearts by Joya Mooi.