5 min. read
Part I |
| (c) Maddi Bazzocco |
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.
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| (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.
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| (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.
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