From Black man to Black man, I see your smile. I feel your presence. I share your mission. Beyond the typical Western platitudes surrounding protection and provision, the Black men in Ghana take their community responsibility to the next level by stepping into classrooms and into the lives of young people. Biased, as a Black man myself, I admired them, but I could not let my pride turn into romanticization or aggrandizement; these men were not nobles nor were they nobodies. They were just doing their part.
Before we, Americans, cue the dichotomous thinking projected from our manufactured social media gender wars, just know the Ghanaian male educators whom I met embraced interdependence and so, their role alongside, not against, their African sisters.
Education in Ghana is a community responsibility and value, not relegated or allocated to any one gender. In other words, Ghanians were not doing a “man’s job” or a “woman’s job.” Everyone was just "doing the work," the work as in the tangible and intangible contributions to the community. While in Ghana, never did I hear the toxic phrase, "do it for the culture." I just saw Ghanaians doing it for the people.
Of course, I recognize that poverty creates the conditions and terms for such adaptive collectivism. Of course, I recognize that many young people are faced with the difficult choice of going to school or going to help provide for their families. Of course, I recognize my American male positionality will never allow me to fully understand and experience Ghana’s uplook and underbelly, composed of interpolations between joy and (in)justice; between patriarchy and parity; and between imperialism and indigeneity.
In preparation for this teacher exchange experience, I had two guiding questions:
1. How are Black male educators perceived and received, especially in a homogeneous classroom like an all-Black classroom?
2. What (values, experiences, policies) attracts and keeps Black male educators in the classroom?
I believe that my own American experience as a Black body in a classroom for the last 30 years led me to these questions. Oddly enough, those same experiences, good and bad, have kept me in the classroom. Truth be told, I was initially expecting some deep answers, wrapped in African proverbs from the mouth of a respected elder. Many of the lessons learned or “answers” came from my own cultural immersion and introspection.
Implicit in my guiding questions is this inquiry into notions of masculinity, specifically Black masculinity within an educational context. Note: I am not a woman, so I know my perspectives can be and will be partial, particular, and privileged in a patriarchal society. Moreover, I did not want to inquire about Black men at the expense of or in comparison to Black women. I just wanted to know how African men motivated, maneuvered, and maintained themselves within education. Essentially, how do the Black men in Ghana find their place and sense of belonging within schools?
For context, Ghana has clear gender norms, providing clear boundaries, expectations, and social scripts for men and women to respect. Gender is introduced, informed, and enforced by site-specific culture, customs, carriers, caregivers, and consequences. I had my reservations, but I had to respect the rules of someone else's house. Missionary work was not the purpose of my trip, so I could not let my Western views make me judgmental, closed-minded, or sanctimonious. My American female colleagues can give a woman's point of view. Let's just say that I knew my place and the space I was given and allowed to take up in Ghana, as a man.
The Short Answer: so what were your findings (and feelings)?
Although brief, I experienced the “village” and so the “village” approach to education. Black male educators in Ghana were perceived as regular community members; they, like any other adult in the school community, were respected and expected to do right by the kids. For example, discipline or behavior management is a shared responsibility by all adults on campus. Even the snack lady balancing the pyramid of peanuts on her head could put a kid in his or her place. It felt like any and all Ghanaians, young and old, could finish this famous Biblical line: "Spare the rod..."
Moreover, the Black men in Ghanaian classrooms had no ego to (over)state their importance in the education system. From their African brand of filial piety to their Christian ethics and conservative gender beliefs, the men in Ghana did not question their own contributions nor those of their female counterparts. There was no noticeable void or worry about the recruitment or retention of Black men in education. Or, at least their confused faces said so when I posed those questions to them.
In economic terms, there was no premium, high demand, or scarcity of Black male educators; unlike the States, there was no disproportionate displacement or forceful removal of Black men out of classrooms or communities (except for the era of the peculiar institution). For many of us Black men in America, when we leave that classroom, there appears to be no point to return. What opportunities for home-building and healing can materialize when there's no excommunication or expulsion threatening stability in our spaces of family and fellowhsip?
Extended Response: more table-setting...
It would appear that my ensuing reflections come from a place of America-born trauma, excessive comfort, material pacification, insulation, and intellectual indolence. This traveling experience provoked perspective, not pessimism. My intention is not to weaponize cultural comparison and relativity in order to shame others for their respective living situations, for poverty, along with its causes and risk factors, looks both similar and different around the world.
Come to think of it, I just think I have been spoiled rotten in America and by America. I struggle with this dual understanding of "service" in a "developed" country like America. Because of its past and present violence against Black people, America has made it so that I should be an active (Black) man of service and an advocate for my community. Also, because of its past and present violence against Black people globally, America has made it so that I, even a Black man, can sit back passively and expect to be served by the world (or AI). Door Dash! Lyft! Chat GPT! Why even consider contributing consciously when I can just coast, "comatose" and live as a complete consumer of conveniences, which may correlate to the corporate exploitation of (Black) cheap labor.
Even with my two academic degrees from a liberal arts college, I have become more complacent in seeking material wealth over individual and communal health, benefitting from American exceptionalism, and shirking responsibility for further educating myself on domestic and global histories and futures. I would like to remix that Biblical verse: "Spare the education, spoil the man."
That said, in Ghana, the developing global citizen in me felt my privilege, my insecurities, and my paranoia. Case in point, it is somewhat sad to say that I expected the sounds of gunshots when in big crowds; however, no such sounds rang out. It is somewhat sad to say that I was confused when several police officers greeted me with extended hands and arms. For reference, making positive physical contact with a police officer in America is a once-in-a-lifetime event for many Black folx. Historically, I have tried to stay arms-length from the long arm of the law. Lastly, it is very sad to admit that this baggage was not checked before boarding the plane to Ghana.
On the surface, in a society where everyone shared similar hues (not necessarily views), there appeared to be no reason to create red amongst brown or pursue green over brown. No, really! How could I even begin to hurt my neighbor, my brother, my sister, someone who looks like me?! It was my first time in the Motherland, so the foundational teachings of Marcus Garvey and Kwame Nkrumah had me in my feelings (and my thoughts). I had a hard time taking off my rose-colored glasses because I felt so safe, seen, and unhyphenated in Ghana. American privilege, right!? Or was it ancestral connection or diasporic memory? Except for one or two occasions, I rarely worried about my African brothers bringing violence to me, their distant, miseducated “African-American” brother.
Racial identity politics did not show up the same in Ghana as they do in the States. For various reasons, many of us in the States do not know the full story surrounding our individual ancestry and our indigenous tongues, so then conflict, divsion, and planned erasure become opportunistic. I am just tired of bickering over who's more Black or who's more African. In many ways, while we, "African-Americans" (a term I despise more and more) try to find our tribe(s) in the States, America the machine has turned us against one another as pawns and prisoners of tribalism. Two things can be true at once: (Truth #1) we, Black folx, are not a monolith and so not immune to disagreement. (Truth #2) We cannot simultaneously take on two enemies: ourselves and white supremacy.
Please just answer the questions.
I had to give this context to help you understand how stability, consistency, and security become principles associated with the Black men in Ghanaian classrooms. It is not that type of"security," nothing about physical strength. America the machine has masterfully marketed via music and motion pictures the denigration and division of Black men and Black women. I do not have to go far to hear the racialized character assassination (not to be confused with or disguised as "constructive feedback"), coming from not only non-Black people but also Black people, themselves.
It is to the point that many Black boys in America struggle to have positive contact with one another without saying "No Homo!" "Beta," or some other internet-based shaming term that undermines or desecrates their desire to connect authentically--what is more divine and powerful than authentic connection? The Black men in Ghana countered this American narrative by showing brotherhood amongst Black men from different ethnic groups and tribes.
Everyone whom I encountered, regardless of nationality–Ghanaian, Nigerian, Somalian, Ethiopian– regardless of social status–beggar, chief, pedestrian, teenager, teacher,—everyone always started with “welcome back home” and ended our short exchanges with “we are one!” And yes, they referred to me as Rasta due to my long locs and always conveyed their solidarity with a show of their index finger, as if to say “one love.” Wishful thinking, I know. Excuse my idealistic thoughts.
All this to say, that every Black male educator I met in Ghana acknowledged me no matter where I was on campus, from the classroom to the administrative offices. We greeted one another as if we had known each other for years, and kids rejoiced at such a sight. That little “what up” head-nod or two “peaceful” fingers signaled to everyone that this environment is safe, the community members are well-intentioned, and the energy is inviting. No threats here, just security.
For the kids, watching two Black male educators dap it up is like “Wow, Black Panther’s cool with Static Shock.” From a student point of view, there has to be some comfort and security in knowing the adults, male or female, in one’s school community consistently show love for one another openly. Any and all students deserve to witness healthy adult interactions, and educators everywhere are called to model prosocial behaviors not only to combat antisocial behaviors reflective of an unstable world but also to celebrate togetherness, especially in a world where colonization and corruption make people think twice about reaching out. That visual of togetherness and closeness encompasses two secure people or pillars leaning on one another to make structure. I know from my own personal and professional experiences that positive outcomes for youth are ascribed to stability and structure in communal spaces (i.e. home, classrooms).
Black Male Honesty: "Poverty is not an excuse!"
exclaimed one of the highest education officials in Ghana. When our cohort of American teachers met this charismatic 6'4 Ghanaian man with his nice suit and elite salesmanship, he gave us one of the more inspiring life stories and memorable quotes of the trip.
In spite of certain safety and stability issues outside the classroom, the male educators in Ghana used their blunt but loving communication styles as seen in formal class discussions, informal comical banter, and their unique call and response practices to make the classroom more vocal, more vibrant, and more valuable. Many of us Americans associate discipline or “tough love” with male educators, and I think that is unfair both to the male teachers and the students, as if men are not capable of being tender, loving, and caring. I noticed that the Black male educators in Ghana were honest, direct, and responsive in their communication. The decision, the act, and the courage to be a genuine, steadfast professional in front of adolescent eyes is tricky, but I noticed that students appreciated when their teachers did not coddle them or sugarcoat feedback.
Being either genuine or honest does not necessarily mean being forceful with beliefs or belittling students. The honesty shown by Ghanaian men in classrooms contributed to a certain level of respect necessary to building strong bridges and boundaries. No stable home or community can be sustained on lies, superficiality, or delusion.
Healthy Gender Interactions: kiss the hand
To provide a fuller picture, I had heard rumblings about inappropriate interactions between female students and grown men at other schools. I personally did not see any problematic behaviors at the schools I visited; however, my lack of evidence does not rule out the presence of sexual misconduct. I also did not go into this experience on a witch hunt.
While I did notice some male posturing amongst men on campus, I also got to see the way men honored their female coworkers. In fact, the Ghanaian school in which I did my student-teaching and observation had a headmistress.
Without knowing who she was, I could tell this lady was the Boss, the Queen, the MADAM (pronounced MAH-DUM). "Headmistress Madam" is the type of woman whose hand you'd kiss upon bowing your head...the type of woman whose lovely voice made other people shush other people... the type of woman who reminded you of that Big Mama or that Auntie who stole parts of yo' soul if you "forgot how to speak" after dragging your dirty ol' feet into her house. All "Madam" had to do was give you that "I wish you would" look. Yep, that one. Raised eyebrows and all.
You better believe Madam had my respect. Nonetheless, she was all-business and all-love with her staff and her students. Just know, it felt as though she'd fight off thieves in the streets for you but also curse you if you crossed her the wrong way. In fact, I watched her scold a photographer trying to upsell and scam my American colleague. In her native tongue, she reminded the man that “ We don’t do that to our own people and our guests.” After the tongue-lashing, Madam even paid the man, of course at a rate she felt fair. Standing with her, the men were ready to defend Madam. Whenever she sat down, whether in her office or at brunch, men and women approached her with this humility, respect, and lowkey readiness to serve. There was just this respect for one's elder and one's superior, regardless of gender.
Being raised by a Black mama, a Black grandma, and a Black leather belt, I am no stranger to firm female leadership, which laid the foundation for a kid's "home training" as my mama calls it. Speaking of healthy gender interactions, my step-father had no problem passing that fine strip of leather to my mother.
Keepin' It Real: what about them kids?
There's much to be said about the temperament and character of the students. When trying to survive let alone thrive in less than ideal living conditions, one develops a deep intimate relationship with objective reality. It is a fact that many families in Ghana do not have running water or sanitary sewage systems. It is a fact that some schools are in underdeveloped open-air buildings. These are facts, not fates. The students in Ghana never complained. They understood scarcity of resources as a state, not a state of mind.
I did not grow up in abject poverty, but I knew my living conditions as a kid were not sustainable for a good life. The Black men in Ghana echoed the same “keep it real” sentiment or transparency that my own parents communicated nightly over dinner. Their honesty did not include oversharing confidential details, indoctrinating me, or vitiating me but rather empowering me to understand reality as a hard, cold cinder block wall, resilience as my backbone, and my mind as my muscle to stretch myself and get my Black ass off that wall (not behind it like so many brothas, sons, and fathers).
The kids in Ghana are built different because of their circumstances. In some ways, many kids in Ghana do not have the "luxury" of being fragile, idle, self-indulgent, pretentious, and terminally online or potentially out of touch with reality offline. I saw a young man wash and dry clothes by hand; I'm talking this thin wiry teenager perched and scrubbing dirty shirts, underwear, and dresses in a little wash tub. Over the course of an hour or so, I casually observed this focused young man rinse garments with no phone or device in sight. This type of concentration is understandable given the fact that students are accustomed to hours of lecture in their K-12 classes. Heck, I watched young people of various ages walk up and down busy Accra streets to make a quick sale. There's no way or reason to lie or fabricate reality when people are in the trenches, moving in and out of survival mode.
Adult transparency invites adolescent self-accountability. The transparency gives students the opportunity to be honest with themselves and others. That transparency can steer kids toward more agency and ambition and further away from apathy and victimhood. With this village approach in mind, I do believe that kids are positively responsive to and reflective of the stability and structure created by adults. Moreover, depending on the level of self-honesty and self-responsibility instilled in them, kids play a pivotal role in either preserving a space to be sacred and stable or destabilizing a space into disorder. For example, I respected the fact that my host school in Ghana had some philosophy and policy around students cleaning the campus out of community interest, not disciplinary consequence.
In stark contrast, American classrooms can be and have been hostile territory for both teachers and students, thus causing teachers, students, and families to become more voiceless, more vulgar, and or worst of all, more violent—physically and politically.
The Black male educators in Ghana made me realize that the "village" is not just adults and that students should not just be consumers of resources; the students are also villagers who should go from dependents to developers; from infants to investors, from beneficiaries to benefactors, maybe not in terms of money but sweat equity, in order to have a classroom and community that sustains its members.
Cracked Mirrors and Windows: final reflections
In my pursuit to understand how Black male educators in Ghana effectually contribute to the home-making of a classroom and a school, the window-mirror metaphor slowly moved into my thoughts. I was a guest but “back home.” I was looking through the windows into another’s world and worldly view; however, the colonization, the colonizers, and the consequential crippling of communities gave me this unsettling sense of familiarity, especially when my own toes had touched but never crossed the Door of No Return.
In the eyes of those teachers and students, I saw my own reflection. I did not want to call them “family” because of an ugly coercive shared past; I wanted to call them family because we’ve been overdue for a reunion and because we'd fare better together protecting our ancestral ways from the invasion of foreign politics and policies that have rarely served our families and communities. The structure, stability, and security of Black communities in America have been broken, sold out, and trivialized into no more than 30-second skits, balloon-popping, and "alpha-male" podcasts. Plus, it is not the job of Black people globally to hold a mirror up for people to see the anti-blackness, the white supremacy, and the steady plutocracy.
For two weeks, I was a wondering witness, an elementary ethnographer, a culturally sentient being, whose brown skin, European tongue, and American nativity afforded him some access, some diasporic familiarity, and the opportunities to envision and experience himself and his Blackness almost anachronistically.
I did not have any transformative professional revelations regarding my guiding questions because of the differences and similarities in history, culture, and values. If anything, I just needed to see my African brothers in action; that global connection is priceless.
Well, I guess there's one major personal revelation. Combining self-accountability and community uplift, I realize that one of the best ways to make Black communities and the world a better place starts in the home, meaning I must work hard to not only build a stable, secure romantic and working relationship with my wife but also prepare my future kid to become a pillar of the family and then a community-builder. In other words, for my own kids to have home-training, I need to make sure I do the home-building.
A Black family in tact is one of the Black community's greatest assets for our own protection, preservation, and prosperity in the Wild Wild West. America the machine has controlled Black folks domestically and globally with its currency via debt enslavement, taxes, and inflation to the point that the almighty dollar features the familiar faces of a peculiar economic polytheism and paternalism. Furthermore, the future is not Black men or Black women. The future is stable Black households. Again, I ask, what is more divine and powerful than connection?
From Black man to Black man, I see your smile. I feel your presence. I share your mission.
Africa really did bring me back home.
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Disclaimer: The author of this publication/website/blog/etc. is a participant in the 2023-2024 Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms Program, a program sponsored by the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs with funding provided by the U.S. Government and administered by IREX. The views and information presented are the grantee's own and do not represent the U.S. Department of State, the Fulbright Program, or IREX.
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