Every Friday I have lunch with my grandmother. I mean, she’s there. And I’m here. But we’re together. Every Friday at lunchtime.
See, here in Bahia, it’s a custom to serve traditional Bahian food every Frieday: moqueca de peixe, xinxim de frango, feijão fradinho…all of it, goodness, drenched in dendê, in palm oil.
And that’s where I find her.
That’s when I get to thinking about home. Not so much the place, but the concept. Check it. Every Friday I eat traditional Bahian food, developed by enslaved Africans who were remembering where they came from. In so doing, I’m reminded of where I come from.
Sunday afternoons in Brooklyn at Nanny’s house. Precious and Sena blasting Bobby Conners in the back of the apartment (did ya’ll know he’s white?). Monerock yelling for us to take our shirts off ‘cause palm oil stains. Crab. Shrimp. Rice. Cassava leaf. Fufu. Them banging party mints that were really like hard marshmallows. That fruit punch mixed with Pathmark-brand sherbert. The same fruit punch we couldn’t drink during building parties because they added some powerful water that made all the Africans and West Indians laugh and yell a lot. Nanny’s thick Liberian accent offering Cheese Doodles. Us cracking up because we heard “cheese doo-doos.”
And in the maintenance of this custom, Nanny not forgetting Liberia for one second.
Chinaka used to say something about food being a principle manifestation of culture. I was too hard headed too listen…or perhaps my pride rendered me deaf. But this is what she meant.
While I eat Bahian food on Friday, I am remembering 3 times over. You dig? Collective memory is individual memory and visa versa. By remembering my Brooklyn Sundays with Nanny while in Bahia, I the individual am remembering generations of Africans who are remembering home. You with me?
I was reading this joint where this dude was thanking the turtle for teaching us that we must carry our homes with us. I think about that. And I suppose that for African people, our shell, our home, is in our memory. Does this mean home is not to be lived, but only remembered, and as such essentially imagined? I don’t know. But Nanny brought Liberia with her to Brooklyn by remembering. Enslaved Africans brought Africa to Bahia by remembering. And every Friday, when I have lunch with Nanny, my grandmother, I too bring all of this with me.
So what does this all mean? What does a common understanding of home do for folks? And what if people who claim to have the “same” home conceive of it differently? I don’t know. These are just some things I been thinking about. Holler at me and let me know what you think.
-Amari
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2 comments:
word. i'm def trying to take that advice about turtles. and as far as ny goes - i'm out ASAP (why did u let me come here??) where to next? - who knows? but i don't feel tied to any of these lands anymore. it's a good feeling.
I've been thinking about this a LOT lately. Feeling like I need a connection with the past deeper and farther back than the one I have. My history didn't BEGIN with slavery, but I've been told otherwise.
I'm struggling going back because the collective memory of Africa has almost been erased for most Black Americans. Because of that, the individual memory of Africa is nearly non-existent for us. For most, the only thing we share in common with Africans is physical features, and many even run from that.
I know the connection is deeper and stronger than these physicalities, and I'm finding that, for me at least, it grows stronger each day as I become a more spiritual being.
So Africa has not been my physical home, but it in Her I have found my spiritual home. Because home, to me, is a place of nourishment--a well of purity, wholeness, and truth. It's presence has, whether I've been conscious of the fact or not, been strong enough to withstand hundreds of years of brainwashing. It has been strong enough so that through many generations it has resonated and resounded, causing me to remember.
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