It hit me the hardest when we were in that small room at the Coconut Grove Hotel. Just hours before we finished visiting Elmina Castle, the largest and oldest slave trading port in the world. It was an emotional day for me. It’s one thing being in a classroom learning about the horrific conditions that your ancestors had to forcefully undergo, but it’s another thing walking through their dungeons. Feeling their sorrows with each step, as if their pain was still encased within the walls.

I couldn’t speak during the tour. I couldn’t think. There was a pain deep inside my heart that I couldn’t explain. I was angry. I was hurt. I didn’t want to be there.

I boarded the bus in silence, where life seemed to resume for my peers. They were laughing and joking as if everything could go back to normal. For me, nothing would ever be the same.

We sat in a circle in that small room. I was ready to stay silent. People were periodically sharing their thoughts about how they felt. I shouldn’t feel obligated to speak. My entire life was spent in awkward history classes, where my classmates would stare at me with curious expectations whenever slavery or segregation was mentioned. I was the light skin Black girl who could say things in a way that would make the White people feel comfortable, to put them at ease. It was my own form of light skin privilege that gave me a voice to speak and people would listen.

I wasn’t the “angry” or “hostile” Black girl that contributed to the stereotypical narrative that they had formed in their heads.

I refused to be that person again.

So, I sat, and I counted down the seconds until that meeting would be over and I could go back to my room. I felt this nudge inside of me that I couldn’t avoid. I kept seeing the faces of my family before me, even ones that I couldn’t recognize. They were all silenced. They didn’t have my opportunities. They didn’t know my privilege. They all couldn’t speak.

So, I did.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have the pretty and poetic words to fill the space. I didn’t have the eloquence that put everyone at ease. I struggled to get the words out. They were rough and disgruntled and angry. I don’t remember what I even said. I just remember the truth. I remember saying that I saw my family, my sisters, my dad in those dungeons. I remember knowing that in another place and in another time that could have been me. I remember the tears that flooded my face and the feeling of my heart coming out of my chest and realizing that no one could truly understand what I was going through. I’m sure for a lot of people that night gave them a sense of freedom. I just felt a sense of isolation.

Someone called me brave, but I didn’t feel brave.

The weeks that followed put me at more of a distance between me and my peers. They were all great people with open perspectives. There were a few people of color on the trip that I was able to connect with on a different level that made this experience more comfortable for me. Even still, I couldn’t help but feel the separation between all of us flourish in this new country.

We were Obrunis (foreigners), but we were still not created equal. I didn’t look like my peers. I didn’t have long hair and colored eyes. I’m the racially ambiguous, curly-haired girl with brown eyes and curves. I don’t fit the mold that Ghanaians have for the “all-American girl”, so I faded to the background in a lot of social settings. In a place where I thought I would be welcomed, I felt like a stranger.

I dealt with these feelings internally for a while, convinced that I could keep the feelings inside until I was with my own community back home. But I found myself outside of a little shop in Kumasi with the only other Black person on the trip. Prior to this point, we had only talked in group settings, but when I looked at him it was like everything inside of me unraveled. I took a deep breath and asked him how it was for him being the only Black man on this trip. His response was almost identical to mine. We spoke of racial hierarchy, Ghanaian innocence when it came to racism in America, and what it meant to feel like we were outcasts in our own motherland. For the first time on the trip, I didn’t feel so alone, and I am so grateful for that moment.

I say this not to bash on the country or the program or the friends that I’ve made along this trip. In fact, those were some of my favorite things about this whole experience. I’ve grown so much over the course of my time in Ghana that I could spend 12 more blog posts talking about it. But this blog post isn’t for any of those things.

As frustrating or disappointing certain moments might have been over the course of this trip, none of it would have happened if I hadn’t decided to come. That alone speaks volumes.  It’s so rare for people in my community to travel- let alone choose to study abroad while attending a predominately white institution. When we look at the study abroad pamphlets or presentations, we never see people that look like us and that means something. Feeling represented means something.

So as much deciding to go on this trip was my own decision, it wasn’t done entirely for me. It was for my little Black brothers and sisters who want to see the world but don’t know if it’s possible. It’s for the college student that doesn’t want to travel across the world just to feel like the minority again. It’s for my ancestors who were never given the chance. Whose lives and dreams were cut short the day that they walked through those castle doors.

All of this, every single part of this experience has been for them, and it will always be for them.