My earliest memory of Africa was a negative stereotype, reflecting a small dismal part of what
represents the continent. When I was little, I used to see commercials of starving children and small villages. I never knew which part of Africa the correspondent or missionary was in, but I watched with wide eyes taking in one singular view. Those images made me sad to be Black. I felt like the place I came from was terribly messed up somehow. I didn’t learn the truth.

Growing up, I could not stand to be called African American. I felt like it was an insult somehow. I went with “Black” as an identifier because at least then I felt that I would be judged less. In a sick way, the dominant narrative was of America saving Africa and Africans, and that I too should be grateful to the United States because I could have it much worse. I message was that the United States had saved me just as it was saving Africa, and that I owed something back.

I have worked in customer service for most of my adult life. In these jobs I have had people call me worthless, useless, incompetent, no-good, and other names aside from the one my mother gave me. Too often I accepted these insults as the definition of my worth. The heritage I had learned of my family, before my recent research, led me to believe that I should work really hard without causing any trouble. I should not tell others how to address me properly. I had bigger problems. I needed to keep my head down and work.

When I touched down at Kotoka International Airport, something shifted inside me. The airport looked much like an airport at home. There were restaurants and a busy roadway outside the entrance. My feet were planted on the soil of the Homeland. I made it. I was in the land of my ancestors. In the following weeks, I wept at the joy of beauticians doing my hair without fear. I rejoiced at the feeling of not being the only Black person in the room. My heart was overwhelmed to feel so welcomed. Even in the USA, the country that I was born and raised in, I never felt like I was truly home. I felt that I always had to work harder than others to earn respect. I had to prove how valuable I was before I could even see the value of myself. In fact, I needed to prove I deserved to be an American. However, living each day in Ghana, I found myself finding my value just by existing.

Each day of my internship, I knew I was being seen for the work I brought to the table. I knew
that I was being seen as a multimedia journalist who needed help in learning more skills. I was given a chance to prove myself with the work I produced. I loved having the chance to do
journalism in another country and see what problems may be facing the community locally. I
may have heard some people affectionately refer to me as, “Obruni” or foreigner, but I never felt like an outsider, always a part of the team.

In my last days before leaving, I felt saddened to my core. I felt that I’d only begun to discover
the empowered person who is not afraid of how others will perceive her. I did not compare myself to any other Black woman in the room because it did not feel like a competition. I felt
beautiful and wanted.

As I return back to the United States, my future faces uncertainty. I have no idea what will
happen. I want to say I will keep my confidence. No one can take away the truth I have learned. I am valuable. I am intelligent. My life matters. I come from a legacy of amazing hard-working people. I can see this so clearly in Ghana, but how do I take this knowledge back home with me?

I leave for the United States tonight, but I feel so divided inside. I have come to a fork in the
road, and I desperately wish I had the answers now. All I can do is pray I remember what I have learned. I am good enough, even though I was raised in a country that has worked so hard to make me feel otherwise.