My 27-year-long Journey

photo by Hannah Busing

Identity is one of the most precious possessions a person can have — in fact, everything can be taken from a person, except for their identity. So, you may ask yourself, “who am I?”. I asked myself that question, and it has taken me 27 years to answer. My identity has been missing for years, and so my most precious possession was lost. I was empty, always searching for answers, full of sadness and anger, but especially, I felt lost.

I grew up in the oldest city in the Netherlands, Nijmegen, a 15-minute drive from the border with Germany. When we entered the 21st century in 2000, I was 6 years old, and from that age, I have the most memories of my childhood. Nice memories, but also enough sad ones that led to my existence for years without an identity.

I come from a mixed family. My mother is white (Dutch) and my father is from Ghana. That makes me a mix of two cultures. Finally, I dare to say two beautiful cultures, but that's not how I thought about it for the majority of my life. In my area, I was one of the few with colored skin, afro hair, a dark father and a white mother. When my mother walked down the street with me, she was asked by random strangers, if I had been adopted. “No, I gave birth to her”, she answered then. When I walked down the street with my father, people asked “from which country are you?”. “From the Netherlands,” we said.

The term “half-blood”, shows that half of the blood is superior to the other half. For years I walked in a world of people with superior blood. I felt inferior.

I was different from anyone else compared to the very white surroundings I grew up in — at school, during dance classes, at my horses stable, the city itself and so on. I didn't want to be so different, and like my friends, I wanted to have straight hair and fair skin for me not to stand out as much. I started doing everything to make me feel as Dutch as possible. I showed no interest in my Ghanaian roots and almost denied my Ghanaian origin. I didn’t wear my afro hair down for 15 years and had been straightening it all of that time. I tried to be someone I wasn't because I didn't know who I was, considering I didn't seem to fit in with my environment. All these attempts did not help because I have never been fully seen as a Dutch woman, and I have never fully felt that way. My unsuccessful attempts to belong only led to the complete loss of my identity.

In the Netherlands, they call someone like me from a mixed background ‘half-bloed’, literally translated in English to ‘half-blood’. This name dates from the time of the transatlantic African slave trade during the 15th till 19th century, in which slave women conceived mixed children by the plantation owner. The term “half-blood”, shows that half of the blood is superior to the other half. For years I walked in a world of people with superior blood. I felt inferior.

One of my first trips to my family in Ghana, when I was about 7 years old, felt strange. The people were so friendly and looked more like me. I had finally found people who knew how to handle my hair type. Yet, Ghanaians called me "Obruni”, meaning ‘the white’ (men/women). Not so much because of my skin color, but because of where I was born and grew up, the Netherlands. Again, I was not considered a true Ghanaian. In the Netherlands, I am too black to be Dutch, in Ghana too western to be Ghanaian. For years I have thought that I don't belong anywhere. That lack of identity led to the loss of my most important possession as a human being. 

The fact that I had so many struggles inside made me a shy child growing up. That changed at the end of puberty. I started modeling and joined international beauty pageants to come out of my shell. I became more worldly and that fueled my love for traveling. During my years as a beauty queen, I first represented the Netherlands a few times, but began representing Ghana after a while, for the simple reason that I looked more African for international standards than Dutch. Because of that, I was somehow forced to identify with my Ghanaian roots more. This is one of the best things that has happened to me. I started asking my dad questions about our culture and looked up information online. Social media has also given me access to knowledge and contacts that have helped me understand myself better. I began to better understand the journey I have been taking so far.  Most importantly, I got to know my father's culture. All this new information gave me a feeling that is hard to describe. It felt like coming home, somehow. I was falling in love with a part of me that had been tucked away for so many years. I started to embrace this part.

I am not "half-blood", but a double-blood. I am a descendant from kings and queens from the land of gold. I am blessed with two bloodlines that are equal to each other, 100% Dutch, and 100% Ghanaian.

2020 is the year of self-reflection. For years I had been looking for people with the same background or problems as I me. Problems with racism, discrimination, and identity. Problems I face as well as millions of others. It was just never as widely talked about as in the year 2020. Thanks to BLM protests, I have discovered a feeling of fraternization. So many stories have come out, and are finally being told and heard. Stories that do not even differ that much from mine. I don't feel alone anymore.

Who am I now, 27 years after the day I was born? I proudly wear my given Ghanaian names. My father called me ‘Esi’, meaning ‘Sunday born’ and ‘Bekoe’ my beautiful Ghanaian surname. My skin is rich in melanin, my afro is my crown. I am not "half-blood", but a double-blood. I am a descendant from kings and queens from the land of gold. I am blessed with two bloodlines that are equal to each other, 100% Dutch, and 100% Ghanaian. And finally, my identity is starting to take shape, but I’m definitely not there yet. I still have a lot of sadness and anger inside of me. Coping with the sadness and anger is something I struggle with every day, especially now when slavery and racism are currently highly discussed topics, and the Netherlands has played a huge role in history leading up to certain events. These events bring back painful memories from my childhood I sometimes want to forget. I try to talk about my feelings with a few close friends who have similar experiences and we try to heal these wounds. I believe it will take time, probably a lot of time, but the feeling that I’m not alone makes me hopeful. Conversations are my cure and salvation. The most important thing is that after 27 years I finally love myself and my roots. My 27-year long journey to find my identity will continue on.