A Myth of Racial Purity
The young American couple and their blonde children next door are leaving Ghana. “Too poor,” they say. They’ve had enough.
The young American couple and their blonde children next door are leaving Ghana. “Too poor,” they say. “One minute, water no lights. Next minute, lights no water.” They’ve had enough.
After five years of working to improve education in the country where their children were born, they’re packing their bags and hauling their doll-like off-springs back to the good ole U-S-of-A. Colorado, I believe.
I’m relaying this story to you, second-hand from one of their hired help. I’ve never actually seen the parents in the two years I’ve lived here, but their children have fascinated me. Lovely, well-mannered kids, but they never say a word to me. They just stare. Though, I hear, they’ll point out “Rasta house” to anyone in passing.
Being born in Ghana, they speak Twi, too, apparently. But I can never see them without thinking of those ‘Children of the Damned.’ Remember that film, Village of the Damned or the sequel with those scary-looking blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids? I know, it’s wrong. But that’s what comes to mind whenever I see them.
