Foreword to the English Language Edition, by Audre Lorde, July 1990
p.vii – In the spring of 1984, I spent three months at the Free University in Berlin teaching a course in Black American women poets and a poetry workshop in English, for German students. One of my goals on this trip was to meet Black German women, for I had been told there were quite a few in Berlin.
p.xi – In East Germany after World War II, communism suppressed fascism but it did not destroy it. Racism, anti-Semitism, and xenophobia were severely legislated against in the East, but never admitted not examined as a national reality. They remain an unaltered psychic time bomb in the national consciousness. These forces are now finding their physical expression in the sharp increase of attacks upon all people of color, foreign guest workers as well as Black Germans.
p.xii – Such attacks are also increasing in West Germany, encouraged by the same dormant neo-Nazi element and stimulated by the prospect of a unification that will provide an economic and political climate within which to express this element.
p.xiv – The first steps in examining these connections are to identify ourselves, to recognize each other, and to listen carefully to each other’s stories.
Helga Emde (age 40) “An Occupation Baby in Postwar Germany” pp.101-111
p.101 – I was born in March 1946 in Bingen-on-the-Rhine as a so-called occupation baby. According to the few stories from my mother, my father was stationed in Germany as an American soldier at the time. That was all I knew of him. My father was very dark, and I came into the world as a so-called mulatto. Since my mother could say absolutely nothing about him, I don’t know him, and wasn’t able to have any contact with him. Nor do I know whether I have any American aunts, uncles, or cousins. It hurts a little that a whole part of my history is in the dark.
I grew up in a time that was still strongly marked by Germany’s National Socialist past. My childhood wasn’t very different from that of other children except for the fact that I’m Black. I’m the only Black person in the family. My mother believed in an awful saying: “If you say A you must also say B.” for her that meant that she had brought a Black child into the world and she now had to own up to it. It was practically a kind of self-punishment. She demonstrated her “owning up” by seeing to it that I lacked nothing. I was stuffed like a pig! Nothing was denied me. In retrospect I really hold that against her. Instead of stuffing me with food perhaps she should have fed me with something quite different. Love, for instance.
p.104 – People constantly said things to me about my differentness, and that used to make me feel pretty bad. As long as I was a trainee it was okay, but after my exam I worked in the Frankfurt-Höchst Municipal Hospital and was given only the dirty work to do. I had to clean up but was given no responsibility. They even had the audacity to assign me to frequent night duty, which almost nobody liked. But on the night shift I suddenly became responsible for several stations at once.
On day duty it happened now and then that a doctor on the station would see me and ask if anyone else was on duty. In his eyes I was nobody! So, am I really nobody? I am a German, I was born here, but yet I’m different. A Black woman. A mixture of black and white.
I felt degraded and discriminated against. As before, I had no contact with other Blacks, mostly because I would have preferred to deny my blackness.
p.105 – In my own life I repeated the story of my mother’s life in every way. My first boyfriend was a Black soldier, and I had a baby by him.
At twenty-three I got married – to a white man. A year and a half later our child came into the world. We are a very mixed-looking family, with very different shades of color. At last I felt that I belonged and that I had a bit of recognition out there in society. A white man by my side, this could certainly provide me with some security, even if it still meant that only white counts.
With my husband I sought something I was never able to find, namely solidarity. There was a lot he couldn’t understand, simply because he was white. He didn’t experience that many subtle abuses and hostilities that his company – and unfortunately my own as well – caused for me. Over and over I would hear from him that I was too sensitive.
p.106 – When my children were still small I began feeling unsatisfied, overburdened, caged in, hungry for education.
And every time the discussion came up about my needs, I encountered a lack of understanding. Nobody knew how to take what I was saying. Why did I wasn’t to further my education? Why go back to school? Why do anything at all to get away from my housewife’s existence?
p.107 – After a long search – don’t forget that I’m not white and for this reason most landlords turned us down – we found a nice apartment practically in the centre of town [Frankfurt].
The whole time I was at university, I worked at least two to three days a week and also during semester vacations. My husband couldn’t throw it up in my face that he had to finance my education. Plus, I had my household and my children to take care of. Of course there was no question of my husband taking on equal responsibility.
p.108 – I was getting deeper and deeper into a crisis situation, a marriage crisis and also an identity crisis. In order to give myself more clarity and distance from these unresolved issues, I decided after completing my teacher’s certificate, to take a trip to southern Africa. So I went. On 24 December 1983, I flew to Zimbabwe for the first time, to stay with friends for two months and share their lives.
p.109 – It was a long journey to find my “self” in this white system of relationships. Alongside my studies I began reading about all kinds of different ethnic minorities, and delved deeply into the issue of National Socialism and the Jews in the “Third Reich.” I felt then, and still do, very close to those people.
p.110 – It’s only recently that I have been able to feel more comfortable in my brown skin and come to terms with my blackness. After a long hard struggle through psychoanalysis, I can say, “Yes, I am Black.” I can accept the white part of me as well as the black part and without feeling any breaks between them.