Tag Archives: race

Man Up! How?

I’ve spent the weekend in the presence of up to 30 men. An environment where masculinity and mental health within men were explored with a view to an eventual performance. It gave scope for bonding, conversing, unlocking doors to experiences that have brought joy, pain and indifference. It allowed creatives to create and every voice to be heard.

At the end of the first day, my niggling thought was, can I separate masculinity from race? I ignored the thought because I didn’t have a place in this sphere.  At the end of the second day, it returned. The truth is I don’t know if I can make a definitive separation.

Whereas some groups have to an extent, found a voice to articulate their struggles and versions of their humanity, I cannot say that my voice has the capacity to capture hearts in the same way. Some go as far as labelling other groups as “the new black” as they draw parallels with being a minority group, and discriminatory attitudes towards them. This is not to say that I am jealous of the shift towards social acceptance, or seek to dismiss their voices. Rather, being within earshot of this has been a trigger, a point of reference from which I begin another journey of understanding.

When I entered the room ahead of the session, I entered as a creative. I entered simply seeking inspiration and hoping that I might write something I could show off. That was the way I would get by.

My masculinity has been heavily influenced by cultural expectations, traditions and race-based perceptions. They have been compounded by faith based interpretations of manhood.  I don’t get to see myself as just a man. I am black man and whisper it….I’m a Christian. To the world around me, to the world inside of me.

I am not socially acceptable in my real form in as many spaces as others are afforded.

In seeking to stay on topic I kept my mention of race down to one conversation to provide context for my story. I didn’t want to as people say….play the race card. Was this men’s space a white space?

In the black community, we are pretty expressive, yet Mental Health is something we collectively seem to be quieter on. My mother was a mental health nurse so she was and still is aware of the signs when particularly I have encountered struggles with mine. In wanting the best, tough love was a method of dealing with it. Yet even in that I was never just a man. Always a black man.

“You are a black man…..you cannot afford to let yourself slip. You cannot afford to….”

I have always had to be aware of how I speak, how I act so that someone else feels better about themselves. At times it feels like as a black man, I don’t really get to have a safe space because I am going to be a threat to someone. I am going to be lumped with some part of society. I am part of something that will be invaded by well-meaning trend seekers who will sell a version of me back to me as though they were Christopher Columbus.

If I show I’m intelligent, I’m a threat so I’m getting passed on for promotions and meaningful career development activity.  If I wear certain clothes, I’m a threat. If I show that I’m angry I’m a threat. Then there’s the projections of promiscuity and prowess. I self-edit constantly to ensure that everyone feels comfortable.

Should I seek black spaces?

Again….do I get to have shared experiences? After all I am male, I was once a child that has become a man.

However, as a child in primary school, my white headmistress sent for me during lunch time. She told me that a black kid has to work 100 times harder than a white kid. I wasn’t given any reasons as to why she chose that moment to give me “the fact of life” that many black kids have drummed into them from birth. Yet, it eroded my self-confidence as a child.

Through the years, versions of this were re-iterated in order to keep me on the straight and narrow. I was even told that if I was a white guy, I’d be ten-a-penny. That I should be fortunate that black people are a minority, as it’s the only way I would stand out.

Shared experiences where being black doesn’t have a say in proceedings seem few and far between. Celebrity deaths get more reaction than folks arrested for waiting at Starbucks. Maybe that’s a different issue. Somehow, somewhere, between principles and expectations, nature and preference, I exist

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Filed under Just Living, Non Poetic Blogs

Frankfurt 3: Pardon your Ignorance

 

I’d visited Frankfurt to meet up with a poet I have only known through social media, yet has been like a brother for several years.  This was the 3rd and final poem from my writing session.

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Eyes of giants are wandering.

Aviators reflecting on the ground.

Beauty seems skin tight,

Fashionistas mix colours yet can’t do it with skin type

Flowing locks and optics box tick.

I just can’t with the lens being pedalled.

A fresh breeze invades the mood.

To settle the stomach, I engage with windbreakers and stone masons.

I was a fool for lane love ignoring the  map.

The cupboard love from Venus is the most fly of traps.

It’s time to switch the raps, worship and praise at new altars.

Maybe you will…..for the sake of our true calling.

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Filed under Random Poetics

9 / 30 Round & Round

I was born with the race card
According to some inhumans

Black power was never skin colour
Sus laws and Edgar Hoovers
Set the tone for my mother’s mother
My father’s father took the bruises

I was born to a game of measures
I suppose my first words were excuses
The race card I never signed, played for me.
You expect me to thank you?

Doesn’t the devil exist?
Black and white stripes aren’t even half the pack of this race card mess.

Is it really a Race Card?
Or is it a gag, a muffler.
Is the code for silence, when it impinges on comfort?

I was told at aged 7 by a white headmistress,
“Just to be average, you blacks have to work twice as hard”
Damn, I just got stamped and handed my race card!
I should build up some credit.
You’ll only teach the 5% of my history that implies to you I’m indebted.
Then I’ll spend the rest of my life fact checking.

There’s just something about the way they use it to abuse you
Like it’s your first and only line of defence.
Before they learn the N word it’s, Miss…he’s playing the race card again!

Micro chipped, programme to speak on it every other day of the week.
Is the race card simply a construct where the foundations are too deep.

Was I really born with it in my system or was it the system’s cordial
Something they can keep drinking to make me look primordial.

 

 

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Filed under 30 day challenge, Race

1/ 30″Ugh”

Denying you stole the keys, you found the lock and jammed it

Took over rock and called it bandwidth

We strum to a new Anansi

Our hands where your eyes can see

Shot at when we pander

Some are quick to shout peace God!

Yet when you prey, nobody has the answers.

Increase your debt when you contact us.

Yet claim bonuses for being contact less.

Pocket pastors with presents

Offering plates hasn’t passed us.

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Filed under Race, Random Poetics

Numb

Perilous times have come, that’s what he said to me.

Days are but dreams, headlines are now a bed to me.

Grief and pain are like oxygen, peace is now dead to me.

What’s a warrior to his reflection if bull ish gives the lecture?

We die daily, not to sin but for the sake of being….here

As tears tear hearts, time’s words are stuttering to a whisper

Martin Luther or Malcolm?

The reformation shall be digitised.

Contact lenses become arm’s length embraces

Blue screen is cool if you can get it

We burn as charcoal, silently burning whiter than white

Why is it always so black and white?

Killing grounds we traverse as sacrifices in waiting.

What’s denial of our differences?

For the answer ask Rachel

We can’t remove our makeup!

Matter is an atom so where’s the thought for black lives

A hashtag is all that resides

We speak until we’re blue rarely reaching the bluest eyes

I’m living black going blue inside

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Fever

Straight laces and jazz faces

The jack boot to the face to the pavement

Just another one erased

Binary bindings say war is thicker than blood

Sharks in hoods can’t clear their cache

Crop wasted like the Qur’an on hardened atheists

Yet blacks bear cross movements with little hope of resurrection

Minstrel mazes and court cases

Sour notes swish poor paintings

Beaten paths falling like gay pastors

Recorded on tape yet don’t own the masters

Chicanery air dropped

Drones divert and dividing clasps faster

What change did you expect on capital?

Hell we shall overcome

Soundtrack to crumbling paths

What’s a non-believers call to prayer?

Guerilla jungle fever or corporate chess

Guess they’re gonna tool those left

Circular arguments square rooted

Another mother weeps

Candles melt into vigilante passions

General lies and federal eyes stare down the truth

Demons fear Jesus not bullets

What’s a blind man to compass?

Rebellion or just is

Unrequited love leaves tortured souls

Hashtag justice

Dramatic excuse for a tragedy

They don’t know what lame is

Warmongers avoid life support

Turntablist journalists

Tear gas terms of endearment

Smokeholds, choking given as hand rearing

Comply or die?

Comply or die!

Old jokes breathe new headstones

Murals of mockery manifested

No indictment from dim bulbs

Manufactured entrapment

Circus clowns got us fox hunting

Peace is a contestant bestowed on ex factors

Agents of shield marvel

Brothers gaming sisters instead of the master system

Laws raped by police force

Unmasked resistance

Protests anonymous

Do the right thing, going viral or posthumous

We shall overcome sounds monotonous

Malcolm, Christ, Luther

Which Martin will you be plotted to

Who wants justice?

Who wants justice?

Just us?

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Filed under Race, Relationships, Society

Sounds of Blackness

sounds-of-blackness-cover

These are the sounds of blackness

If we stay measured by our grinding we’ll never sharpen up our axis

Scene stealers bring the heat but it seems we lack match practice

Not light on our feats, we’re dancers when we ought to be actors.

We stage plays until we’re lost in scrabble like crabs in a labyrinth

Quoting Lauryn Hill until our X -Factor becomes an ex-factor

Command and conquer has me on red alert with our allies fakin’ basement jax

Hipsters’ hula hoop with hegemony until free style is legalized and we remain blood donors

We say the onus is on us to own us so that we are for us by us

Yet mantras dissolve like sugar cane in coffee cups because nobody wears F.U.B.U

Its heir conditioning

We love a smiley culture, accepting urban as our synonym

Lost in the dark the loan sharks claim all the benefits

We do the mathematics while the denominator plays percentages

The N is friend and nemesis yet the beaten tracks remain pendulums

I’m so stirred by the barge pole to our differences I boil with my pencil tips

I question time while I mastermind stealing money from penitentiaries

There’s no full disclosure why we play Uncle Tom to get Meredith

Bludgeoned by the tomato in the melting pot, our fruits become vegetables.

Insanity is palpable when we become cordial, edible, diluting our primordial forces

3 percent leviathan there’s simply no denying the 97 percent are buying us.

Hoodies and patois mean gangster until the right people license it

I turn off the radio because folk only listen to what the pirates’ ship

Twerking their blurred lines old as the night sky

Don’t be naive as the promise of fidelity during a summer of 69

They may think they’re robbing thick; it’s more like shopping from Be Wise.

Do popular culture aborigines need a rabbit proof fence?

Questions posing for the picture I hate this i-coonography

Boys dancing in their Jordan’s we see no trainers like Michael

Worship at the church of struggle using perception as the bible

We’re making up the numbers

It ain’t fair ground with these Malibu minded

Coconut shy stunters

See though frames display anything, it’s self-love before any man

Soul raw like Tracy Emin giving birth to a tribe of Eminems

I fight for coffee’s place at the table and inhale the war of the roses for water has no enemies

Where choice is a figure of speech undressed by extra capital

We’ve all got across to bear, don’t call me Paddington

Survival tactics like silver back ants in Saharan Africa

Best work in the sun, rest in the shade, upgrade your engine room

I mean there’s no use plucking Garveyisms like the last feathers of a Christmas turkey hoping the message strikes when even the teachers aren’t learning

London’s bridge is burning; I’ve got Fanon, Farrakhan, and Martin Luther to listen to

Living’s a tough job we’ve got to make it out of the inner view

With these, the sounds of blackness.

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Filed under Race