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Spend, Spend, Spend!

It is that time of year where I start to appear to be like the Grinch that Stole Christmas (before the happy ending). Whilst I love to spend time with family and friends during Christmas, I find the excessive consumption that surrounds this festive holiday to be quite problematic.  

It is only November yet the annual hysteria surrounding Christmas is being pushed via the news, adverts, social media and shops selling all things deemed ‘Christmassy’. With it being Black Friday today this issue is likely to intensify. This worries me, it was only this week that I happened to be watching a television programme where a caller phoned the show ask the host;  

If I am already in 50K (ish) worth of debt can you help me borrow another 3k so that I can buy Christmas presents?  

It might seem easy to see debt as an individual issue. Yet, if using a bit of criminological imagination, debt can be perceived as an issue that is influenced by culture, and by capitalism, which encourages people to buy things even if they cannot afford to do so.  

I do worry about the strains that Christmas may have on those workers who are already working in very poor working conditions, and with very poor pay. Especially as capitalism continues to be oppressive along citizenship, class, gender and race lines.

How will those that work in sweatshops find the increased Christmas demand? If a bit of extra pay is possible perhaps this might be welcomed, (especially due to the effect of covid), but this does not erase the issues of exploitation. Some people may say that capitalism is needed for survival and human ‘advancement’. In the past, ideas about human advancement have been used to justify the most brutal experiences of enslaved and colonised people. I am no expert but it seems that, in contemporary society, this so called ‘advancement’ is having dire effects on many, including the living situations for indigenous people and the planet.

Emma Dabiri: https://twitter.com/emmadabiri/status/1368269490845270021

Surely there is room to operate in a way which balances the profit based motive with more ethical considerations of humans?…Or maybe the whole system needs to change? What would happen if people were able to be critical of capitalism. Or for those that are already critical, what if they really thought about whether they need to buy all of the items in their online baskets? What if those with disposable income find that they have lots of savings due to reducing spending and decide to gave the money to charity (/or to those that need it more than them)? I wonder if this would then encourage businesses to becomes both more ethical and affordable.

Rest assured, I am not writing this post to be smug about my own lifestyle. Although, I will never really fully understand why people want to have/buy so many things with such high levels of inequality.  

‘White Women, Race Matters’: The White Man’s Burden

This post in-part takes its name from a book by the late Whiteness Studies academic Ruth Frankenberg (1993) and is the final of three that will discuss Whiteness, women, and racism.

Chapter III: Your Problem but not Your Problem

Despite women’s investment in football, at least socially, in terms of Women’s Football (much better than the men’s game in my opinion), it was interesting to observe the reactions of White men that positioned themselves as progressives when I challenged the national response to racism in the game. When we realise that ‘football hooligans’ all have jobs across sector, I would bring people to consider this is not just a working-class issue, as football is a game that transcends socioeconomic lines. This post isn’t necessarily about the violence White women have commited against me but is certainly their problem, and they could have a deciding voice of how White men act at football matches. When we consider racial hiearchies, I am reminded of the gendered components of colonialism where White men are at the top of that hierachy followed by the White woman. In spite of White women’s complicity in those histories of racism (Ware, 1992), logic dictates that White women’s privilege will have some sway when White men act in hostility to people of colour. That said, still today I find White women all too happy to take on misogyny / patriarchy but not racism / White supremacy. In this blog, I will start with a Twitter encounter where I dared to say there isn’t a “racism-in-football-problem” but a more societal issue of White supremacy. Until we start thinking about White supremacy as a political system, just as women have done patriarchy (DeBeavoir, 1949; Friedan, 1963; Davis, 1981; hooks, 1991; Adichie, 2014) and others have done class (Marx and Engles, 1848; Chomsky, 1999; Tom Nicholas, 2020), we will never solve this racism issue.

When I challenged the concept of “racism in football” in July 2021, a local BBC journalist claimed I could make it both about ‘racism in football’ and in society. The problem with this is, dominant media discourses have already stitched it all up by relegating racism to specific spaces somewhat divorced from a global system of violence. At this time as well, I saw the term ‘football hooliganism’ being used as double talk for ‘working-class thuggery’. However, to understand how football got to where it is today, we need to know how football was not originally made by the working-class.

Much alike my favourite sport cricket (Tre Ventour Ed, 2021), football started as a sport for characteristically ‘English gentlemen’. It was made for the rich by the rich to really celebrate themselves. Their game by their rules. When the working-class started to advocate for players playing for money, in its day (so the late nineteenth century), it was thought controversial. Yet, the rich controlled the boards and they could afford to play for free, taking days off for matches. The proleterians could not. Here, then you see that it came down to money, where a game made by the wealthy for them and their friends was then changed forever by working people, no less than mill and factoryworkers.

Source: Black History Walks

Actions that society most associates with the working-class majority today – including public fights, vandalism, brawls, and riotting in Britain are not new phenomena but has a long history going back to even before 1900 uncoincidentally coinciding with the construction of London Metropolitan Police Service in 1829 (Storch, 1975). Following the signing of the Armistice in November 1918, for example, so-called ‘race riots’ took place in no fewer than nine port communities between January and August 1919 (Jenkinson, 1996: 92). However, media footage and pictures of British riots before the Second World War have rarely been seen by the public but “…individual memories of civil disorder [in those days were] surprisingly widespread” and when riotting did happen, “governments often denied they had, and censored the newsreel pictures” (Forbidden Britain). Historically speaking, these uprisings grew out of a response to state-sanctioned violence frequently mass unemployment and poverty. Under the threat of poverty, homelessness, or even death, groups will attack shops and other structures to acquire food where “the turbulence of the colliers is, of course, to be accounted for by something more elementary than politics: it was the instinctive reaction of virility to hunger” (Ashton and Sykes, 1967: 131). Yet, the male violence that occured at the England v Italy Euro finale football match in London July 2021 has a precedent going back to the days of Walter Tull where his biographer historian Phil Vasili writes:

“In 1919, working-class Britain was in a rebellious state. Whether the war created the mood of revolt among workers – sometimes taking a horribly distorted and misguided form as we saw with the race riots – or merely speeded up the process that had been years in fermentation, is not for debate here. The fact is it happened. Families, individuals, veterans were changed by the war, including Tull, his eagerness to enlist souring to a hatred for carnage.”

Vasili, 2010: 229

On the morning of the final, I saw evidence of local Northamptonians heading to the pubs to get their fill as early as 8AM before the game that evening at 8PM (@cllrjameshill). In London, however, White (let’s be honest of course dominantly heterosexual cisgendered) patriarchal violence, was in full swing on Leicester Square, described as a “fanzone for thousands of England fans” before even two o’clock. Furthermore, according to Hutchinson (1975), “riots, unruly behaviour, violence, assault and vandalism, appear to have been a well-established, but not necessarily dominant pattern of crowd behaviour at football matches, at least from the 1870s” (p11). Whilst football today has united people across racial and class lines, many Black men of my dad’s generation (born 1971) would not find themselves anywhere near a match when they were my age or even as teenagers purely for the fact that these crowds were frequently racist and the risk of violence was significant. Today, while racism in football is largely in response to the actions of White people against Black players, there is a further history of White racism against Black fans too.

As I do not doubt that there is racism in women’s football (there is racism at every level of society), I wonder why women’s sports (especially football) is not associated with violence. Heck, other men’s sports do not have these connotations attached. We do not see it in cricket, nor do we see it in rugby to these extremes or tennis. Looking at the conversations in what happened following the game, it seemed to me that people were trying so hard to divorce this male violence from the rest of society, as if it is only specific to football. I would argue this is Britain’s soul, an unfiltered and grandiose example of the gendered racial privilege that comes with being a White man in the UK. It is very easy to stigmatise the working-class in this instance and call them “thugs”, but when we know football unites across class divides, it would do us well to consider how lots of the perpetrators were also probably middle-class as well, with jobs that permeate every level of British society: from accounting to education to sports, unions and more. That while it is incredibly easy to scapegoat them as there are histories of working-class responding with riots against state violence (no less than sports riots), we must think about how for some reason, football in particular, turns lots of men feral.

I was talking to one family member who claimed this is where men get to claim their base instincts, that violence seems to come naturally. I would need to think more on this, but it must be said that many social settings condition violence out of us, from school to the workplace. Even so, that in schools violence is punished, many students (especially boys) being placed pupil referral units. Whilst society brutalises in many ways, the pugilistic scenes we are witness to at football matches is one that is considered unsavoury by most. Men gathering together at the football … does this flick a switch? In the late nineteenth century, polymath Gustave LeBon writes about what he called “the collective mind” (1896: 2) whilst another scholar later states “the natural crowd is the open crowd; there are no limits … it does not recognise houses, doors, or locks and those that shut themselves in are suspect” (Canetti, 1962: 16). Football matches may be an apt site to discuss what the psychology profession now calls ‘crowd theory’ which was further developed on by psychologist Neil Smelser analysing the American ‘race riots’ in the first half of the last century (1962: 253, 260-61).

In my last post, I talked about ‘Karen’ in relation to racist middle-aged White women that harrass Black people minding their business. Yet, one does not see White women congregating like this together in mass as instigators of violence, where if at all in my experience violence from White women has been more individualistic or covert. Though, if women friends/colleagues disagree and know more, I’m happy to be put right from their personal experience (and do more reading). Rioting, however, is frequently often hypermasculine (Gary Younge in: DDN, 2020) and so is the violence around football. The role of White women in racism can be more insidious but my encounter on Twitter with this White man comes after my many encounters with White men that think they know more than Black people about racism.

Both White men and women are complicit in White supremacy as aggressors and bystanders. To keep this on topic, every time a White woman watches a White man’s racism but stays silent, they are as bad as they are really showing how White supremacy is the symptom and racism is the problem.

Now, you have three entries. Have a think on them.

Reference

Adichie, C.N. (2014) We Should All Be Feminists. London: 4th Estate.

Ashton, T. S., and Sykes, J. (1967). The Coal Industry of the Eighteenth Century. 2nd ed. New York: A. M. Kelley.

Canetti, E. (1962) Crowds and Power. London: Gollancz.

Chomsky, N (1999) Profit over People. New York: Seven Story Press.

Davis, A. (1981) Women, Race, and Class. London: Penguin.

DeBeauvoir, S. (1949) The Second Sex. London: Vintage.

[DDN] Double Down News (2020) Black Lives Matter & The Question of Violence | Gary Younge. YouTube [online].

Forbidden Britain (1994) Riots Episode 3 [via YouTube]. London: BBC 2.

Frankenberg, R. (1993) White Women, Race Matters. MI: University Press.

Friedan, B (1963) The Feminine Mystique. London: Penguin.

hooks, b (1991) All About Love: New Vision. London: HarperCollins.

Hutchinson, J. (1975) Some aspects of football crowds before 1914. In. The Working Class. University of Sussex Conference Report.

Jenkinson, J (1996) The 1919 Riots. In: Panayi, P (ed) Racial Violence in Britain in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Leicester: University Press, pp. 92-111.

Le Bon, G (1896) The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind. London: T. Fisher Unwin.

Marx, K and Engels, F. (1848/1967) The Communist Manifesto. London: Penguin.

Smelser, N. (1962/2011) Theories of Collective Behaviour. New Orleans, LA: Quid Pro.

Storch, R.D. (1975) The Plague of the Blue Locusts: Police Reform and Popular Resistance in Northern England, 1840–57. International Review of Social History, 20 (1), pp.61-90

Tom Nicholas (2020) Whiteness: WTF? White Privilege and the Invisible Race. YouTube.

Tre Ventour Ed. (2021) 22 Yards of Whiteness: ‘You Don’t Have to be Posh to be Privileged’. YouTube.

Vasili, P. (2010) Walter Tull, (1888-1918), Officer, Footballer: All the Guns in France Couldn’t Wake Me. London: Raw.

Ware, V. (1992/2015) Beyond the Pale: White Women, Racism, and History. London: Verso.

Praise for Miss Saundra. #EssentialWorkers @ School

In the second grade, I started in a new school that was designed as a progressive environment where students, teachers and administrators were all on a first-name basis. Radical, even in ’82, our school was forward about gender, race and class diversity. Despite this, I only had one Black teacher in my elementary school years – the amazing music teacher. As kids, we could see few other Black adults: the assistant librarian, a handful of the lunchroom ladies, as well as the Black middle- and high-school teachers we saw in the same building. This meant that the Black adult we most consistently interacted with was Miss Saundra, the janitor. 

Miss Saundra appeared around corners, could surprise you out of a closet you hadn’t even noticed was there. She was always on hand should there be any major mess or spill. Best of all, our school gleamed from top to bottom, every classroom, every hallway, every bookshelf, every restroom – every desk! It felt lovely to go to school every day, the floors shined, the windows sparkled, and even the banisters were pristine. I am certain this level of hygiene must have taken a team, but I remember Miss Saundra, probably because she was friendly to me. I can still see her, unbending her back to look at us, and speak face to face.

If I ever had to come to school early to play in the gym or have breakfast, or stay late for an after-school activity, Miss Saundra would likely be there, tidying up. She always took time to greet us. She was even there for school dances, and asked nothing in return, and we knew nothing of her outside the labor she devoted to us in the background. She was our school’s magic negro.

Other than the school guard who was not armed with anything but charm, Miss Saundra, might have been the first at school, followed by the ladies making breakfast. These were our essential workers – like the air we breathed in the heart of our city. I like to think because of their personalities we felt at home in our environment and therefore enjoyed school more fully.

Kids carry on.

When I was in the third grade, our teacher – a tall, grey-haired white man of grand stature who taught me I could master math even though it wasn’t easy for me – sent all the girls ahead to music class. He held the boys back for a chat. Apparently, someone had urinated in the second-floor boys’ bathroom, and they’d worked out that only our class had taken a break between cleanings. Since teachers had separate restrooms, I thought it must have been Miss Saundra who’d discovered the mess, and so I wondered what that conversation was like with our teacher, who was now accusing us! Though he didn’t demand we rat out the culprit, he called it “nasty,” and said we could get electrocuted, because “electricity travels through water,” wagging his index finger like it was on fire. With that, he sent us off to music!

This was probably the first time that I’d been explicitly asked to identify as a gender, and it was over THIS! I knew that whoever had done it would have needed an audience. So not only did some fool piss on the wall, some other fool(s) stood around and watched! I thought, what bastard did this! Didn’t they know Miss Saundra would have to clean it? Didn’t she greet them, and ask them how they’re doing like she does me? Did they ‘see’ Miss Saundra everyday like she saw us? Why would they piss on her parade? Why give Miss Saundra the blues for your pissing contest! 

I stopped by the bathroom on the way back from music class. Sure enough, Miss Saundra had been done had it squeaky, bleachy clean! I could never have imagined girls’ doing something like that. 

I knew that like me, Miss Saundra was an outsider in a space where I belonged. I knew people like Miss Saundra, so she was not a stranger to me. I had no ambitions of becoming a janitor, but I certainly knew women, in my family and in my community, who did this sort of work. And those women I knew who did that sort of work encouraged people like me to do well in school, so I could take advantage of the kinds of choices they didn’t have. I had no reason to think Ms. Saundra less of me. What’s more, even though I felt strange in my own body, she treated me as human, especially. The gratitude I feel for her sounds like a tambourine in my own theme song. 

#EssentialWorkers, #SanitationWorkers

I think that I am becoming one of THOSE Black people. #BlackenAsiaWithLove

I think that I am becoming one of THOSE Black people.

I think that I am becoming one of those Black people who doesn’t speak about race in mixed company, at least not casually, and certainly not in any space not specifically determined for such a conversation. If the invitation doesn’t say ‘race’ in the title, then I most assuredly won’t be bringing up sexism, racism nor classism, nor religious chauvinism – even if social status is evident and apparent by the time we get there. It’s too complicated, and I’ve been the unwitting sounding board too often for too many illiberals, or just folks who hadn’t ever really taken any time to (attempt to) put themselves in anyone else’s shoes – not even as a mental exercise to forward their own understanding of our world and its complexities. 

Hurt people hurt people

I am an empath, and so shifting through perspectives is more organic to me than seems ‘normal’. Empaths more naturally take that Matrix-style 360-degree snapshot of any given scenario, distinct from neurotypical folks. I am also ‘a black man in a white world’, a gay man in a straight world, a Buddhist man in a Christian world, so I supposed I have made it a survival tactic to see the world through other’s eyes, knowing full well most hadn’t even considered I’d existed. It’s only other empaths who aren’t so surprised how we all got here across our differences. I have not had the luxury of surrounding myself with people just like me, and yet this has rarely made me feel unsafe. 

This snapshot is also a means of connection: I like people and usually see similarities between people where they usually show me they’ve only ever seen differences. This isn’t to imply that I am colorblind or don’t see across differences. Naw, it’s that I am more interested in sharing hearts, no matter how deeply one has learned to bury and conceal theirs. Hence, I usually respond with “why” when told something ridiculously racist or sexist, and ask “how come you think that,” when something homophobic is said; and then I patiently listen. I genuinely want to know. I’ve observed that this response can throw people off balance, for they’ve become accustomed to people either joining in or ignoring their ignorance. Really, no one ever purely inquired how’d you become so hate-filled!?!

I wear my heart on my sleeve for I know how to recover from the constant assault and barrage of disconnection. Yes, it saddens me that so many have been so conditioned, and convinced for so long that we are so disconnected.

They want our RHYTHM but not our BLUES

Now, with my elite education and global aspirations, I often gain access to spaces that explicitly work to exclude people from any non-elite backgrounds. It’s not that I want to pass as anything other than myself, it’s just that I am often surrounded by folks who rarely seem to have considered that someone could – or would – simultaneously exist in a plethora of boxes. I can’t fit into any one box other than human. Yet, I used to try to fit in, to avoid standing out as a means to shield myself from the bullying or peering eyes and gossip as folks try to figure out in which box I reside – a classic tactic of projection. 

I am a dark-skinned Black person with a nappy head and a stereotypical bubble butt. I neither bleach my skin nor straighten my hair, so I am identifiably Black up-close and from afar. I don’t even hide my body under baggy clothes, so even my silhouette is Black. I’ve lived, worked, studied and traveled in North America, western Europe, west Africa as well as north, south and southeast Asia, so I’ve taken 360-degree snapshots of radically different societies ‘seeing’ a Black man, and oh how radically different the reactions. I’m becoming one of those Black people who notices this, but won’t speak about race in mixed company because as an empath, one sees how defensive people become when raising race. I went through a phase where I would more readily speak about gender, then draw the parallels to race and class, for most folks can only handle one form of oppression at a time (fellow Audre Lorde fans may appreciate that pun).

Me, looking at myself being looked at as ‘different’. Hoi An, Vietnam. January 2021

Hello, my name is: Diversity.

I think that I am becoming one of those Black people who never questions people when they describe their backgrounds as ‘good’, when all they really mean is moneyed, racially and religiously homogenous. Many get all defensive when I reveal that my entire education was radically diverse by design, from second grade through my master’s. I know I had a “better” education than them because I was taught inclusion alongside people who were similar and different from me – and we went to each other’s homes.

I don’t look in the mirror and say ‘hey diversity’; I just see the face I was given, and do with it what I can. Yet, I have often been called upon to speak on behalf of many people. I offer my opinion, or relay my observations, and suddenly I am a spokesman for the gays, or the Blacks, rarely just me. So, what’s it like being on the inside of cultures of power? Darnit, I shan’t ask that either! 

A Lockdown Moan

As the second lockdown has come to an end, I find myself reflecting on my own lockdown experiences quite a lot. My overall sense is that of gratitude, in that I have been fortunate enough to maintain and be offered new employment during this difficult time.   

During the first lockdown I was a key worker and travelled to and from work on public transport whilst everyone else was ordered to ‘stay safe, and stay at home’. At times this was frustrating, and although I generally had faith in humanity my views on this were tested. During, lockdown 1.0 I witnessed people being much more aggressive to key workers. I worked in a place where I did not expect people to be nice to me, but even on my route to and from work I found that I was subjected to the odd remark.  

One morning at 6am whilst in the city center I was even called ‘a rapist’ because I did not have any change to give to a homeless person, he then sort of offered to fight me. Of course, I wouldn’t ever fight anyone, and he would have been completely unaware that I had just finished a night shift so I would not prove to be a worthy opponent in any sense. I also remember sitting on the bus one night whilst a man, who appeared mentally unwell, persisted to cough all over me (mask free) before exiting at his stop. 

I didn’t take any of these experiences personally, and thankfully I didn’t get Covid. It was clear that these people had many of their own problems – many of which may have been exacerbated due to Covid. The lack of understanding of Covid for some people also highlights a key issue i.e., that mainstream concerns are not being communicated to wider population within our society.  

I did find myself frustrated by the general population who in my experience, did not appear as positive and kind as the media seemed to suggest. I experienced many incidents of people being selfish, such as people snapping and venting their frustrations at others who are simply just trying to do their jobs (with shocking pay and poor contracts might I add). On top of this was the notion of visiting a supermarket after a 12 hour night shift whilst people scramble for the last scraps of essentials whilst you are walking around like a zombie. With bare shelves, rude people and long queues….what more could key workers ask for? For Christ sake, someone even tried to steal a tin of beans out of my shopping trolley on one occasion!  

During lockdown 2.0 I have been very privileged indeed, as I am able to work from home. Staying in this bubble of mine has also made me feel much less frustrated. But I do still wonder, why is it that we feel that those who provide a ‘service’ to us are not people themselves? People with their own problems, thoughts and feelings. Do we think that people are robots? Is this why some people think that it is ok to vent their frustrations at others? I am sure that other people have had more positive experiences than this, but I can’t understand why people aren’t being more kind and understanding of each other. There is a difference between being a service provider and being a servant…people seem to forget this sometimes.  

Imagine and what if…

https://unsplash.com/@mahnaz31

Imagine’, a simple word and one that evokes memories of a song written by John Lennon and released in 1971. In that song we are asked to think about ideas that would perhaps lead us into notions of utopia, if only the ideas were true. Though, often what we see as a simple solution proves to be far from simple and in each solution, lies a paradox that gives lie to the fact that our solution was a solution at all. If we imagine a solution or a scenario we should also ask ourselves ‘what if’. ‘What if’ that were true, what would it look like and what would the consequences be? I like the idea of ‘what if’. ‘What if’ allows me to jump ahead, ‘what if’ allows me to see whether a solution would work, ‘what if’ allows me to play out various scenarios in my mind and ‘what if’ causes me more trouble than imagine. In imagine I can dream, in ‘what if’, I tear those dreams apart, dissecting each bit into practical reality. A reality that has its basis in science and my limited knowledge of human nature. And so, I’d like to begin my journey of ‘imagine’ and ‘what if’.

I suppose my thinking behind this short piece was to set the scene for a number of other pieces without trying to explain the background and rationale of each piece.  ‘Imagine’ and ‘What if’ are the rationale.  Perhaps the idea might provide a spark for other bloggers, I hope so. And so, I begin….

Imagine a chain of nice restaurants (not the greasy spoon type but perhaps not the Michelin star type either), each restaurant with its own chef.  Imagine the work that goes into running a restaurant*, for those of you that watch MasterChef, ‘it isn’t hard to do’. Let’s start with the basics.

Well of course there is the food. Decent food, requires decent ingredients. So, sourcing the ingredients is important, a fair amount of research required to do this and then of course there is the logistics of purchasing the food at the right time in the right quantities and ensuring the quality at the same time.

Then there is the menu, what is put onto the menu is carefully planned around what ingredients are available, what the chef wants to produce and what the customer might want. If the theme of the restaurant is Vegetarian cuisine, there is little point in putting a chicken Balti on the menu. The actual menu needs to be produced, not some scrap of paper, it needs to be carefully planned, printed and delivered. The food then needs to be cooked and served. There is a lot of planning and careful consideration that goes into this. Dishes are tried and tried again until they are right and are aesthetically pleasing on the plate. The customers need to be looked after in the restaurant, shown to their tables, their orders taken, and drinks served.

Imagine how the restaurant is advertised, perhaps on Facebook, maybe its own website and imagine what the advertising would promise. Perhaps a congenial atmosphere, good food and fine service. Imagine you can book online. Imagine the amount of work that goes into building that website or Facebook page. Imagine the work that goes into servicing the bookings.  Imagine the organisation of running a restaurant. So, what if…

The chef was responsible for:

  • The design and implementation of the website or Facebook page
  • The planning, sourcing and cooking of the food
  • The design and printing of the menu
  • The taking of the orders and the delivery of the food to the customers
  • In fact, the chef was responsible for delivering just about everything.

What if…

The customers that came to the restaurant decided they don’t like Vegetarian cuisine and are more at home with burgers and chips, but somebody told them it was a good idea to try the restaurant, or maybe they didn’t have anything better to do on the day.

The restaurant chain managers decided that more customers were better for business and they crammed in as many as they could each day, whilst berating the chef for not servicing the website bookings in line with published timelines.

The restaurant managers decided that the chef could run it all on their own as it is better for the bottom line.

What if…

The feedback from customers is filled with complaints about the untimely service, the crammed conditions and the fact they don’t like Vegetarian food and couldn’t understand why burgers and chips weren’t on the menu as well.

The management scrutinise the restaurant Facebook page or website looking for inaccuracies or areas that don’t fit the restaurant chain’s USP and appear to have little interest in the food produced or the service given to customers.

The management introduce new policies to ‘ensure better customer service and a better customer experience’.  The policies increase the workload for the chef.

Just imagine you are that chef ….

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Scream.jpg

NB I apologise to all chefs out there. As with anything in life we have little idea of the amount of work something involves until we have to do it ourselves.

Angie Smallwood thought we were bank-robbers #BlackenAsiaWithLove

Thus far, this has been the only time someone has called the cops on me – excluding those late-night noise violations at university for my 21st birthday parties. Plus a few routine traffic stops back home, two of which involved routine racial profiling. I’m lucky. There are far too many stories when these police encounters didn’t go well.

What if Ms. Angie had notified the guard, and he’d then decided to take things into his own hands? What if the police had come in pointing guns as they are want to do? What if my mother weren’t clasping tightly to my hand – as far as they knew – a senior citizen in need of (their) protection, a long-time customer of the bank discussing the mortgage on my grandparent’s old house? I have to wonder about these possibilities, to be sensitive and aware :-(. To be Young, Gifted and Black  :-).

Dead giveaway

Like Charles Ramsey, “I knew something was wrong” when I saw two cops circle the bank and enter from two different directions. They weren’t there for banking and there weren’t any other customers. This was hubby’s (then boyfriend) first visit to my hometown, so I’d explicitly warned him to sit down while we waited in the lobby for my mother to handle her business. It was a small branch, yet still, like many banks at the time, the safe sat wide open, as if for inspection. Hubby was hovering. I even gave him change so he could get a lollipop from the charity pot sitting on several teller stations. You’d think someone would come over and offer a tour.

I had entered the small office once or twice. I greeted the agent speaking with my mother, then let momma know where we waited. Meanwhile, hubby insisted on wondering around – he’s generally restless. He was looking at all the posters promoting the bank’s services. Incredibly high-interest rates! Few savings options! He’s fascinated with the levels of credit exploitation permitted in America; the average German has net assets while most all us Americans have debt! He couldn’t even understand how a nation would let its population not have access to a basic bank account – as a right. He measured everything by good German standards.

How do people in America live with such instability! At that time, all this was totally foreign to him. At least in our neighborhood most folks were homeowners, so hubby and I understood one another on that. We’d both grown up taking care of our family’s homes and helping the neighbors. We’ve mowed many a lawn and trimmed many a hedge. We still do now.

“Me and my boyfriend,” the new Bonnie & Clyde

Angie Smallwood’s branch has now closed. After being heavily frisked, ID-ed and having the car license plates checked, the manager told us that Angie Smallwood had been involved in “5 or 6 armed robberies.” He explained – in that managerial tone where you know you’re being handled – that Angie had become suspicious because of hubby’s foreign accent. I found that part hilarious and yet most plausible then and there, in Louisville, KY. In spite of their constant romanticization of their European roots, they couldn’t communicate with one actual F.O.B. standing right in front of them. As a European, hubby needed this education about his own whiteness.. He even came up with his own phrase for the phenomenon “those are not my white people.”

I suppose the manager was suggesting that Angie Smallwood was trigger happy. Or, perhaps he was just trying to elicit our sympathies. It’s not as if we were going to cause a scene, the cops were still standing menacingly by. Of course, my husband blurted out why they’d placed someone so traumatized on front desk duty anyway? I am also not certain if they expected my mother to continue her business with them, or if they even cared, but the cops did ask hubby and I to leave – as if my mother was just going to go back inside. At least the manager could have apologized to my mother. He could not.

“Like I said, we just got a call about a potential crime.”

What if my mother didn’t have outstanding credit, or relationships with other banks, and therefore didn’t have other options? Angie’s antics would have just ruined that. This was the most disrespectful part – their staunch, comprehensive reminder that there’s systemic power behind their individual prejudices. Their silences. My silence.

My silence: I had already policed myself. I dressed for success, sat calmly in a visible area, not made any noise and not touched anything save for the flyer next to me on the table. I used my best diction and inside voice when I made sure to smile and greet every staffer I could see. I showed them my teen as if to announce “I’m not a threat.” If all that hadn’t disarmed them, it occurred to me – yet again- that they could not be appeased.

No level of respectability would protect me in public – we were all a part of a system, and as far as they were all concerned, everyone was just doing their job. Imagine, not only could the cops not offer any apology, they couldn’t even stand down from their hostile posture and tone. I actually felt sorry for them – as big, armed and trained as they were, they acted threatened by us!

At the time I thought they’d refused to de-escalate the situation, perhaps pride? The cops had no kind words for my mother whom they’d found out was there on legitimate business. Naw, they escorted us outside and menacingly watched us drive away. Sometimes I feel that even screwball ‘Police Academy’movies from the 80’s showed more emotional intelligence than that.

Though hubby usually drives, momma insisted that she take the wheel under the cops’ eyes, worrying they’d then challenge the foreigner’s right to drive. Yet, now I’m convinced they couldn’t have de-escalated the situation. Cops’ weeks of training doesn’t routinely include conflict resolution. They don’t know no better. They just got a call, and so they could no longer be human.

Educate cops. Arm them with de-escalation tools so that the public sees their power. Arm cops with non-violence so that they model this behavior for our society. Teach cops to be able to identify emotional distress as much as any professional would. Don’t let a weapon be their only peacemaker.

Another one bites the dust #AhmaudAbery #BlackenAsiaWithLove

There is newly released video evidence of Maud, as he was known to kin, minutes before he was shot to death during a so-called citizen’s arrest. On the video, Maud paused during his job, caught his breath, and for exactly six minutes can be seen on video surveillance surveying a neighborhood construction site shortly before he was killed by a “homegrown posse.” This is exactly as my husband would do along his jogs.

formation-end

‘Let’s get in Formation!’

My husband is fascinated with how things work, and how they are built. He can repair and engine, a toilet, a lawn-mower, locks, hinges, and plenty of things on our house. He got that from his daddy, who has an entire workshop in their basement dedicated towards up-keeping their home. He even made hubby and I a bench. My husband grew up in a German village believing that owning property was a communal enterprise. He certainly feels entitled to inspect any work that impacts the landscape of the hood. So now when he ‘inspects’ things, he behaves as if he has the right to know what’s going on in the world. I don’t have those rights.

A citizen’s arrest means an entitled citizen can stop and attain anyone whom they believe to be a criminal; legally they must have witnessed the crime. On the 9-1-1 call, Maud’s killers couldn’t even tell the emergency responder what crime they’d supposedly seen, nor were there records of these so-called string of break-ins that had allegedly occurred, justifying their anger and pursuit of the unarmed jogger. “Why make a citizen’s arrest when 9-1-1 was an available option?” emphasizes one cable news pundit during the rolling coverage of yet another Black boy slain.

Panther-MJ

I hasten to think of how Fox News is covering this story. Does it matter that he was unarmed? So what if the law doesn’t consider Maud’s right to stand his ground? Why even mention that some neighbors regularly saw Maud out jogging? Who cares that Maud was loved? We’ll forget that Maud’s alleged crime does not fit the punishment.

Blac-or-white-premier

We make our own videos. Beyoncé’s controversial music video Formation ends in a back alley, a little Black boy slays a whole SWAT team in attack formation, with the graffiti: “Stop killing us” This directly echoes the censored ending to Michael Jackson’s 1991 Black or White video. After the music finishes, a black panther morphs into our hero, who then slays racist graffiti in the back alley of a fancy Hollywood studio. Ouch. Importantly, “as his skin became whiter, his work became blacker,” observed one Guardian writer 11 years after the singer’s tragic death. Jackson removed it and apologized after public outcry over his violence and crotch-grabbing. Maybe it reminded folks of a lynching!

 

-No justice, no peace.

A song for Terry. #BlackenAsiaWithLove

A song for Terry.

 

Terry was just six when he died.

Not a long time spent on this Earth,

But enough to make himself known to the universe.

There were many obstacles in life waiting for boys like Terry.

If life is a vast ocean, then he only sailed a meager ferry.

 

Terry was born in a place, in a time and

In a body that didn’t count much –

A poor, southern Black boy and such.

He was loved, for sure,

I’d see his grandmother kiss him every morning,

As she sent Terry off to school.

 

Like mine,

Terry’s household didn’t look like those on TV.

None of ours did.

There weren’t any of those Cosby kids.

But Terry was like my brother, my dear friend.

I looked forward to walking to school with Terry each day.

He always had something interesting to say.

 

Terry and I were in the same class.

He lived across the street,

And our school was just a few blocks away.

There and back,

I wanted to be by his side.

Sometimes I would walk to my grandparents’ after school,

And momma would pick me up after work.

No sooner did we get home and settled did I ask to go outside and play,

With Terry.

 

Our story was short-lived.

Two kids on the block,

On the poor side of town,

We lived cocooned in a world of luxury:

We were cared for and we were safe.

Everyone on the block looked out for all the kids;

There were no strangers around home base.

But, we also lived

In a time and place of misery,

Where things like poverty,

Would determine your destiny,

And all the dreams we would dream,

Would have to fight the sun to live.

 

A handsome little brown boy,

And a finely picked mini ‘Fro.

An easy smile,

And an easy-going way about him.

Terry was a nice guy.

And did I mention he was loved?

He was not the most popular kid in class –

Naw, everybody feared that guy!

Terry was the one everyone liked.

 

sweetheart-candies

For Valentine’s day,

The whole class exchanged heart-shaped candies and notes with one another-

All in pink, my favorite color.

My one time of year to shine!

I was so excited to choose one especially for Terry, my brother:

Will you be my Valentine?

Even the teacher got along with him.

Terry never got in trouble.

He got sad-eyed when any of us got marched off to get paddled.

 

At lunch, I’d always sit with Terry.

Terry got free lunch, and

Peanut butter and jelly is what I got when momma packed mine!

We’d hurry to the front of the line,

And finish our food quickly,

So we could go to the play area the rest of the time.

I didn’t like milk, but Terry did.

And he didn’t care for apple sauce, but I did.

Sometimes we’d split:

Half a piece of pizza for half my sandwich.

We’d trade.

We didn’t keep score, but

We were always even.

 

There, right in the middle of the cafeteria,

Smack in the middle of the school,

Was a large, carpeted recreational area.

There, we’d play and everything was cool.

After lunch, but also before and after school,

We could climb and crawl,

Spin and jump,

Run and hide,

Seek and find,

And holler as loud as we’d want.

Teachers would monitor from nearby, but

They left us alone and took their break-time.

Our teachers would even rotate who had this monitoring job to do.

We weren’t a rowdy bunch,

So, there were no fights to break-up.

There were neither hoops nor balls to tussle over.
No nets, no bats –

No competition and all that.

Just a space…

Where us kids could be free.

We were free.

 

Terry died in the middle of first grade.

We had found out from our teacher that Terry was sick,

We’d all heard of sickle cell, many in our own families, like mine.

But none of us knew what it means.

We knew Terry was not always sturdy.

One time he’d had a bad bout with asthma.

Our teacher helped him take his inhaler,

That she’d showed us where it was kept in her desk drawer.

Now, she was telling us that Terry was just spending a few days in the hospital.

The whole class avidly awaited Terry’s return.

She didn’t know more than that,

I needed to know when Terry’d be back.

 

I knocked on his door, one day

On the way home from school,

To tell his grandmother I hoped Terry’d be ok.

I knew my grandmother would be heartbroken if anything like that happened to one of us.

Kids that little aren’t supposed to die.

Not here, and not of diseases we can’t even see.

Even at that age, I knew this just shouldn’t be.

And yet turn on the TV,

Every day we see signs and symptoms of little Black boys’ morbidity.

Whether from war or starvation in distant lands, or

Dilapidation and disease on these burning sands.

Just like what was happening to Terry:

A casualty of a neglectful society.

 

I didn’t get to mourn Terry,

Didn’t have some cathartic corral with our classmates about

The fun times we had or how much we missed him.

There was no school counselor coming to our class –

No one explaining the cycle of life, nor

Asking us about our feelings.

I knew how I felt.

I loved Terry, and knew the way I loved him was seen as peculiar;

I couldn’t let anyone know about this one-sided affair.

I was sad, and all this was unfair.

What would I say?

We were only 6 years old, and

Terry was the first boy I ever loved.

 

 

M-ALi-kidIn memory of Muhammed Ali, another Black boy who survived those same streets and corridors.

I wanna be like Mike #BlackenAsiaWithLove

Originally written: 26 November 2001

I wanna be like Mike.  Mike is filthy rich, in great physical condition, is well perceived by not only his fans, but also the wider public, and he’s even faithful to his monogamous relationship. Mike is generally agreeable, and you almost never see him expressing aggression towards others outside of the game. Mike has never been ‘exposed’ as gun-totting, neither bashing women nor gays, and he’s even pretty articulate.  Rumors spread about his philanthropic efforts the same low-income communities where he grew up in a hard-working family.  His best friend and biggest fan is his dad, and Mike is so sensitive and secure with his manhood that he wept before the nation upon his dad’s death. Mike’s at the very top of his craft yet never brags and never rests on his laurels.  Mike’s humble and certainly a team player.  “Nothin’ but net.” Mike works hard.

Jordan-dunk

This is what America tells the world, and outside of this country (which is neither the center of the universe nor even this tiny planet) many believe that Mike is wholly representative of the American dream. For sleuths of Americans, he’s likely representative of the ideal American.  I mean, I am not a sports gladiator nor was I born with a trust fund.  Hence, in order to be like Mike, I am in school. I work hard. Thus far I’ve earned a degree from an elite university and am currently enrolled in another. I estimate that so far, my education itself has indebted me over one hundred twenty thousand; and I am nowhere near done. There’s little guarantee that I’ll be wealthy, or even employed.  There’s absolutely no guarantee, and in fact, factors are working against me finding a lifelong stable monogamous relationship.

Belikemike-posterAnd I am quite privileged.  Imagine if you will, most of the world.  Most of us have received that chain e-mail which looks at the world population scaled down to one hundred folks. Imagine if this entire Earth’s population were composed of just one hundred people, there would be less than one person with the opportunities I’ve had. So then, how many would have those opportunities like Mike?

Don’t e’rybody wanna be like Mike?

jordan-slam-dunk

Imagine now, that you have a happy, humble life. You work hard. You live in the south of France and you attend to the vineyard, just as generations upon generations of your ancestors have done before.   What are your chances of ever being like Mike?  Imagine that you’re a social worker in Kazakhstan with few resources to offer those who present themselves before you, regardless of their destitute. You work hard. Imagine you’re a child soldier in Sierra Leon who was forced to burn his village to the ground after being forced to massacre several relatives. You cling to the drugs your captors make you take numb you when they rape your mother and sister. You work hard. Imagine that you’re sitting with a doctor in Botswana as she tells you that you are HIV+. You join a quarter of Botswana’s population who live with HIV/AIDS. You work hard, but the monthly medical costs of a person living with AIDS is much more than a year’s salary for you and your husband, who is also positive.  Now imagine you are their kids. You like basketball, too. And you practice every day with the plastic carton nailed to the tree out back. You work hard. Imagine you’re the same kid, with the same circumstances, only you’re in the ghettos of America, just like Mike. If you work hard, wouldn’t you become an Olympiad? Wouldn’t Obama present you the Presidential Medal of Freedom in the White House with the Gates? Couldn’t your image become a logo?

mike-ad-coupon

Be Like Mike in the coupons section of your local Sunday paper!

What are your chances of ever being like Mike? You work hard. Would it anger you that these images bombard your life? This world is big, but Mike’s dream persists…and penetrates every market on Earth. We’re all sold that version of that dream – that anyone, even a kid as regular as Mike, could be like Mike. If he can do it, anyone can (and you can with this can of cola, sports drink, burger, apparel, underwear, or other consumable… be like Mike) Don’t it inspire you? No rim! Don’t you want to be like Mike?

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