What’s Yours?

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Whenever you submit a piece of writing, there’s often the requirement to ‘tell us a bit about yourself’.

Where does one start: reformed gambler, all-round lunatic and ragester; or mother of two, English tutor, likes tweed? Then there’s someone who was pulled over by the police at 4 a.m. on the M4 doing in excess of a ton, pulled out of a hedge by rozzers in N4 for brawling – let go with a warning, or the person who skid landed at the feet of two bobbies on the beat on the Isle of Dogs, when my bolting steed came down.

Which version of the self do people want?

This morning it’s: a 45 year old who likes passion fruit and hasn’t washed her hair since Saturday.

Disembodied Dolls’ Heads

I saw these in a local charity shop last week. I have applied a negative filter to amp up the general spooky nature of the collection.

Babies, generally, scare me. These, the more so.

dolls

People are

strange

I wanted to say something about Malcolm

The man notoriously known as Malcolm X was assassinated 50 years ago yesterday. The anniversary weighed heavily on my mind; wanting to say something, not knowing exactly what to say.

For the last 3 years I have been piecing together the story of his mother Louise, and alongside hers his father Earl, and that of his brothers and sisters. I have been lucky enough to be in contact with some of Malcolm’s relatives, to hear first hand stories of the Little family. For this fact alone I have been blessed. But yesterday I was silent. I’ve been trying to work out why.

I think it is perhaps because Malcolm’s legacy is not secure. Malcolm himself was always very clear in what he said, what he believed in. And he was wise enough to know that he did not know everything, and he was humble enough to revise his opinions when new knowledge or evidence came his way. Malcolm is always reported as some kind of firebrand ideologue, but he was more sensitive to the nuance of ideas and people than that. Like his mother Louise, Malcolm was on a journey. Like her, his path was cut brutally short by the actions of third parties. Without the passage of time to let his work settle into the narrative of a full life course, we are left missing some key context.

There is still more to know about Malcolm, his life and his death. Until we get to the bottom of it all, until the truth of it is really told, Malcolm’s legacy will remain fragmented; his words will continue to be taken out of context, and the breadth and depth of his intended work, frankly, misunderstood. On the 50th anniversary of his death, we owe him, his family, ourselves even, a good deal more than that.

Speaking Truth to Power

I have often found this phrase problematic: it sounds simple, but in practice it is not. It sounds like a grand gesture, but done in public, with resonance it’s the kind of act that rightfully ends up in a movie and in the history books. Public speaking of truth to power form definitive moments on which the world can eventually turn. Take Nelson Mandela speaking in his defence in court in South Africa on the 20th April 1964. He concluded his speech with these famous lines

During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.

The words above are beyond memorable. That day Nelson Mandela spoke truth to power. But the truth that he spoke, although political, and thankfully in public for posterity, was driven by an accumulation of smaller personal truths that, for many years, had no voice at all. It’s a speech everyone should read in full, and not just looking back to a different time and place, but mindful of certain parallels around the world today. The following extract illuminates the painful personal experience of black South Africans under white rule. It’s hard not to read it without imagining yourself experiencing it too. That, I think, is part of the point.

The lack of human dignity experienced by Africans is the direct result of the policy of white supremacy. White supremacy implies black inferiority. Legislation designed to preserve white supremacy entrenches this notion. Menial tasks in South Africa are invariably performed by Africans.

When anything has to be carried or cleaned the white man will look around for an African to do it for him, whether the African is employed by him or not. Because of this sort of attitude, whites tend to regard Africans as a separate breed. They do not look upon them as people with families of their own; they do not realise that they have emotions – that they fall in love like white people do; that they want to be with their wives and children like white people want to be with theirs; that they want to earn enough money to support their families properly, to feed and clothe them and send them to school. And what “house-boy” or “garden-boy” or labourer can ever hope to do this?

Pass laws render any African liable to police surveillance at any time. I doubt whether there is a single African male in South Africa who has not had a brush with the police over his pass. Hundreds and thousands of Africans are thrown into jail each year under pass laws.

Even worse is the fact that pass laws keep husband and wife apart and lead to the breakdown of family life. Poverty and the breakdown of family have secondary effects. Children wander the streets because they have no schools to go to, or no money to enable them to go, or no parents at home to see that they go, because both parents (if there be two) have to work to keep the family alive. This leads to a breakdown in moral standards, to an alarming rise in illegitimacy, and to violence, which erupts not only politically, but everywhere. Life in the townships is dangerous. Not a day goes by without somebody being stabbed or assaulted. And violence is carried out of the townships [into] the white living areas. People are afraid to walk the streets after dark. Housebreakings and robberies are increasing, despite the fact that the death sentence can now be imposed for such offences. Death sentences cannot cure the festering sore.

Africans want to be paid a living wage. Africans want to perform work which they are capable of doing, and not work which the government declares them to be capable of. Africans want to be allowed to live where they obtain work, and not be endorsed out of an area because they were not born there. Africans want to be allowed to own land in places where they work, and not to be obliged to live in rented houses which they can never call their own. Africans want to be part of the general population, and not confined to living in their own ghettoes.

Nelson Mandela, through the ANC, gained a platform to speak his truth. Not so for the men thrown into jail in South Africa: beaten, abused, sometimes to death. Not so for the wives left behind. Not so for the children, denied an education. Yet some people may have spoken their truth, and gone unheard. Others may, from fear and self-preservation, remained silent. Who of us wouldn’t too? Nelson Mandela spoke for all of them.

I went to see The Scottsboro Boys at the theatre this week – based on the true story of 9 young black teenagers who were falsely accused of rape in Alabama in 1931 and sentenced to death. I am not an especial fan of musical theatre, but the subject matter and the reviews made me determined not to miss it. It is a great piece. I feel it is brave. I can see why it closed in New York after a mere 12 weeks.

There is one moment in the production that stands out, a moment of suspense, where one of the young accused wants to speak truth to power, the truth being the injustice of it all, the power represented by the only white cast member The Interlocuter. The moment is heavy with audience expectation. The truth suffocates in the accused man’s throat. In that moment, you get the sense of how almost impossible speaking truth to power is when the personal and the political come face-to-face. How the bravest of men and women can be overcome by the most urgent of imperatives: the need to survive.

I have come to realise, over the years, that like it or not, I represent some part of the system that silences the truth on the tongues of people for whom the system has minor regard. This is an uncomfortable fact. Yet it is fact, and as such I have a responsibility, small as it is, as personal and non-political as I feel I am, I still have a responsibility to speak out. I am saying it clumsily. It sits clumsily still with me because it’s easier to remain ignorant, to stay silent. James Baldwin, the American writer, can say it better, I hope.

In his 1949 essay ‘Everybody’s Protest Novel‘ he excoriated the novelist Harriet Beecher Stowe for her book Uncle Tom’s Cabin. In the essay Baldwin is clear: it is not enough for a writer to describe the horrors of the world, overlaid with righteous indignation in order to comfort the readers. Baldwin believes such novels ‘emerge for what they are: a mirror of our confusion, dishonesty, panic, trapped and immobilized in the sunlit prison of the American Dream.’ Baldwin asks why is that we are ‘so loath to make a further journey… to discover and reveal something a little closer to the truth?’

This is the power of the uncomfortable and paradoxical truths that Baldwin believes ‘will free us from ourselves’.

This is the truth to power that we need to speak: other people’s truths to our own power – power that we often blindly leave in the hands of those who misuse it.

The Scottsboro Boys with guards and their lawyer

Postscript: I’d like to name these young men and their position in the photograph, but black history recorded by white people is often a victim of disregard for the status and dignity of each individual concerned. As if, to quote Nelson Mandela above, history does ‘not realise they have’ names, lives, loves. For now, here stand:

Olen Montgomery
Clarence Norris
Haywood Patterson
Ozie Powell
Willie Roberson
Charlie Weems
Eugene Williams
Andy Wright
Roy Wright

I find myself wondering if Scottsboro Boys, the musical, would have passed the James Baldwin test. I think, perhaps, yes. And I also wonder: who do I speak for and to?

The Meaning Making Machine

We all have one.

Sometimes, I just want to flip the lid, take it out of my cranium and rest the damn thing on the window ledge.

There is no meaning. There is meaning. There is no meaning. There is meaning.

Chunter chunter, huffle puffle puff.

Wittgenstein was right.

‘Caution the road is hot’

Today would be the late great Robert Nesta Marley’s 70th birthday.

Happy Birthday Bob Marley. What better way to celebrate than with this wonderful song that showcases the particular timbre of his voice which is utterly unique and about as soulful as I think it gets.

Go here for more songs, great photos, and a better article than I can put together, which is only what Bob deserves.

One Love.

Education: The Political Football

Gove has gone. Long gone it seems like now, although whilst he was in office as Minister for Education it seemed interminable. His replacement Nicky Morgan cut little ice with me; principally because she voted against marriage for people who are non hetero, and then, to make it worse, went back on her nay vote when trying to make herself more palatable to non-religious liberal general humanist types like me. At least she’s not Esther McVey – that’s probably the best I can say for her at the moment.

Yesterday she was reported in the press with the usual blah blah blah about raising standards in schools. And today the mighty Spam himself, her boss, the PM more or less rehashed her words for, perhaps, a wider audience.

I am all for the no kid gets left behind approach, but the fact is, that some kids, some adults, take longer to reach their destination. And none of us, nary a one, are taking the choo choo train to the same destination. All of us are unique (thank goodness), and our lives unfold quite differently.

Yes, we’d all love it if the rules of grammar and the times table (up to 12) were stuffed in perpetuity into our brains in a seamless process before we hit secondary school, but life ain’t like that. And outgoing government ministers can pop up on their hind legs in the countdown to an election as much as they like, to make bold statements about all children this and all children that but this much I know: saying doesn’t make it so.

And when you say it, I know it ain’t about no kids. It’s all about hoofing the football up the field in a vain attempt to salvage a front bench career.

A Dream Deferred

Bibliotherapy, baby

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