People who are racist are ignorant. Sometimes people who talk about racism are ignorant too.
One day the coolest hip-hopper alive tells us she wants to bring hip-hop to the masses; to bring it down to the people, away from the world that we’ve seen before of gangstas, drug dealers and street violence. We listen and we admire. Another day she tells us that she’d rather have no white people buy her records and not be number one. And I say to myself: what a wonderful world. Be blunt, why not? It’s your reality.
So what do you think of me? You only want me to say what you want to hear. Is that the score? Do you want me to confess that I am eternally evil because I am white? Because that is what you implied when you said what you did. I think we are all pretty much agreed that racism towards black people is wrong. So why is racism towards white people acceptable? Because we are ignorant of what racism actually is?
Racism. A belief in the superiority of a particular race. Not: Racism: a belief in the superiority of white people. But that is what many people tell me that racism is; white people picking on other races. In the past I have criticized white racists, but when I would hear a black person being racist towards me, a joke or a passing remark, I would say, “It doesn’t bother me.”
What kind of crap is that? Is that like turning my well meant criticism into a meaningless, two-faced gesture? Racism hurts you, racism stings you; I understand that, but do it to me and I say, “It doesn’t bother me.” You start to see a hole in my thinking. Things are falling through.
I don’t do that any more. I don’t accept any form of racism. The racism of minority group towards a majority group is no more acceptable that of a majority towards a minority. It is just wrong. What we believe might be based upon the time in which we are living, or on the beliefs of the people with whom we associate. What we believe might be based upon popular opinion, but these things do not automatically deem it to be accurate. Racism is not exclusive and it is never acceptable.
None of us enjoys being judged based on one variable. Even based on two or three. Or… well, my skin colour. My hairstyle. The way I walk. The way I talk. There’s more to all of us than that.
I presume.
“But you’re all the same…” “People like you…”
Don’t judge me.
Don’t group me because I really don’t believe in labels, like I don’t believe in packages. Like I don’t believe in uniformity. Summarise and generalise; institutionalise for public consumption. I don’t think so. We all know that racism is based upon these summaries and generalisations.
Every single human being is different.
He told me I was the blackest white man he had ever met
Because I listened to reggae?
Or danced to the hip-hop beat?
A nice idea, perhaps he thought,
Put blackness in a package?
I think he bought his stereotyped ideas,
When he tried to lose his cultural baggage.
“Oh, individuality. Don’t bother me with that,
I’ve got this definition, it came free with my flat:
Reggae music, pidgin English and wearing baggy jeans.
Never working, always dancing. Always super cool.”
Your definition, I think you’ll find, is incredibly flawed,
But don’t mind me. Carry on. I’m used to being ignored.
But how could I be the blackest white man he had ever met?
He told me underneath this thin skin, hides another man.
Another man, a different man. A different, non-white man.
You define and you stereotype,
But do you ever face the truth?
Define to me my blackness.
Define to me my whiteness.
Blackness?
Whiteness?
Blackness?
Whiteness?
I cannot feel blackness.
I do not feel whiteness.
The world passes me by and I cannot get on board.
He said I was the blackest white man he had ever met.
Had he sensed discomfort in my narrow, white life?
Was he giving me the shiny key to help me to escape?
I don’t believe him. What he said. I don’t believe at all.
What I do, or what I read, does not define who I am.
I read Martin Luther King,
But does that define who I am?
I listen to Lucky Dube,
Does anyone give a damn?
I criticize the racists,
But does that define who I am?
I dance to hip-hop music,
And who can give a damn?
You have trouble defining me,
Sticking a label on my face.
I’m not like all the others, you say.
Oh good, let’s all face the truth.
I’m not like all the others?
Well, alone, is all I feel.
I’m not like all the others?
Alone is all I feel.
Prove to me your theory:
That I am not so sugar white.
But I will tell you my theory:
My blackness is just my guilt,
A legacy of this society,
I am born to live in guilt.
Let this blackness hide reality,
Hide the colour of my skin.
Let me speak in pidgin,
You know the kind of thing.
Hide my guilty conscience,
That society has given to me.
Praise Nelson Mandela,
Buy the Bob Marley CD,
And get that shiny badge:
“I understand completely”
Yeah right? I understand?
I understand nothing.
You think I understand your feelings?
Barely understand my own.
The individual in me, cries out,
My mind is not like yours.
That is the reason. My reason, why
Why I don’t believe your definitions:
Blackness?
Whiteness?
Blackness?
Whiteness?
The black experience?
For my mind is not like your’s.
So your mind is not like mine.
And your’s is different from the next man’s.
So why do you define?
It would cheer me up, perhaps he thought,
When he told me he thought I was black.
Because I look so miserable in my own birth skin.
Or perhaps he thought it would give me a lift,
When he told me that I am not really white.
After all, why blame him? All that regret.
And all that remorse. Lift it off. Yes lift it up.
Take the burden from my shoulders.
Lift it away and off.
Tell me that it was all a dream,
My skin has his pigments too.
Do you still think I am the blackest white man you have ever met?
Define me and my manner. Define who I am.
Oh look, there’s another thing.
Tell me that I am black. Then the jokes won’t hurt so much.
When they slip down off your tongue.
I am sure the reverse is true.
I’ve heard the racist jokes,
And the white man ends and says,
“Oh, sorry my friend, I don’t mean you.”
“Well that’s what I’d expect from a white man,
No offence, of course, Tim!”
No offence? Define me.
Categorize who I am. Put me on a shelf.
I knew they would come in useful.
These little sticky back labels.
Peel it back and stick it on.
Define me as the white man who isn’t really white.
Justify your criticism: He does not care.
He understands me. He knows how I feel.
Yeah right? Sure.
How can I understand you, if you do not speak to me?
But why don’t I just accept it? What you think of me.
I’ll keep your definition? Let you define me?
I don’t believe in labels,
And careful little packages.
If you define me, maybe I will define you.
Your life, your ambitions, your pride and your prejudice?
Are they the same as your father’s? Or your sister’s?
Your brother’s or your aunt’s?
Can you be defined? Can I be defined?
He turned to me and laughed. And said,
You’re the most ungrateful little loser I have ever met.
Well lucky me, there’s the truth.
The label was a gift.
I lied about what I believe in
Because I was bored of agreeing with everything she said.
I said I didn’t believe in marriage. I said it was dead.
I lied because I was bored of looking like a follower,
I was bored of looking like I was doing everything to please her.
I made a statement, but it wasn’t one of mine.
I suppose that makes two of us; we both told lies.
I made a loud statement
Because I wanted them to turn to me,
Something I had no opinion of. Something I couldn’t see.
I was seeking attention, self-centred me.
I see them watching my great friend and I wish that he was me.
I argued with my friend, but really I agreed with him.
You’re selfish, man. You’re selfish. You’re selfish stupid Tim.
I wanted to be more than what they think of me.
I wanted to be more that what they see.
I wanted to show them my independence,
But with everything they said, I found myself,
Honestly, having to agree.
I felt like a copy cat. I felt like a nobody.
I wanted them to see that I am not what they think.
I tried. I lied. I failed. I am what they think.
You think I am nothing,
Therefore I am.
To be continued,
They say.
But it never turns out very good.
My book: finished. Done.
Shall I put it away?
Hide it away?
What would you do if you think people will hate it?
They’ll hate me too.
Because they know who I am.
I’m not anonymous.
I can’t hide away.
Shall I put it away?
Because I’m worried.
That is why
I am shy
To let you read my book.
I am worried it will offend you.
I am worried it will patronise you.
I am worried it will hurt you.
That is why
I am shy.
That is why
I cry.
Read it? I don’t know.
It’s up to you
What you do.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s done.
This is where it ends.
I wrote,
that is all.
The curtain falls.
My part is done.
In every large town there are the homeless. The provision of sheltered accommodation would give a free place for the homeless to sleep, all year round. Many towns have accommodation open at Christmas time only. People who would think twice about getting into a homeless situation, may not think it so bad if they know that there is somewhere for them to go.
Sheltered accommodation would need people in charge, so it would give people the opportunity to talk to someone about problems. Sheltered accommodation would cut down on loneliness, and would create a sense of community. Some people don’t like “beggars” on the streets, sheltered accommodation would move people off the streets. Some families lose their homes through repossession, sheltered accommodation would give these people a place to go.
A report was published a few weeks ago about the damage to the environment that cars do to the environment. There are alternatives to the uses of private cars, one of which is public transport. Compared to other European countries, Britain’s public transport system is poor. France has a reliable highspeed train service, while Britain has a fairly reliable slow highspeed train service.
(more…)Every morning I wake up to a new day and I hope that the world has changed overnight. I hope that the world has thrown down its weapons and its prejudices. But every morning my hopes are dashed when I turn on the radio and I hear that the news is bad. Every day I see the images of war on the buzzing television screens and the cries of millions screams through the metallic loud speakers on the radio.
(more…)Just as with other species of animals, the human species is made up of several races that we can tell apart by superficial physical characteristics. Of course many people do not have the physical type of their racial origin – the distinctions, like size, skin and hair colour, are only broad ones and partnerships between people of different races makes the distinction even less “separated”. The recognition of different races exist is not racism. Some people say that we should be colour blind, or that we should put people together in a melting pot so that we are one. This suggests that there is something wrong with the different races. Racism is the practice of discrimination against people on the grounds of race.
(more…)