Racism Still Alive They Just Be Concealing It!

A few days ago, my best friend and I took a trip to Notting Hill Gate to celebrate the release of her debut book ‘Twenty-Four’, which is a collection of poetry about culture and the diaspora (click the link to support please).

As we were in Notting Hill, we therefore decided to venture into the many different boutiques which line Portobello road. We stumbled across a vintage store that my friend was eager to go into, as her eyes were drawn to the visual merchandise. She is very big on aesthetics.

So, there we were two carefree black girls entering a store to peruse its goodies. The boutique like many in Portobello is small and intimate and as it happens we were the only customers in the store at that point in time. The entrance of the store directly faces the cashier desk and as we entered both the cashier and the other store worker glanced up at us and carried on with their conversation. Ok, so far so normal. We’re not too bothered by this as we are Londoners after all.

We walk in and start going through the racks of shirts. Minutes pass and my friend eventually holds up a black shirt with green feather lapels and exclaims that she likes it. In that moment two white guys enter the shop and are immediately greeted with “Hello. How are you?”

We freeze and instantly look at each other.

Micro-aggression strikes again!

So there we were, two black women standing dumfounded in a store that no longer made us feel welcome. Two black paying customers who didn’t even receive a customary greeting. Two black ladies that were clearly made to feel invisible by the cashier and her work colleague.

I was shocked, annoyed and above all so confused.

We decided to exit the building. We firmly understood that our business was not wanted.

I know there is someone out there reading this and screaming:

‘Why you making this about race?’

My answer to this interrogative is simply this:

In this instance, race, was definitely a defining factor.

What else could it be?

Let’s look at the facts:  Two black females walk into a shop and are treated differently from two white males. One pair is treated with open humility and the other ignored. Both pairs are dressed ‘appropriately’ (I put appropriately in inverted commas as your attire or choice of dress should never be a reason as to why you are marginalised), however, one is greeted whilst the other receives no customer service whatsoever.

Micro-aggression is real!

I can hear another question crop up from the naysayers:

‘You said that you wasn’t bothered, so far so normal, what’s changed now?

My answer:

Now i’m bothered because they went out of their way to ‘other’ us. If they had ignored the other customers like they had us, then we would have put this down to  a lack of customer care, given that we would have both received the same treatment. But as you can read, both pairs were given two different experiences to the same situation.

Black people do not make this stuff up for shit and giggles. We live this day in and day out.

Both workers failed to greet us as they did not want to see us.

Do you know how deep this is?!


I’m getting annoyed just writing this and re-living the situation again.

It is also ironic that this micro-aggressive act took place in Notting Hill of all places. A place built on the blood, sweat and tears of Afro-Caribbean migrants. A place that not too long ago was a slum and left to minorities to regenerate. A place, where nowadays people that look like me are no longer welcomed.

I am disgusted.

I really wish we had said something before we left the shop. Let them know that this wasn’t ok, nor was it acceptable and it is certainly not the way you treat people, let alone customers that are willing to spend in your store.

But, as we have seen recently from the media, Black people speaking out against racism and discrimination are met with derision and scepticism.  Look at what happened to Munroe Bergdorf who spoke out against systematic racism and was rewarded by being fired from the L’Oreal diversity and inclusion campaign.

Racism is still alive, they just be concealing it.

My best friend and I will be taking our hard earned coins elsewhere.

Say my name, Say my name

This is a Public Service Announcement. Fellow citizens of the World, it is with the utmost pride and sincerity  that I present this dialogue, as a living testament and recollection of history in the making as today is the day when you finally learn to say my name.

Allow me to reintroduce myself my name is HOV  Jacyra. You may know me as Jay Bee.  Simply put:

Keep my name out of your mouth if you cannot handle its greatness!

woosah

Honestly, I’m sick and tired of people out here dissecting, interpreting, mispronouncing, remixing and putting a spin on my name. It really is not that hard to pronounce once you try. If you can’t get your head around 6 tiny letters on a page, please feel free to just ask me how to say it, I am more than happy to educate. But no, some of you do the most and would rather just take it upon yourself to try it out for size and see if it fits your narrow tongue. I mean, God loves a trier but sometimes just know when you’re defeated and ask for help.

My name is my name; you better start putting some respect on my name.

This post was triggered by an event that happened at work earlier this week.

Story Time: Once upon a time a delivery man walks into the work premises of Jay Bee to deliver some stationery. Delivery man scans the room looking for the intended recipient. He stands firm and proud and boldly declares in front of the entire office ‘Delivery for George Baptist’. Goodness child, who in the hell is that? wondered Jay Bee. She had placed a stationary order the day before but Delivery man must have the wrong office as no one in the office had that name. Unknowingly she continues to type away,the report is due at 5pm after all and she wants to leave on time. A couple of seconds later, Jay Bee’s feels a slight tap on her left shoulder. She looks up and it is one of her colleagues inquiring ‘Jacyra did you order some stationery?

How does the inventory say Jacyra Baptista but yet you fixed your mouth out loud to say ‘George Baptist’.

How Sway? I need answers.

giphy

Delivery man clearly should’ve gone to Specsavers. Not only that, but how did you clean miss the ‘a’ at the end of Baptista to call me Baptist. The ‘a’ is not there for decoration.

Now… this is not the first time and certainly won’t be the last time that my name will be mangled beyond recognition, I mean I’ve been called:

Jasra, Jackra, Jazeera, Jerkeira, Jaycherie, Sarah

You name it!

But George really does take the biscuit. He honestly looked at the paper, saw my name and checked out of life.

I realise that my name is very unique and that not many people may have come across it before. However, if you only just take your time to break it down, you’d realise it that it is actually quite  an easy name to pronounce. I mean it’s only three syllables.

Let’s try it together:

JA.CY.RA

say-my-name
Say my name, say my name
I mean this is already the anglicised pronunciation of my name, I have helped you guys out enough.

To quote Warsan Shire:

“Give your daughters difficult names. Give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.”

My name is my identity; I wear it like a badge of honour. I’m proud of it and it’s origin. So, if I can fix my mouth to say Meredith, Dipesh, Earl etc. Then you can say Jacyra.

And my biggest pet peeve is this – after I correct people not once but normally twice on the pronunciation (because some of you are hard of hearing) they then want to turn around and tell me what a beautiful and unique name I have. I know this. But you didn’t think this two seconds ago so stop trying to placate me. You have  offended me enough already.

Yes…. I know some people are being genuine when they say this. But whatever let me rant.

Nevertheless, morale of the story:

  1. If you don’t know how to pronounce someone’s name, then please just ask them
  2. If you still insist on pronouncing it without help, please apologies when you get it wrong
  3. Just ask for the pronunciation!!

Thank you for listening.

The Darker the Berry….

This dark skin of mine glistens in the sun, dazzling in all its melanin

This dark skin of mine, free from chemicals and bleach, shines on vividly despite being called less than …

This dark skin of mine, is not pretty for a dark skin girl, but is pretty because it exists in all its glory

This dark skin of mine is a gift, not a blemish, not a stain

This dark skin of mine shapes the way I move through the world and the way the world views me

This dark skin of mine does not want your fetichism or your colour struck naivety 

This dark skin of mine needs healing and nurturing. It doesn’t need your refusual to accept that colourism still runs deep

This dark skin of mine, darker than a paper bag refuses to bow down to your disdain

This dark skin of mine is unapologetically dark and will carry on radiating despite your pleas 

This dark skin cries

This dark skin loves

This dark skin lives

Rise dark girl

Words have Power

It is said that there is power in the tongue which is why words are so significant. Words can convey a whole heap of meaning, making language so beautiful as well as frightening. Here are a list of words that bother me and evoke negative feelings:

Nappy – first of all, you’ll never see me describe my hair as nappy. Nappy is a perjorative term that was used to degrade and devalue Black women’s hair and I am not here for it. My hair is not unruly, it is not something that needs to be tamed and it is most certainly not unmanageable. When I see other Black women and men use this term to abuse another ‘ethnic minority’a part of me weeps inside. ‘Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair?’Internalised racism is still alive and thriving.

Urban – this word grates on my very soul.  Urban is not synonymous with Black but most people use it as a PC friendly term when they stumble around trying not to say the word Black. Why can’t people just say the word, BLACK. Black is not a dirty word. I can’t stand when people say nonsense like urban music and working within the urban community. We all know what you are trying to say, so say it with your chest: Black, Black, Black. There- I fixed it for you.

POC/WOC (person of colour/ women of colour) – I am not coloured. I am not a paint by numbers drawing. No-one sat down and coloured me in with flipping crayons to make me this complexion. If I am a person of colour then what the heck are you? Colourless. Let’s just stop with this asinine term!

Ethnic Minorities – I understand why this term was created in the first place, to take into account the disadvantages faced by ‘people of colour’ who  did not form part of the dominating class i.e White but I find the term lacking nuance.  Lumping Black people, Latinos and Asians into one subgroup fails to take into account our many differences. It puts a them ‘vs’us stance which is quite divisive. At the end of the day ‘we’ including white people are all ethnics.

The’N’ word –  to be honest I have a love hate relationship with the N word. It is a disgusting term that should never have been invented in the first place. But listening to my favoritute  ‘urban’rap song of the moment I can’t help but blurt it out with gusto as I nod my ‘nappy’ head in agreeance . I feel conflicted at how easy it rolls off my tongue and quickly embeds itself into my vernacular. This word that was used to dehumanise the whole Black race shouldn’t be verbalised so freely yet we do so, within the remit that we have claimed back the word. But have we really or have we just let our opressors win by yet again internalising something that was used to bastardise us?

That’s just my two pence. Let me hear your thoughts down below and let me know of any other words you don’t like?

Black British African

 

When I fill in the census I always tick the box marked: Black British African.

This has always proved a conundrum to me.

I was born in Angola and moved to the UK at the tender age of 5. Leaving Angola at such a young age meant that I did not have much time to form an African identity; instead I was thrown into an unknown country where people labelled me as African before I could even grasp what that meant.

At home my parents encouraged us to speak English so that we could assimilate easily into our new land. However, this just sparked off the beginning of my identity crisis. I was an African who spoke Portuguese (thanks to our colonisers) but who no longer used this tongue at home, instead quickly replacing it with another oppressor’s tongue.

I am a Black British African. What a contradiction.

I am whole, yet made up of so many different cultures and diasporas and cannot claim to fully be one over the other.

I am a binary opposition, consisting of two conflicting ideals both fighting for supremacy.

I am an African who eats traditional Angolan food with the same gusto and fervour of that of my ancestors. I am an African who dances to Kizomba but who lives a very western experience. I am British who spouts tales of Harry Potter and sings ‘God Saves the Queen’ whilst pining for a home far, far away that I have never fully embraced.

However, Home has been the UK for the past 20 odd years of my life. Home has been the UK which has informed my decisions and shaped my reality. Home has been the UK which has shaped this internal conflict inside of me as I battle to decide which country I pledge allegiance to.

I feel robbed of my African experience, whatever that may be. I feel robbed for not having grown up with my extended family and feeling the rush of love and warmth whenever friend’s speak of ‘popping down to Nan’s house’. I have never had that experience.

I don’t know how it feels to play ‘garrafinha’ or playing in the sand getting my white school robes dirty. I don’t know how it feels to fetch water or eat ‘gelado de mucua’ feeling the rich taste drip down my face. All this, I have learnt through my parents and older siblings.

I have missed out on family weddings, births of new blood and deaths of the old.

My identity as an Angolan has been shaped through Western ideals and rhetoric and also through stories told by my parents.

I have come to realise that I am a proud product of both and don’t have to fit into one neat box. I am between two different worlds. Nevertheless, I do wish to reclaim and learn more about my heritage. I long to know more about Angolan history and folklore and let it spout out of my mouth just as easily as I do tales of Henry the Eighth and Guy Fawkes.

I am unapologetically a Black British African, a conundrum that I have now reconciled.

Black in the City : The American Dream

Being Black in the city in this day and age resembles the struggles of the field Negroes in the cotton plantations of the 19th century. Even with our hands up the still shoot us down. The curse of the Black skin still lingers on…. Nothing‘s changed in all these years.

The same hate and dissent of the Ku Klax Klan is still alive today. America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, shoot us for sport like pheasants in the firing range. Another Nigga dead, nobody cares.

#BlackLivesMatter we scream, a silent plea falling on deaf ears.

The Black Man, The Black Ape, The Black Bitch, the Black Death. No longer human just an animal in a cage. A beast waiting to be tamed.

They throw Black on Black crime in the mix as justification for the slaughter. Killing us saves us from our own savagery.

To be Black is to be sub-human. A disease inflicted upon the masses. Black people bleeding with frequent occurrence and all they shout is #AllLivesMatter whilst continuing to pillage a whole race.

Mike, Sandra, Eric to name a few. Dead at the hands of those who are meant to protect and serve. But where is the protection for the Black man? Shoot first, question later, that coon had it coming.

#BlackLivesMatter we cry. But Black tears aren’t worth the salt that is shed.

 Barbados

 

Well the title is a bit deceptive as I didn’t actually do any travelling in the city, rather, I flew to a small island called Barbados for 12 days and fell in love.

Barbados you had me at hello!

Touching down in the Caribbean, I was hit by a sweltering heat that I’ve never felt before and I knew I was home (excuse the dramatics but this was the best holiday ever!)

What is it about holidays that makes one lose their inhibitions and act so reckless? Going on holiday offers us the chance to reinvent our character by allowing us to lie to ourselves with the declarative ” what happens in (enter destination here) stays in (enter destination)”. This simple statement frees even the most timid and before you know it, you are face down, ass up and twerking on a random stranger without a care in the world.

I drank rum and redbull from dusk to dawn, and partied my stress and cobwebs away (my liver detests me). I’m not sure how you Bajans do it. Mount Gay Rum is lethal!

Bajans, are super friendly, with their sing-song accent putting you at ease and making you trust them instantly. Life in Barbados moves at a much slower pace. People are not rushing everywhere and forgetting to actually have a life. They take time to appreciate the beauty in their surroundings, I mean how could you not? when you are surrounded by fresh air and gorgeous beaches. I’m not saying that people over there don’t lead tough lives, far from it, however, their demeanour and spirit never seems broken. They pick themselves up and keep it moving.

The energy and vibrancy of the Bajan culture shines through wherever you go, from the music telling you to ‘put your hands up and roll that body’ , to the trips down to Oistins on Friday nights to partake in the biggest fish fry party and to the bright Purple & Yellow sign of Chefette’s, beckoning you to come over and sample some Roti, which I dutifully indulged – plenty of times. I stan for Rotis – so damn good.

The island can at times be stifling as it is overrun with tourists. We are everywhere! This can at best take away from the authenticity of the place, especially when you just want to ‘go down’ with the locals.

Nevertheless, I would most definitely go again.

I met some wonderful people, partook in dubious activities, drank copious amount of alcohol, partied on board the Jolly Roger and went swimming with the fishes (no Godfather).

Perhaps I will make it for crop over next year  .

Rihanna, I’ll see you there!