Throughout my journey in life I have encountered many amazing people whose stories have gone with them to their grave, have not been told, been ignored, or have been too uncomfortable for many to hear. Having been part of Baltimore's inner city community I have heard and listened to many stories from those I refer to as ‘shadow people’
These individuals are always present in our lives, but linger in the background. Many ‘shadow people’ are socially labelled as ‘Hard to access’ or ‘Hard to reach’. In truth they are neither. They merely exist in their own world of darkness and fear, a world that they are familiar with, and one that generates fear within us. Other ‘shadow people’ are victims of circumstance; losing loved one’s in tragic circumstances, struggling with a terminal illness, coping with a mid-life crisis, or struggling with the day to day running of having a mental illness. The need for space to reflect, think, have fun, and generally explore the world has diminished over the years. As a child growing up I remember, how much space I used to occupy, when streets were safe, youth clubs were about adventure, and open spaces weren’t restricted. Young people now share stories of not being allowed into shops, where shopping centre’s restrict their movement, older people feel a threat from their presence, combined with the daily struggles to occupy space in their own houses.
Being a step-child who doesn’t have a bedroom, living in an environment which has limited access to facilities such as sports, parks, outward bound, and so on, has created a generation craving their own space. We now have young people who ‘ring fence’ space in their communities and will defend the right to occupy it by ‘post code’ designation.Take crumbling inner city communities, who are starved of resources, with people living on the edge, where the daily battle to keep young people off the streets is being lost. Combine this with a volatile, but coping generation , who are fed up of being the target for media sensationalism, the police, and an assortment of corrupt individuals, hell bent on exploiting the crumbling infrastructure, and you have Shadow People.
Most of all their stories about people, community, survival, a determination to succeed, and testimonies that must be heard.
Peace
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Monday, 13 September 2010
From a lost and found son (www.wcmt.org.uk)
Having met so many young and older people here, male and female who have been fatherless, I have been asked on several occasions where my passion comes from, and what is it I know about the issue. It is for that reason I have decided to present my own story. Those without fathers are walking around with pain, looking for love, and are struggling to find internal peace. The need for a father, the desire for the love of a father, and the importance of having someone to connect your whole being to cannot be underestimated. So much research, so many books, so many hypothesis’s have been tested to ascertain the psychological impact of his absence, the relationship to crime, and numerous gazes which at times border on being voyeuristic. The following testimony is not aimed at anyone in particular. It is not designed to be fed into any research, or add weight to a policy document. It is whatever it means to the reader. For ease of reading it is presented in a serial format:
Part One - Beginning
I only met Astley Roy Moore, (my natural father), who was a Jamaican, a handful of times. Once when I was eight, when he was introduced as my uncle. Being so young and totally consumed with the excitement of meeting him, I was pacified by his entrance into my life. He then proceeded to buy my affection on a shopping trip that lasted no more than a few hours. I never questioned his absence in my life as I was too busy being with ‘Dad’ (A term I never used with him). I thought I’d arrived now I had my father back in my life. I stuck two fingers up to all those people who made me feel the stigma of having an absent parent. I felt complete. It was a false reality! After a meal, he took me back to the designated rendezvous point, dropped me off, and that was that. It was 24 years later before I would see him again. Most of my formative years were spent thinking that he really cared for me.
When I check it, I never ever had a birthday or Christmas card, heard his voice on the phone, benefited from his wisdom; absolutely nothing at all! I never had any sense the impact his absence would have on me until later in my life. How could I, I was too naïve, and inexperienced? I bought the lie, as the pain was too difficult to comprehend. Deep down I was dying inside. A feeling that has stayed with me. It’s a feeling you never quite come to terms with, and suppress in order to survive. As the years rolled on I hoped and prayed I would meet him again, go on an adventure, and act like nothing had happened. I was totally blind and deaf. I didn’t listen to my inner voice and conveniently ignored my mother’s hurt. I needed a scapegoat. Something that I have since rectified, but I know my anger opened up a wound within her, which only healed during her battle with cancer as I made my way back.
The Prodigal son comes to mind. Only is my case it was my mother not my father who welcomed me back home after I had gone out into the world and lived a turbulent life. I know that mum is at peace, which has aided my journey into my own healing. Jill Roberts, a white woman from Wales, who in 1955 Great Britain fell in love with this handsome Jamaican. A brave and courageous gesture way back then. To have me, lose the man she loved, and still manage to make a life for herself, was truly remarkable. She never gave me up for adoption (A common occurrence during the 50’s). Weaker women would have crumbled, but my mother demonstrated the kind of courage I am only now discovering. When I met my father many years later, I had to cope with yet another major blow; he had had a stroke as well as being married to a woman who didn’t know I existed. His illness restricted the things I so desperately needed to say to him, causing me more anxiety. During our brief moments together we shared some important times, but the opportunity to offload my hurt never arose. How I wanted to shout, scream, and curse, but I respected his illness and went with the flow. If he had good health I may not have been as tolerant, as I had an extremely bad temper, which I couldn’t control. One of the major benefits to come out of our meetings was the introduction to my Jamaican family (Who I am still in touch with).
It was at this point my road to recovery took off. My disjointed identity started to piece together. During my first week on my Jamaican sojourn where I was to be re-united with my new family, my father passed away (in London on NOV 4th 1989). I had so many mixed emotions, anger, vexation, confusion, and betrayal. I was too distraught to focus. I’d been robbed! Things were made worse when I had to deal with the aftermath of meeting and losing him in such a short space of time, with no counselling whatsoever. I was a real mess. Like a desert mirage all those years of searching had disappeared in front of my eyes. His wife made it doubly difficult by refusing to let me see my father’s ashes on my return. A sort of payback for his deceit about the child she never knew he had. They’d been married for 16 years.
Even when he found love he lived a lie. Although I never really got a chance to know my father, I developed a real strength of character during his absent years, which made me fiercely independent. My formative years were spent with my natural white mother and bigoted white stepfather, Ted Glynn. This led to major confusions about my identity and sense of where I fitted in. As a person from a so called ‘mixed race’ background I felt lost, alone, vulnerable, and disaffected. My stepfather and I were not close. Despite never being there for me emotionally, he was actually the only man I ever knew in the capacity as a father figure at that time. He did his best, but at the time I never knew that, and certainly didn’t appreciate it. Not having had a real grounding with an adult man, who I felt loved me enough to teach me about life crushed my self-esteem. I became locked in adolescence well into my late twenties and early thirties. At school I refused to accept my real father was flawed, despite the level of abuse and name calling my so-called friends would give me for not having him around. At school I was too Black for the White kids, not Black enough for the Black kids. I hated being called Half-caste by everyone. I wanted to be like my father, a Black man.
Growing up in a white family without any black input got worse as I craved the love of my black family who were in Jamaica, and didn’t know I existed. It was at this time I discovered a way of covering the pain. I became a clown. Happy on the outside ...sad on the inside, always the life 'n' soul of the party. Keeping my absent father’s memory alive was pure charade, which worked at first, as I never really needed to call upon my emotions to survive. As I hit my late teens it started to affect me the first of many depressions. My inability to talk to about my pain, and the continuing pressure of racism in the home caused me to withdraw and hold my mother responsible for everything. I was in complete denial, brought on by confusion about my identity. I became violent, uncontrollable, and carried hate around like a weapon. I projected my anger at anyone who made me feel vulnerable. I was out of control. Not only did I hate the world at large, but also I couldn’t stand myself. I was determined everyone was going to pay for my predicament.
I remember vividly how submerging myself in work, politics, relationships, and other pursuits cushioned me, enough to falsely convince my mind that everything was fine. I had to wait until my late thirties before the bubble finally burst. One day I had written a full length screenplay and needed a crucial bit of information about my mother and father’s relationship. I asked mum how my father had left her. When she told me I was devastated and broke down. I was no longer able to hide, run scared, or cover things up. I wept endlessly and finally had to come to terms with his act of betrayal in my life. My father was no longer a hero, the person on a pedestal. Instead he had become the man who left me, my mother, and more importantly his responsibility in favour of finding a new life for himself.
Peace
Part One - Beginning
I only met Astley Roy Moore, (my natural father), who was a Jamaican, a handful of times. Once when I was eight, when he was introduced as my uncle. Being so young and totally consumed with the excitement of meeting him, I was pacified by his entrance into my life. He then proceeded to buy my affection on a shopping trip that lasted no more than a few hours. I never questioned his absence in my life as I was too busy being with ‘Dad’ (A term I never used with him). I thought I’d arrived now I had my father back in my life. I stuck two fingers up to all those people who made me feel the stigma of having an absent parent. I felt complete. It was a false reality! After a meal, he took me back to the designated rendezvous point, dropped me off, and that was that. It was 24 years later before I would see him again. Most of my formative years were spent thinking that he really cared for me.
When I check it, I never ever had a birthday or Christmas card, heard his voice on the phone, benefited from his wisdom; absolutely nothing at all! I never had any sense the impact his absence would have on me until later in my life. How could I, I was too naïve, and inexperienced? I bought the lie, as the pain was too difficult to comprehend. Deep down I was dying inside. A feeling that has stayed with me. It’s a feeling you never quite come to terms with, and suppress in order to survive. As the years rolled on I hoped and prayed I would meet him again, go on an adventure, and act like nothing had happened. I was totally blind and deaf. I didn’t listen to my inner voice and conveniently ignored my mother’s hurt. I needed a scapegoat. Something that I have since rectified, but I know my anger opened up a wound within her, which only healed during her battle with cancer as I made my way back.
The Prodigal son comes to mind. Only is my case it was my mother not my father who welcomed me back home after I had gone out into the world and lived a turbulent life. I know that mum is at peace, which has aided my journey into my own healing. Jill Roberts, a white woman from Wales, who in 1955 Great Britain fell in love with this handsome Jamaican. A brave and courageous gesture way back then. To have me, lose the man she loved, and still manage to make a life for herself, was truly remarkable. She never gave me up for adoption (A common occurrence during the 50’s). Weaker women would have crumbled, but my mother demonstrated the kind of courage I am only now discovering. When I met my father many years later, I had to cope with yet another major blow; he had had a stroke as well as being married to a woman who didn’t know I existed. His illness restricted the things I so desperately needed to say to him, causing me more anxiety. During our brief moments together we shared some important times, but the opportunity to offload my hurt never arose. How I wanted to shout, scream, and curse, but I respected his illness and went with the flow. If he had good health I may not have been as tolerant, as I had an extremely bad temper, which I couldn’t control. One of the major benefits to come out of our meetings was the introduction to my Jamaican family (Who I am still in touch with).
It was at this point my road to recovery took off. My disjointed identity started to piece together. During my first week on my Jamaican sojourn where I was to be re-united with my new family, my father passed away (in London on NOV 4th 1989). I had so many mixed emotions, anger, vexation, confusion, and betrayal. I was too distraught to focus. I’d been robbed! Things were made worse when I had to deal with the aftermath of meeting and losing him in such a short space of time, with no counselling whatsoever. I was a real mess. Like a desert mirage all those years of searching had disappeared in front of my eyes. His wife made it doubly difficult by refusing to let me see my father’s ashes on my return. A sort of payback for his deceit about the child she never knew he had. They’d been married for 16 years.
Even when he found love he lived a lie. Although I never really got a chance to know my father, I developed a real strength of character during his absent years, which made me fiercely independent. My formative years were spent with my natural white mother and bigoted white stepfather, Ted Glynn. This led to major confusions about my identity and sense of where I fitted in. As a person from a so called ‘mixed race’ background I felt lost, alone, vulnerable, and disaffected. My stepfather and I were not close. Despite never being there for me emotionally, he was actually the only man I ever knew in the capacity as a father figure at that time. He did his best, but at the time I never knew that, and certainly didn’t appreciate it. Not having had a real grounding with an adult man, who I felt loved me enough to teach me about life crushed my self-esteem. I became locked in adolescence well into my late twenties and early thirties. At school I refused to accept my real father was flawed, despite the level of abuse and name calling my so-called friends would give me for not having him around. At school I was too Black for the White kids, not Black enough for the Black kids. I hated being called Half-caste by everyone. I wanted to be like my father, a Black man.
Growing up in a white family without any black input got worse as I craved the love of my black family who were in Jamaica, and didn’t know I existed. It was at this time I discovered a way of covering the pain. I became a clown. Happy on the outside ...sad on the inside, always the life 'n' soul of the party. Keeping my absent father’s memory alive was pure charade, which worked at first, as I never really needed to call upon my emotions to survive. As I hit my late teens it started to affect me the first of many depressions. My inability to talk to about my pain, and the continuing pressure of racism in the home caused me to withdraw and hold my mother responsible for everything. I was in complete denial, brought on by confusion about my identity. I became violent, uncontrollable, and carried hate around like a weapon. I projected my anger at anyone who made me feel vulnerable. I was out of control. Not only did I hate the world at large, but also I couldn’t stand myself. I was determined everyone was going to pay for my predicament.
I remember vividly how submerging myself in work, politics, relationships, and other pursuits cushioned me, enough to falsely convince my mind that everything was fine. I had to wait until my late thirties before the bubble finally burst. One day I had written a full length screenplay and needed a crucial bit of information about my mother and father’s relationship. I asked mum how my father had left her. When she told me I was devastated and broke down. I was no longer able to hide, run scared, or cover things up. I wept endlessly and finally had to come to terms with his act of betrayal in my life. My father was no longer a hero, the person on a pedestal. Instead he had become the man who left me, my mother, and more importantly his responsibility in favour of finding a new life for himself.
Peace
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Homicide (www.wcmt.org.uk)
I’m sitting in a large theatre space (Morgan State University) as a delegate at the 1st Baltimore Homicide Victims Conference. Stalls, politicians, support services, combined with a relatively small audience are the order of the day. I was intrigued how a conference would address, inform, and raise awareness towards homicide would play out. Since being here I’ve been exposed to the reality of how the streets can devour young lives for the sake of turf, revenge, retribution, robbery, mistaken identity, hatred, and numerous other reasons. The atmosphere felt quite heavy, not just because of the subject matter, mainly because many of the attendees of the conference were victims of homicide. Myself included, as I had lost several cousin to violence in Jamaica many years ago. I’ve also lived in communities in the UK where lost of life through murder has been on-going for most of my life. A few keynote speakers contextualized the issues, followed by panel members who had all lost loved ones to homicide.
The outpouring of grief was painful, hard to listen to, and at times harrowing for both audience and panel members alike. The other outcome was the way in which the panel’s grief, connected to the audience’s pain, and then it ceased to be a conference, but more of a grieving ritual. Individuals crying, breaking down, struggle to maintain composure reminded you how this type of crime took the human spirit to a place that was so difficult, that you can’t help but wonder how many people coped or didn’t cope with such a tragic event in their lives. The initial new, court case, picking up the pieces, coping strategy, and gap that is left when your loved one is taken from you, confronts the senses with dread, dread, and more dread. Each person talked about the isolation, loneliness, loss of friends, inability to talk about locked in feelings, helplessness, anger, rage, and depression. So many emotions that at times made many feel suicidal and questioning their faith. A belief in God was the corner stone of many of the victims, but even maintaining a spiritual belief became a daily battle, as the cumulative impact of the other emotions at times made little room for spiritual connection.
I thought about all the young people I had met from the streets, those walking around who were not dead, as they had survived a beating, or a shooting. Those who felt their life was futile but were forced to exist in a culture of despair and hopelessness. I then started to reflect on the daily diet of TV shows that were full of glamorizing crime and violence. It then struck me that a lot of what I’ve encountered being here, when it comes to the extreme outcome of violence is many people are suffering from trauma, contrasted with being de-sensitized.
At times the casual acceptance of violence as the only alternative to solving disputes, the lack of sentimentality to the on-going struggles of street warfare, and the jostling for services who can provide solutions, made you feel that this epidemic was part of an industry. Then I started to think about prison, criminal justice, and the system itself. The sheer number of murders, victims, hospital costs for dealing with the victims, the psychological breakdowns, the increase in personal and community anxiety, proliferation of gangs, enforcement, and the list goes on. I then came to the realization that for society homicide is a huge issue; cultural, political, historical, spiritual, and psychological, that has been around from the beginning of time. I left the event feeling grateful for my life, the people that love me, and things that I have. I pledged to myself that this experience would not be forgotten and would drive me to continue to understand the issues, get beyond the rhetoric, and never forgetting the level of human suffering it brings.
Peace
The outpouring of grief was painful, hard to listen to, and at times harrowing for both audience and panel members alike. The other outcome was the way in which the panel’s grief, connected to the audience’s pain, and then it ceased to be a conference, but more of a grieving ritual. Individuals crying, breaking down, struggle to maintain composure reminded you how this type of crime took the human spirit to a place that was so difficult, that you can’t help but wonder how many people coped or didn’t cope with such a tragic event in their lives. The initial new, court case, picking up the pieces, coping strategy, and gap that is left when your loved one is taken from you, confronts the senses with dread, dread, and more dread. Each person talked about the isolation, loneliness, loss of friends, inability to talk about locked in feelings, helplessness, anger, rage, and depression. So many emotions that at times made many feel suicidal and questioning their faith. A belief in God was the corner stone of many of the victims, but even maintaining a spiritual belief became a daily battle, as the cumulative impact of the other emotions at times made little room for spiritual connection.
I thought about all the young people I had met from the streets, those walking around who were not dead, as they had survived a beating, or a shooting. Those who felt their life was futile but were forced to exist in a culture of despair and hopelessness. I then started to reflect on the daily diet of TV shows that were full of glamorizing crime and violence. It then struck me that a lot of what I’ve encountered being here, when it comes to the extreme outcome of violence is many people are suffering from trauma, contrasted with being de-sensitized.
At times the casual acceptance of violence as the only alternative to solving disputes, the lack of sentimentality to the on-going struggles of street warfare, and the jostling for services who can provide solutions, made you feel that this epidemic was part of an industry. Then I started to think about prison, criminal justice, and the system itself. The sheer number of murders, victims, hospital costs for dealing with the victims, the psychological breakdowns, the increase in personal and community anxiety, proliferation of gangs, enforcement, and the list goes on. I then came to the realization that for society homicide is a huge issue; cultural, political, historical, spiritual, and psychological, that has been around from the beginning of time. I left the event feeling grateful for my life, the people that love me, and things that I have. I pledged to myself that this experience would not be forgotten and would drive me to continue to understand the issues, get beyond the rhetoric, and never forgetting the level of human suffering it brings.
Peace
Friday, 10 September 2010
Evidence (www.wcmt.org.uk)
Whilst being here I have been reading and writing a lot. The trip has given me much needed space to document and revise some of my thinking. I was given a journal at Johns Hopkins University on Biomedical and Psychosocial approaches to drug and alcohol dependence, as well as purchasing Gottfredson’s and Hirschi’s ‘A general Theory of crime’. The relevance of my point here is about the importance of evidence. There are so many organisations and community people who have stories to tell, experiencs that can inform debate, discussion, and policy concerns, but in my discussions there is a disconnect between community, academia, and strategic bodies. Nothing new really, but at times it is a hard pill to swallow, knowing that so much needs to be done and can be changed if there were more cohesive ties in the research agenda.
Attending a recent meeting I was painfully aware of how community services see themselves at data gatherers on behalf of commissioning agencies, but not really part of the evaluation strategy. I do have concerns regarding this unequal union, as communities are ideally placed to not only gather the data, interpret it, as well as providing recommendations to vested interests. It then struck me about notions of power and how it all works. Parents can define the research, undertake it, and with the right resourcing see their tested hypothesis come to fruition with practical results. I would like to see a time when community can research its own needs and influence public, social, and cultural policy.
Inner city Baltimore has an invisible layer of criminal justice casualties; criminals who have desisted from a life of crime, but have themselves become victims of crime. Attempts to leave the gang, beating the court case by informing on others, and community justice in the form of revenge creates more victims. The difference is, these victims have no sympathy from society or community, no free healthcare, or at times, any future. Their lives are ruled by fear, governed by the code of the streets, and create little or no pathway to a new life. However, they do have something to offer in terms of experience that policy makers, researchers, and educators should access as way of understanding some of the complexities that conventional methods fail to explain or even understand.
The prospect of having no money for living, healthcare, food, or personal items, as a consequence of being involved in crime may leave society safer and the community feeling justice has prevailed. However, with the prospect of having absolutely nothing erodes any notion of pride and motivation to return back to a life of law abiding activity. This position results in forcing individuals back to the ‘corners’ as a way surviving and restoring lost pride and status. Little Melvin’s history of criminality and ultimate desistance has relevance for scholars looking at desistance. However, Melvin lives in the Inner city where many researchers fear to tred. This poses a dilemma for an important area of investigation. The need for ethnography and criminal biography is crucial here. Shows like ‘The Wire’, ‘The Soprano’s’, CSI, and so on, seldom use criminological theories as a way of exploring, explaining, and giving insight to the wider community about crime and it’s orientation. A significant gap is identified, but a wider question is raised, ‘are filmmakers the only ones who can attempt to reflect aspects of crime? or should relevant academic disciplines play more of a role in using media to generate ideas?
Ethics are the bedrock of academic research. An important and necessary process of selection of methods to be used in accessing constituents. Thus ensuring objectification in the process. In most cases it requires negotiating access, brokering relationships, and finding formats that will satisfy both the commissioning agency as well as the subjects of the inquiry. In places like Baltimore’s inner city, ethical considerations are no less important, but different. The element of risk has to be carefully balanced against the need to undertake the work required. Gaining access at times is at the discretions of criminals, gang members, or go betweens who make a series of brokered on your behalf. It is important that any researcher undertaking work in a difficult environment make appropriate choices and selections without compromising the outcomes. It is also important not to avoid engaging in these hostile environments on account of protocols that at times should be questioned and challenged.
Peace
Attending a recent meeting I was painfully aware of how community services see themselves at data gatherers on behalf of commissioning agencies, but not really part of the evaluation strategy. I do have concerns regarding this unequal union, as communities are ideally placed to not only gather the data, interpret it, as well as providing recommendations to vested interests. It then struck me about notions of power and how it all works. Parents can define the research, undertake it, and with the right resourcing see their tested hypothesis come to fruition with practical results. I would like to see a time when community can research its own needs and influence public, social, and cultural policy.
Inner city Baltimore has an invisible layer of criminal justice casualties; criminals who have desisted from a life of crime, but have themselves become victims of crime. Attempts to leave the gang, beating the court case by informing on others, and community justice in the form of revenge creates more victims. The difference is, these victims have no sympathy from society or community, no free healthcare, or at times, any future. Their lives are ruled by fear, governed by the code of the streets, and create little or no pathway to a new life. However, they do have something to offer in terms of experience that policy makers, researchers, and educators should access as way of understanding some of the complexities that conventional methods fail to explain or even understand.
The prospect of having no money for living, healthcare, food, or personal items, as a consequence of being involved in crime may leave society safer and the community feeling justice has prevailed. However, with the prospect of having absolutely nothing erodes any notion of pride and motivation to return back to a life of law abiding activity. This position results in forcing individuals back to the ‘corners’ as a way surviving and restoring lost pride and status. Little Melvin’s history of criminality and ultimate desistance has relevance for scholars looking at desistance. However, Melvin lives in the Inner city where many researchers fear to tred. This poses a dilemma for an important area of investigation. The need for ethnography and criminal biography is crucial here. Shows like ‘The Wire’, ‘The Soprano’s’, CSI, and so on, seldom use criminological theories as a way of exploring, explaining, and giving insight to the wider community about crime and it’s orientation. A significant gap is identified, but a wider question is raised, ‘are filmmakers the only ones who can attempt to reflect aspects of crime? or should relevant academic disciplines play more of a role in using media to generate ideas?
Ethics are the bedrock of academic research. An important and necessary process of selection of methods to be used in accessing constituents. Thus ensuring objectification in the process. In most cases it requires negotiating access, brokering relationships, and finding formats that will satisfy both the commissioning agency as well as the subjects of the inquiry. In places like Baltimore’s inner city, ethical considerations are no less important, but different. The element of risk has to be carefully balanced against the need to undertake the work required. Gaining access at times is at the discretions of criminals, gang members, or go betweens who make a series of brokered on your behalf. It is important that any researcher undertaking work in a difficult environment make appropriate choices and selections without compromising the outcomes. It is also important not to avoid engaging in these hostile environments on account of protocols that at times should be questioned and challenged.
Peace
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Not the same (www.wcmt.org.uk)
We all have differing views about why we do things. At times it is important to try and see a point of view of others for clarity, support, or just openess to being challenged. There are many times I have heard others who will look at a given situation with judgement and argue relentlessly that their point of view is right without considering any other perspective. I myself have been guilty at times of the same behaviour. However, continuous expossure to new things, ideas, people, etc, forces you to have to be more accomodating. There are many experiences I have faced here that if I had read on paper, or heard in passing conversation could have made me look at things through a clouded lens. No more is this apparent than trying to look at and examine crime from inner city young men and women. We all have our views and thoughts about why, without having ever been to those environments that create it or talking to those who are involved in it. This story is for those people who do make judgements without providing the evidence to support their views.
There were two childhood friends who were determined to remain close always. When they were grown, they each married and built their houses facing one another. Just a small path separated them. One day Sankofa the wise man decided to test their friendship and dressed himself in a two-color coat that was divided down the middle, red on the right side and blue on the left side. Wearing this coat, Sankofa walked along the narrow path between the two houses whilst the two friends were each working opposite each other in their fields. He attracted their attention by coughing loudly and made each friend look up from his side of the path at the same time. Sankofa stayed around long enough for them to notice him and then went on his way. At the end of the day, one friend said to the other,
"Wasn't that a beautiful red coat Sankofa was wearing today?"
"No," replied the other. "It was blue."
"I saw Sankofa clearly as he walked between us his coat was red."
"You are wrong!" the second man said. "I saw it too. It was blue."
"I know what I saw!" insisted the first man. "The coat was red."
"You don't know anything," replied the second angrily. "It was blue!"
"So you think I am stupid? I know what I saw,” shouted the first. "It was red!"
"Blue!" the other man said. "Red!"
"Blue!" "Red!" "Blue!"
They began to beat each other and roll around on the ground. Just then Sankofa returned and faced the two friends, who were punching and kicking each other and shouting, "Our friendship is over, we’re finished"
Sankofa walked directly in front of them, displaying his coat. He laughed loudly at their silly fight. The two friends saw that his two-color coat was divided down the middle, blue on the left and red on the right. The two friends stopped fighting and screamed at Sankofa.
"We have lived side by side all our lives like brothers! It is your entire fault that we are fighting! You started a war between us."
"Don't blame me for the battle," said Sankofa, "I did not make you fight. Both of you are wrong. And both of you are right. Yes, what each one said was true! You are fighting because you only looked at my coat from your own point of view."
Sankofa walked away leaving the two friends to reflect on their actions.
Peace
There were two childhood friends who were determined to remain close always. When they were grown, they each married and built their houses facing one another. Just a small path separated them. One day Sankofa the wise man decided to test their friendship and dressed himself in a two-color coat that was divided down the middle, red on the right side and blue on the left side. Wearing this coat, Sankofa walked along the narrow path between the two houses whilst the two friends were each working opposite each other in their fields. He attracted their attention by coughing loudly and made each friend look up from his side of the path at the same time. Sankofa stayed around long enough for them to notice him and then went on his way. At the end of the day, one friend said to the other,
"Wasn't that a beautiful red coat Sankofa was wearing today?"
"No," replied the other. "It was blue."
"I saw Sankofa clearly as he walked between us his coat was red."
"You are wrong!" the second man said. "I saw it too. It was blue."
"I know what I saw!" insisted the first man. "The coat was red."
"You don't know anything," replied the second angrily. "It was blue!"
"So you think I am stupid? I know what I saw,” shouted the first. "It was red!"
"Blue!" the other man said. "Red!"
"Blue!" "Red!" "Blue!"
They began to beat each other and roll around on the ground. Just then Sankofa returned and faced the two friends, who were punching and kicking each other and shouting, "Our friendship is over, we’re finished"
Sankofa walked directly in front of them, displaying his coat. He laughed loudly at their silly fight. The two friends saw that his two-color coat was divided down the middle, blue on the left and red on the right. The two friends stopped fighting and screamed at Sankofa.
"We have lived side by side all our lives like brothers! It is your entire fault that we are fighting! You started a war between us."
"Don't blame me for the battle," said Sankofa, "I did not make you fight. Both of you are wrong. And both of you are right. Yes, what each one said was true! You are fighting because you only looked at my coat from your own point of view."
Sankofa walked away leaving the two friends to reflect on their actions.
Peace
Dear Baltimore (www.wcmt.org.uk)
A police station interview room. A young African American man is handcuffed to a table, whilst ex African American police chief Howard ‘Bunny’ Colvin, stands in the corner firing questions, designed to get the young man to furnish answers around a rage of fictitious scenario’s. Into the mix we have a White researcher, Professor David Parenti, who attempts to take copious notes on the same table where the youth sits. It is clear that the White researcher is using the ex police chief as a ‘broker’ designed to get the young African American man to open up. The barrage of questions combined with the intrusion of Parenti’s bungling attempt to gain insight into the young man’s life erupts into a violent confrontation, where the young man, who is clearly a victim, is forcibly restrained. The scene described is from series three of groundbreaking HBO series ‘The Wire’, where the outcome is disastrous when the researchers desire to gather data outweighs his understanding of the young man’s social reality. Needless to say the interview is terminated, the White researcher was shocked out of his system, and the ex-police chief’s cynicism in research grew. The sad part of the whole scenario was that what could have been an important insight into inner city deprivation, black criminality, and black rage, was missed because of a methodological error. As fans of cult US television series The Wire will know, Baltimore is portrayed as a city with problems; racial divisions, corruption, gang- and drug-related violence and the effects of social deprivation on every level of society. Does art really imitate life?
Lexington Market:
My guide and support Ted arrives at midday and takes me to Lexington market, a space teeming with stalls and masses of people talking, sharing, a long established community with a long history. At first glance you get the feeling that this is just like any other market day, where the community it out in force doing its daily shopping. It’s a powerful place to be, where all sorts of people are jammed into the building; eating, talking, planning, and observing. Ted explains this is the place to find stuff out on what’s happening on the streets. His reflections of his time spent here remind me that this space at times has been fraught with uneasy tensions, unpredictable behaviours, and conflict. On leaving I see an elderly woman, who is on drugs, begs, and is in a continuous state of decline. A usual and often occurrence Ted assures me.
City Springs Academy:
As the downtown skyline disappears I find myself outside City Springs Academy. We are let in and are face to face with a group of young men aged 14. All African American, all from the inner city, and all involved in a leadership programme run by a one of Ted’s mentees Bredon. Ted introduces himself, then me. For about an hour we swap stories, anecdotes, and in general make a connection with them. When the young men begin to share their testimonies words like fear, loss, drugs, violence, guns, gangs, and fatherlessness cascade like a waterfall. In spite of their outward confidence, these young men are living in extreme circumstances, trying to survive. I reflected on my own son, grandson and tried to imagine how they would get on here. The paradox of such a thought was on the one hand I would like them to be exposed to this situation as a learning curve, but in reality I was happy that they weren’t. An American football style huddle brought the session to a close and we were off to our next destination.
The Projects:
The term "project" is a much used term by African American comedians, but in actuality inner city housing that gives rise to tension, anger, drugs, and violence is no joke. Similar in size and stature as in the UK, these estates feel more daunting because of their awesome reputation. Ted tells me about how they came about, the politics of social landscaping, and his frustration in poor city planning. I can’t disagree with him. I look at the people who live here, pushed to extreme limits of frustration know that their social mobility is almost fixed with little chance of escape. I didn’t like the environment, as people with no room to breathe will exhale, usually with dangerous outcomes. However, the sense of community spirit was as strong as could be in light of the situation that most found themselves in. As we left the area I came face to face with D.C.C., aka Diagnostic Correctional Centre. A large prison, with a large population, inside a large city. On this hot day here I was sweating, I thought about the prisoners. The acceptance that little could be done for those in a city where life expectancy was low, and worse of all prison is a year round, 24/7 reality for section of the community, who spend more time in this monstrous building than they do with their children, friends, family and community.
Park Heights:
Driving through Park Heights again I meet an 8 year old boy who I am told had been selling drugs to provide for his family. He is cute, riding a bike, voice hasn’t broken, yet he is a seasoned young look out, drug dealer, and provider for his family. I’m saddened at seeing him, and even more upset knowing that school offers no prospect of assisting him to find a new future. More importantly his childhood has all but gone, before he has started his journey in life. A terrible feeling, imagine what it must be like for him.
Two young men:
I’m back at Little Melvin’s flea market, and enterprise that is open 24 hours a day, accompanied by a food stall, and clothes shop. Like the Wire there is a boxing gym, half built, complete with trainer and raw recruits. I learn from this community stalwart that no-one is allowed to box unless they improve their education. A great slogan ‘No hooks, without books’. As class begins to start I move to one side and let them get on with it. Outside I get a drink and am called over to meet two young men. One young man boasts about his tattoos, whilst the other describes an attack at the local shopping mall on his way from school. Both 15, both out there on the streets, and both telling me like it is. It’s painful to hear their stories. One of the young men describes the pain of losing 13 of his friends to murder, a similar number comes up for the other one. I ask them what is the single most important thing they need in their lives right now. Their heads drop, no smiles, just a sharp intake of breath, followed by the same request ‘I’d like my friends to come back’. I felt gutted, inadequate, and unable to grasp the enormity of the pain they were carrying at that moment in time. I reflected again on my own children, knowing these guys didn’t have a father between them. I told them to stay strong, gave them a hug, and asked Ted to take me home.
Full circle:
Art may impersonate life, but life is real, not constructed, slickly edited, and can be switched off at any time. Once again I’m both moved and saddened by what I’ve experienced today. In saying that everyone I did meet, was resilient, didn’t feel sorry for themselves, and never played the victim. Life was short and in many cases brutal. They were determined to live it the best way possible. A lesson learned. Be grateful for what you have.
Peace
Lexington Market:
My guide and support Ted arrives at midday and takes me to Lexington market, a space teeming with stalls and masses of people talking, sharing, a long established community with a long history. At first glance you get the feeling that this is just like any other market day, where the community it out in force doing its daily shopping. It’s a powerful place to be, where all sorts of people are jammed into the building; eating, talking, planning, and observing. Ted explains this is the place to find stuff out on what’s happening on the streets. His reflections of his time spent here remind me that this space at times has been fraught with uneasy tensions, unpredictable behaviours, and conflict. On leaving I see an elderly woman, who is on drugs, begs, and is in a continuous state of decline. A usual and often occurrence Ted assures me.
City Springs Academy:
As the downtown skyline disappears I find myself outside City Springs Academy. We are let in and are face to face with a group of young men aged 14. All African American, all from the inner city, and all involved in a leadership programme run by a one of Ted’s mentees Bredon. Ted introduces himself, then me. For about an hour we swap stories, anecdotes, and in general make a connection with them. When the young men begin to share their testimonies words like fear, loss, drugs, violence, guns, gangs, and fatherlessness cascade like a waterfall. In spite of their outward confidence, these young men are living in extreme circumstances, trying to survive. I reflected on my own son, grandson and tried to imagine how they would get on here. The paradox of such a thought was on the one hand I would like them to be exposed to this situation as a learning curve, but in reality I was happy that they weren’t. An American football style huddle brought the session to a close and we were off to our next destination.
The Projects:
The term "project" is a much used term by African American comedians, but in actuality inner city housing that gives rise to tension, anger, drugs, and violence is no joke. Similar in size and stature as in the UK, these estates feel more daunting because of their awesome reputation. Ted tells me about how they came about, the politics of social landscaping, and his frustration in poor city planning. I can’t disagree with him. I look at the people who live here, pushed to extreme limits of frustration know that their social mobility is almost fixed with little chance of escape. I didn’t like the environment, as people with no room to breathe will exhale, usually with dangerous outcomes. However, the sense of community spirit was as strong as could be in light of the situation that most found themselves in. As we left the area I came face to face with D.C.C., aka Diagnostic Correctional Centre. A large prison, with a large population, inside a large city. On this hot day here I was sweating, I thought about the prisoners. The acceptance that little could be done for those in a city where life expectancy was low, and worse of all prison is a year round, 24/7 reality for section of the community, who spend more time in this monstrous building than they do with their children, friends, family and community.
Park Heights:
Driving through Park Heights again I meet an 8 year old boy who I am told had been selling drugs to provide for his family. He is cute, riding a bike, voice hasn’t broken, yet he is a seasoned young look out, drug dealer, and provider for his family. I’m saddened at seeing him, and even more upset knowing that school offers no prospect of assisting him to find a new future. More importantly his childhood has all but gone, before he has started his journey in life. A terrible feeling, imagine what it must be like for him.
Two young men:
I’m back at Little Melvin’s flea market, and enterprise that is open 24 hours a day, accompanied by a food stall, and clothes shop. Like the Wire there is a boxing gym, half built, complete with trainer and raw recruits. I learn from this community stalwart that no-one is allowed to box unless they improve their education. A great slogan ‘No hooks, without books’. As class begins to start I move to one side and let them get on with it. Outside I get a drink and am called over to meet two young men. One young man boasts about his tattoos, whilst the other describes an attack at the local shopping mall on his way from school. Both 15, both out there on the streets, and both telling me like it is. It’s painful to hear their stories. One of the young men describes the pain of losing 13 of his friends to murder, a similar number comes up for the other one. I ask them what is the single most important thing they need in their lives right now. Their heads drop, no smiles, just a sharp intake of breath, followed by the same request ‘I’d like my friends to come back’. I felt gutted, inadequate, and unable to grasp the enormity of the pain they were carrying at that moment in time. I reflected again on my own children, knowing these guys didn’t have a father between them. I told them to stay strong, gave them a hug, and asked Ted to take me home.
Full circle:
Art may impersonate life, but life is real, not constructed, slickly edited, and can be switched off at any time. Once again I’m both moved and saddened by what I’ve experienced today. In saying that everyone I did meet, was resilient, didn’t feel sorry for themselves, and never played the victim. Life was short and in many cases brutal. They were determined to live it the best way possible. A lesson learned. Be grateful for what you have.
Peace
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
We Wear the Mask (www.wcmt.org.uk)
We Wear the Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties
Why should the world be otherwise?
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see thus, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
For me, Dunbar’s poem is a metaphor for what I’m experiencing here in the US and the UK. The community doesn’t have the resources, the academy doesn’t have the solutions, and the public services don’t have the insights. Somehow the partnering of this trinity is supposedly the answer. The reality is far from the ideal of collective working for social and cultural change. The sheer weight and scale of the problems means that whoever controls the resources pushes the agenda forward. Dunbar mentions ‘We wear the mask that grin and lies’, a truism if ever there was one. When we are all looking for a justification for our ideas and validation of our thinking, we are all colluding with creating the illusion of real change.
As I look at the streets and observe the disparities between the races, the poor, the young, and so on, there are so many masks being worn, that it’s hard to see a unified position that we can all occupy and feel equal. How we prioritise need, determine who should get the benefits, or receive something to help solve a problem is so subjective and loaded against those who are powerless, disaffected, and at the margins of society. Dunbar talks about tortured souls. There are many tortured souls out there whose mask has fallen off and we can see who they really are. I have been humbled, felt inadequate, and have had to ask myself several deep searching questions about the morals and ethics about what we do as professionals, academics, and public servants. Engaging with disaffected people is not just about policy statements, focus groups, or trying to prove a hypothesis. It's about service, purpose, and assisting those in most need to feel someone cares.
Therefore, there is a need to question who is really wearing the mask.
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties
Why should the world be otherwise?
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see thus, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
For me, Dunbar’s poem is a metaphor for what I’m experiencing here in the US and the UK. The community doesn’t have the resources, the academy doesn’t have the solutions, and the public services don’t have the insights. Somehow the partnering of this trinity is supposedly the answer. The reality is far from the ideal of collective working for social and cultural change. The sheer weight and scale of the problems means that whoever controls the resources pushes the agenda forward. Dunbar mentions ‘We wear the mask that grin and lies’, a truism if ever there was one. When we are all looking for a justification for our ideas and validation of our thinking, we are all colluding with creating the illusion of real change.
As I look at the streets and observe the disparities between the races, the poor, the young, and so on, there are so many masks being worn, that it’s hard to see a unified position that we can all occupy and feel equal. How we prioritise need, determine who should get the benefits, or receive something to help solve a problem is so subjective and loaded against those who are powerless, disaffected, and at the margins of society. Dunbar talks about tortured souls. There are many tortured souls out there whose mask has fallen off and we can see who they really are. I have been humbled, felt inadequate, and have had to ask myself several deep searching questions about the morals and ethics about what we do as professionals, academics, and public servants. Engaging with disaffected people is not just about policy statements, focus groups, or trying to prove a hypothesis. It's about service, purpose, and assisting those in most need to feel someone cares.
Therefore, there is a need to question who is really wearing the mask.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)