Herein are recorded not opinions but the reflections of one who for forty years has participated in the life and loves of a U.K born Black man, discussing herein is not of guest work, suppositions and cigarette ashes, it is not an umbrella estimation covering a general approximation that spans far, and as wide as Eddy in Tennessee, Miracle in Nigeria, or why White Russian (drink) is considering an abiding classic, though there are notable parallels that most men abide by the attention here is acute, it is of imperial colour-coded presence, it is of African descent, it is the country of his birth’s preoccupation with race, and ultimately it is for those who are rumoured to consider him the most.
Understand Who He Is.
In a nutshell he is a complicated individual, regardless of his aspirations, profession, regard or dubious conduct, even when he kneels down daily and proclaims Christ his Saviour is his Lord, ultimately he is the barer of a complicated compassion. It is because of all the latter signifiers to the elements of him, illustrating the very essence of his soul that composes his simply complex, often conflicted, of which manifests itself with acts of life-long bouts of appropriation, depression, basic lack of self and all the pride he’ll ever need to make the world stop, and take a look, of which he often does. Essentially he is what history has dictated his day-in day-out to be, his emotional appetite has been wined and dined by the critical profoundness of bondage and now his deity revolves around his slaved freedom. And he’s fully aware his woman opposite is weary of him, fully conscious of the fact that his children need him when all the other children have tolerated life without their Fathers, despite his integrated socio-status, his assimilated animosity remembers his Toots and Maytals on a Sunday, and effectively, what in actuality that really means, and in the land of “Queen and Country” he understands, and often fails to do so what it all insinuates.
The Natural Revolution.
Quietly, and pretty much with in your face enthusiasm, right now he’s loving this revolution, and the revolution is being televised, streamed and personified, aside from any political implication it’s a moving mutiny against an unnatural norm. And loving it because it doesn’t involve him, per-say, it involves “her” - her locs, twists and blow outs, her bantu knots and bantu knot outs, her self-acceptance, freedom, health and spiritual growth – and what it does is revaluate, redefine, and reconsider if need be, it goes to the core of the opposite of ‘me’, it involves his personification of what is deemed ‘as it should be’, and whether he tries to, and doesn’t, he can’t let it go, ultimately he knows the bravura Black woman archetype, and the colour of his skin simply won’t let him.
Fact is they’ve always been too young to be jaded, alas jaded nonetheless. And his music- his feel good, his escape, his lines of communication and principled solidarity with life, culture and love has always been his mouthpiece, a beautifully repugnant messenger all at the same sick sweet time, and while if it’s not sport it’s music that lifts him out of the dire predictability life and history has bestowed him, his musical affiliation is always the key to understanding what kind of soul he possesses, when music is the antidote to any soul’s ills or healthy, it is his music that ultimately helps to define him, or already has.
Agents of the State.
In many circles they are sometimes referred to as gifts from Satan, they are not loved, respected or affectionately regarded, they are, for all intents and purposes genuinely hated, even when conscience is well aware that it’s a decisive provocation. Nevertheless, the agent is despised, and scorned more distinctly than any woman’s hate can muster, “agents of the state” refer to a particular woman that does little more than conduct her life according to the requirements of state benefits, women who say they’ve raised their children all by themselves, even though state benefits actually did, they’ll set CSA wolves to camp round your campfire and take the parental heat out of your vigour, they’ll depress you, render you helpless and undeserving, they’ll keep children from Father’s and revel in their ‘single parent’ status, as if it’s a badge of honour to be polished and shined and modeled on their trifling catwalk. And while it’s important to note that some single mothers have no option, thus all sincere power to them, these are not the women who are referred to as gifts from Satan, these particulars are a disease nourishing themselves off the goodwill of good men and wanton children, single and stereotyped because most they embody that stereotype and have nasty stank attitudes, and the reluctance to see past a woman’s word is nothing more than the propaganda of the truth, and the miss-education of the undeniable.
Hunter, gatherer, provider and head of the family, and not even a whisper of attaining divine aspirations, and this is the problem with how many men see their vocation. While it’s widely accepted that a family man, or just men without spouses and children to care for accept the necessity of work, in essence the necessity of compromise, in pursuit of vocation, more often than not a tireless, mundane chase for the latter reasons, consequently lends itself to the reality that all aspirational dreams must lay abandoned and derelict, when a vocation represents nothing but a means to survive, and the man is that tool that works the means, it frankly makes Jack a very dull boy, and at a time when the fragility of a working man’s mental state is only beginning to be accepted, the time is long overdue when women and society as a whole begin to accept that, and spend quality time caring.
This is a running issue for him, and just like any renowned distance runner for him the course is long. Aside from the muted consign of political correctness refusing to say anything loud, and an “interrogated society” sits round the proverbial camp fire singing ‘we shall live as one’, the issue of ‘white women’ has always been one that alludes to the consequence of “sleeping with the enemy”, or fraternising with the slave master’s daughter. For him he remembers when bringing home a white woman would bring shame and condemnation down on the family name, more acutely fully aware that deep-rooted depictions of racism and slavery, moving his modern-day swagger are the binding reasons why. While who he loves, and what he likes may transcend beyond colour lines and ancestral affiliations, the fact is from where he came from, for the majority of his mother’s sympathy it is not conducive to the rehabilitation of his culture that has been struggling for life lines for as long as he can remember, a bear in mind, that brings to mind the characteristic of his make-up, and why how one defines himself, in-turn knowing himself, and cannot, keeps the convention running with a consequence impossible to ignore.
The flesh is weak; in particular the infatuation with the female body has never been more coveted. Gone the days of page 3, top shelf, and scantily dressed women sliding off car bonnets griped a mans never region and held it tight, now we have pornography at our fingertips, as well as fake tits, fake ass, fuck-me boots and the endless list of sexual attractions has symmetrically rendered a society of nymph’s, and Satyr’s, lustful and always in need of a sexual fix, and so crass is the dialogue to word the colloquial infatuation, words like ‘smash’, ‘bang’, and ‘peng’ are the role models of the given perception. Well, contrary to popular opinion a growing number of men are repulsed at the idea of sex, as is determined by his sexualised society, being part and parcel of his own character make-up. Those who recognise their sexuality as a barometer of their moral soul do not fall into the crass, systematic, incoherently, sexually defined category, a man who understands that more women will do better to acknowledge just how damning not looking at his finer print is.
These things, and other things of which may include many other things, primarily lends itself to the perpetuality of rarely ever being heard, listened to, or given the opportunity for voice to echo the concerns, of which they have become long-standing consternation of which in their sheltered groups men talk among men, converse, to their hearts content, when no one else seems to hear, these men will continue to talk it.