Prelude I was a stranger
in the city
Out of town were
the people I knew
I had that feeling of self-pity
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
The outlook was decidedly blue
But as I walked through
the foggy streets alone
It turned out to be
the luckiest day I've known
A foggy day in London Town
Had me low and had me down
I viewed the morning with alarm
The British Museum had lost its charm
How long, I wondered, could this thing last?
But the age of miracles hadn't passed,
For, suddenly, I saw you there
And through foggy London Town
The sun was shining everywhere.
(Best sung by Ella Fitzgerald & Louie Armstrong)
A FOGGY DAY ... Words & music by George Gershwin
London remains as she has always been ... a foggy town, grey with the history of the Empire and coloured by the varied hues and saturated inflections of im/migrant people - formerly slaves, formerly colonized and presently shaded into near invisibility.
I am longing for a sense of smell, sense of touch, a sense of taste, a sense of knowing, and a sense of good ole bold black resistance!
It is early, only a month has passed. It is late in early morning, and I miss his kisses the most. Hot ardent kisses that remind me, I am pliable in the hands of love. Into the dawn I write, and I miss having my own space, a place to call home. I am wishing for fiery tongues bantering into endless nights amongst dancers, historians, chefs, wordsmiths, photographers, and scientists. Incense and smoke elevate us as we spread ourselves haphazardly across a living room with plates of savory edibles from my kitchen, delicately balanced on our laps, wine dripping from our lips - questioning the chaos of the world, re-emerging spiritual traditions, cultural myths and seeking answers from the gods that we hide within ourselves. Those nights will come, as sure as the moon hides half of her face tonight, and as sure as Papa Legba stands at the crossroads. It is early - we will find and create a new home - only a month has passed.
But on this night, like many others , I am in a small single red rented room, temporary accommodations, coloured with paintings that hold no mystery for me and suitcases still unpacked. On the mantel sit two bouquets. The first- bright and cheerful marigold tiger lilies purchased for my daughter, who has been under the weather for the past three days. She received them with a gleeful and heartfelt "thank you Mommie" squeaked out between coughs. We must teach our daughters, our children that love is a verb, a sincere action. I want her to know that the simplest gesture can mean more than all of the repetitive I love you's from a wayward father or the fast oily hands of tricksters seeking treats they have no right to even smell.
The other vibrant flowers speak of love that has spanned the sands of time to finally become a tangible sensual reality. Yes, a dozen sweet pink roses garnished in green finery from my sweet beau from across the ocean. Amazingly across nine years, our love is still blossoming.
I sit upon a black wooden chair gazing at the RGB colors on the rectangle screen of my Apple laptop - taking tremendous comfort in Yahoo messenger and Youtube.com, necessary modern amenities for a globe trotting gypsy like myself. Yahoo – offers a chance to see familiar faces of those that I love– we share free verse and laughter – and it is almost as good as being there – almost. Youtube.com is a bridge through cyberspace to sights that i know, melodies that I hum, black comedy from the likes of Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby, Kat Williams that brings spontaneous laughter erupting from hidden places, and a history that is repeated as often as I choose to "watch video again."
The process of adjustment has been fast and furious. I remain unsettled. I have found a myriad of people here- helpful, honest and endearing - for this I am grateful, because it becomes too easy to languish in this state of melancholy - a vague curiosity - without forthright motivation. From Larell & Garfrield, Shaku & Ammar, Stephani & Marcus, Patsy & Debra, Anthia & Eric Jerome Dickey, Nyack & George, Diane & Bridget, Menelik, & Kemi, Charles & Karen, Laverne & Janet, Flora & Joanna, Aunty Beta & Malik, Makeda & Hakim, Montre & Romi, Patrick & Jessica, Ruth & Katka, to Tony & Paul.
Aside from receiving a rather lukewarm e-mail from an old friend stating "Welcome to London" and hearing nothing else from him for a month - I have been welcomed warmly by a town many find cold and wet with brisk cups of British tea, lunches, dinners, sleepovers & the key to the home of folks only recently met. Creating local and international networks is a significant way that I have kept myself in accord with my higher self. I am at ease with the role I play in the world as an idea generator and people connector. Through e-mails and phone calls, I am connected from Hackney to Croydon, from Scotland to France and back to Leytonstone and New Cross. I cross rivers, oceans and continents and have been welcomed into conversations, homes and the hearts of those only recently met, but never forgotten.
Classes at Goldsmiths are what I make of them - ask me again - at the end of the first term. There seems to be tons of Americans at my school. Not sure how I feel about that. Sometimes I do not feel that I am in Europe at all. Then again is not America/Europe - different faces, daughter/mother of the same coin/history?
If you have heard the rumor that I have fallen asleep in a few of my classes – I shan't lie - it's true, all true. May I defend myself by stating that I was still experiencing jet lag after three weeks? Please? Sleep escapes when I need it most and descends upon me right in the middle of some convoluted lecture with irreverent references to God knows what. Damn the British with their need to pontificate - get to the bloody point already.
After sharing the somniferous effect of my lectures with a friend, she gave me this sage advice, "Girl- wake up in class! Pay attention to the bullshit - see how it is done. Bullshit is done as fact and knowledge and you need to master the foreign language. People accept this shit as real and you need to know how it’s done. It is a game by people who love to play and make games.” I got it. Understand it - to navigate through it and beyond. Keep what resonates as true and real, build upon that and keep the rest as reference points for the various sizes of rubbish bins that are needed to contain all of it. I do not sleep in class anymore. Becoming a student again hurts. Ouch!
My greatest strength has been having my daughter accompany me on this journey. We laugh, cry, argue and keep each other company in Dawn's old room on James Lane across from Whipps Cross Hospital. We catch the W15 bus back and forth to Leytonstone Station and travel on the Central Line to the Tate Modern, Oxford Circus, Tesco and back to our shared small single rented red room. Without her I do not know how I would have moved from one class to the next because my memory is not at all, as remembered. (Smile)
My daughter is beautiful, curious and momentarily, tremendously bored. She comes to my classes and reads her Octavia Butler and tunes in and out on anthropology lectures about Durkheim, Marx and Levi-Strauss. This week marks our 5th week in London and she is still not in school. Applications have been made to three boroughs, calls to over 20 schools and do not ask me how many school websites I have viewed over the Internet.
First impressions are lasting impressions and I have become rather blas̩ about the British educational system. Like some Don Juan who extols upon his remarkable lovemaking ability but offers little more than a few minutes of pleasure to himself and nothing but laundry to his partner РBrits talk about how good their schools and teachers are but blame oversubscribed/ overcrowded status on the current immigrant and refugee crisis and not the fact that there are serious infra-structural problems. Yes, I know I had strong plans for home schooling, going to grad school and even working Рwhy didn't anyone slap me when I was talking such bollocks?
Earlier I compared the im/migrant community as drifting into a state of invisibility – let me be specific to the community that I am referencing – the black community in London. How complex yet similar our history is all over the world, marginalized and divided amongst ourselves. The post-colonial immigration of Black people into Britain, driven by lingering financial hardships from global economic policies, hopes for "a better life" or "to receive education" has resulted in an identity crisis among Black people losing their history and values only to become, what Obi Egbuna describes in Destroy The Temple in 1971 as, "imaginary white people".
Many Blacks here, like their counterparts in the U.S. live with a double consciousness that requires adherence and assimilation to the white norms and standards set before them in order to claim British identity. Traditional black religion, black beauty, black genius is pushed aside for that is from the "Dark Continent" and has little respectability to the powers that be. Instead we worship at their church bowing to their gods, we cut Africa out at the roots and negate our innate brilliance through their educational system
In this day and age, if black people are invisible, fading into the background - it is their choice. We have too many warriors and wise wo/men who have died in the struggle for our mental, physical and spiritual liberation. I look forward to engaging in the theory and practice through my photography and writing. My interest has always been to look into the black space that is often overlooked, or almost made invisible, like the black space in the photo-negative. This black space is what allows the picture to be seen. People of color are analogous to the black space in the negative of the photo. We are often the backgrounds that allow the foreground to be seen. My artistic endeavor is to bring our colour, sounds, light, and shadows into sharp focus for all the world to see.
These reflections cause me to look at myself and re-consider the legitimacy of my reasons for migrating to England this year to study at Goldsmiths. I have been trying to get here for so long, since 1998 to be exact, that I now have to ask what exactly am I seeking to get from this experience? My sage friend, you know the one who tried to electronically kick my ass for sleeping in class - yeah her - she told me, "You are living your dream. Dont be defined by anything but yourself not race, class or sex. The people who have got your back got your back, many times they are not who you think."
So tune in later this month to get the full monty. I will share more of my reflections, dissect some of the headlines that have flashed before me in the local papers that litter the tube, trains and buses. I look forward to investigating where religion and spirituality is today in England. Here's an excerpt from a future chapter in my London Chronicles and possibly one of my essays for my Religion and Anthropology class:
Statistics show that Great Britain is a rather secular society with only 2% of British people going to church – clearly those statistics were not from the Black community where the church is still prominent. Interestingly enough, there seems to be a New Age religion claiming many former Christians and Jews. What is this New Age religion and where is it from? Quoting John Naisbitt from Megatrends 2000: "In turbulent times, in times of great change, people head for the two extremes: fundamentalism and personal, spiritual experience...With no membership lists or even a coherent philosophy or dogma, it is difficult to define or measure the unorganized New Age movement. But in every major U.S. and European city, thousands who seek insight and personal growth cluster around a metaphysical bookstore, a spiritual teacher, or an education center."
I am longing for a sense of smell, sense of touch, a sense of taste, a sense of knowing, and a sense of good ole bold black resistance!
It is early, only a month has passed. It is late in early morning, and I miss his kisses the most. Hot ardent kisses that remind me, I am pliable in the hands of love. Into the dawn I write, and I miss having my own space, a place to call home. I am wishing for fiery tongues bantering into endless nights amongst dancers, historians, chefs, wordsmiths, photographers, and scientists. Incense and smoke elevate us as we spread ourselves haphazardly across a living room with plates of savory edibles from my kitchen, delicately balanced on our laps, wine dripping from our lips - questioning the chaos of the world, re-emerging spiritual traditions, cultural myths and seeking answers from the gods that we hide within ourselves. Those nights will come, as sure as the moon hides half of her face tonight, and as sure as Papa Legba stands at the crossroads. It is early - we will find and create a new home - only a month has passed.
But on this night, like many others , I am in a small single red rented room, temporary accommodations, coloured with paintings that hold no mystery for me and suitcases still unpacked. On the mantel sit two bouquets. The first- bright and cheerful marigold tiger lilies purchased for my daughter, who has been under the weather for the past three days. She received them with a gleeful and heartfelt "thank you Mommie" squeaked out between coughs. We must teach our daughters, our children that love is a verb, a sincere action. I want her to know that the simplest gesture can mean more than all of the repetitive I love you's from a wayward father or the fast oily hands of tricksters seeking treats they have no right to even smell.
The other vibrant flowers speak of love that has spanned the sands of time to finally become a tangible sensual reality. Yes, a dozen sweet pink roses garnished in green finery from my sweet beau from across the ocean. Amazingly across nine years, our love is still blossoming.
I sit upon a black wooden chair gazing at the RGB colors on the rectangle screen of my Apple laptop - taking tremendous comfort in Yahoo messenger and Youtube.com, necessary modern amenities for a globe trotting gypsy like myself. Yahoo – offers a chance to see familiar faces of those that I love– we share free verse and laughter – and it is almost as good as being there – almost. Youtube.com is a bridge through cyberspace to sights that i know, melodies that I hum, black comedy from the likes of Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby, Kat Williams that brings spontaneous laughter erupting from hidden places, and a history that is repeated as often as I choose to "watch video again."
The process of adjustment has been fast and furious. I remain unsettled. I have found a myriad of people here- helpful, honest and endearing - for this I am grateful, because it becomes too easy to languish in this state of melancholy - a vague curiosity - without forthright motivation. From Larell & Garfrield, Shaku & Ammar, Stephani & Marcus, Patsy & Debra, Anthia & Eric Jerome Dickey, Nyack & George, Diane & Bridget, Menelik, & Kemi, Charles & Karen, Laverne & Janet, Flora & Joanna, Aunty Beta & Malik, Makeda & Hakim, Montre & Romi, Patrick & Jessica, Ruth & Katka, to Tony & Paul.
Aside from receiving a rather lukewarm e-mail from an old friend stating "Welcome to London" and hearing nothing else from him for a month - I have been welcomed warmly by a town many find cold and wet with brisk cups of British tea, lunches, dinners, sleepovers & the key to the home of folks only recently met. Creating local and international networks is a significant way that I have kept myself in accord with my higher self. I am at ease with the role I play in the world as an idea generator and people connector. Through e-mails and phone calls, I am connected from Hackney to Croydon, from Scotland to France and back to Leytonstone and New Cross. I cross rivers, oceans and continents and have been welcomed into conversations, homes and the hearts of those only recently met, but never forgotten.
Classes at Goldsmiths are what I make of them - ask me again - at the end of the first term. There seems to be tons of Americans at my school. Not sure how I feel about that. Sometimes I do not feel that I am in Europe at all. Then again is not America/Europe - different faces, daughter/mother of the same coin/history?
If you have heard the rumor that I have fallen asleep in a few of my classes – I shan't lie - it's true, all true. May I defend myself by stating that I was still experiencing jet lag after three weeks? Please? Sleep escapes when I need it most and descends upon me right in the middle of some convoluted lecture with irreverent references to God knows what. Damn the British with their need to pontificate - get to the bloody point already.
After sharing the somniferous effect of my lectures with a friend, she gave me this sage advice, "Girl- wake up in class! Pay attention to the bullshit - see how it is done. Bullshit is done as fact and knowledge and you need to master the foreign language. People accept this shit as real and you need to know how it’s done. It is a game by people who love to play and make games.” I got it. Understand it - to navigate through it and beyond. Keep what resonates as true and real, build upon that and keep the rest as reference points for the various sizes of rubbish bins that are needed to contain all of it. I do not sleep in class anymore. Becoming a student again hurts. Ouch!
My greatest strength has been having my daughter accompany me on this journey. We laugh, cry, argue and keep each other company in Dawn's old room on James Lane across from Whipps Cross Hospital. We catch the W15 bus back and forth to Leytonstone Station and travel on the Central Line to the Tate Modern, Oxford Circus, Tesco and back to our shared small single rented red room. Without her I do not know how I would have moved from one class to the next because my memory is not at all, as remembered. (Smile)
My daughter is beautiful, curious and momentarily, tremendously bored. She comes to my classes and reads her Octavia Butler and tunes in and out on anthropology lectures about Durkheim, Marx and Levi-Strauss. This week marks our 5th week in London and she is still not in school. Applications have been made to three boroughs, calls to over 20 schools and do not ask me how many school websites I have viewed over the Internet.
First impressions are lasting impressions and I have become rather blas̩ about the British educational system. Like some Don Juan who extols upon his remarkable lovemaking ability but offers little more than a few minutes of pleasure to himself and nothing but laundry to his partner РBrits talk about how good their schools and teachers are but blame oversubscribed/ overcrowded status on the current immigrant and refugee crisis and not the fact that there are serious infra-structural problems. Yes, I know I had strong plans for home schooling, going to grad school and even working Рwhy didn't anyone slap me when I was talking such bollocks?
Earlier I compared the im/migrant community as drifting into a state of invisibility – let me be specific to the community that I am referencing – the black community in London. How complex yet similar our history is all over the world, marginalized and divided amongst ourselves. The post-colonial immigration of Black people into Britain, driven by lingering financial hardships from global economic policies, hopes for "a better life" or "to receive education" has resulted in an identity crisis among Black people losing their history and values only to become, what Obi Egbuna describes in Destroy The Temple in 1971 as, "imaginary white people".
Many Blacks here, like their counterparts in the U.S. live with a double consciousness that requires adherence and assimilation to the white norms and standards set before them in order to claim British identity. Traditional black religion, black beauty, black genius is pushed aside for that is from the "Dark Continent" and has little respectability to the powers that be. Instead we worship at their church bowing to their gods, we cut Africa out at the roots and negate our innate brilliance through their educational system
In this day and age, if black people are invisible, fading into the background - it is their choice. We have too many warriors and wise wo/men who have died in the struggle for our mental, physical and spiritual liberation. I look forward to engaging in the theory and practice through my photography and writing. My interest has always been to look into the black space that is often overlooked, or almost made invisible, like the black space in the photo-negative. This black space is what allows the picture to be seen. People of color are analogous to the black space in the negative of the photo. We are often the backgrounds that allow the foreground to be seen. My artistic endeavor is to bring our colour, sounds, light, and shadows into sharp focus for all the world to see.
These reflections cause me to look at myself and re-consider the legitimacy of my reasons for migrating to England this year to study at Goldsmiths. I have been trying to get here for so long, since 1998 to be exact, that I now have to ask what exactly am I seeking to get from this experience? My sage friend, you know the one who tried to electronically kick my ass for sleeping in class - yeah her - she told me, "You are living your dream. Dont be defined by anything but yourself not race, class or sex. The people who have got your back got your back, many times they are not who you think."
So tune in later this month to get the full monty. I will share more of my reflections, dissect some of the headlines that have flashed before me in the local papers that litter the tube, trains and buses. I look forward to investigating where religion and spirituality is today in England. Here's an excerpt from a future chapter in my London Chronicles and possibly one of my essays for my Religion and Anthropology class:
Statistics show that Great Britain is a rather secular society with only 2% of British people going to church – clearly those statistics were not from the Black community where the church is still prominent. Interestingly enough, there seems to be a New Age religion claiming many former Christians and Jews. What is this New Age religion and where is it from? Quoting John Naisbitt from Megatrends 2000: "In turbulent times, in times of great change, people head for the two extremes: fundamentalism and personal, spiritual experience...With no membership lists or even a coherent philosophy or dogma, it is difficult to define or measure the unorganized New Age movement. But in every major U.S. and European city, thousands who seek insight and personal growth cluster around a metaphysical bookstore, a spiritual teacher, or an education center."
One love,
Gypsy Photographer
Postscript - thank you to Miriam, Vanessa and family who have encouraged me to write an update. There you have it - unedited and everything. I have so much more to say, the floodgates have been opened, but I have classes tomorrow - I mean this morning.
1 comments:
Speak big sis!!!!
I absolutely enjoyed this entry and look forward to further entries! I am vicariously living thru your experiences thru your writings!
Love and miss you,
Nat
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