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The NEw generational relative experience

THE NGR EXP

Institutional Polarity From An Experientially Biased Perspective

Hi there! My names Oisin Hendrickse and I’ve decided to write my own blog as apparently my style of expression might just be engaging enough to change the world.

Because that’s what we’re doing here; the entire African diaspora. Every time we open our mouths - not just Black Brighton, the blog I used to release these pieces for, but BLM, #SayTheName, the great black hope is rising out of the city and out from the screen stage and centrefold of vibe magazine and the rolling change of African diasporic culture is impossible to ignore.

Brighton’s never been a stranger to African people, culture or business; when I first moved down I bought my curtains from Struggle In The Way Of Allah (SIWA) Charity shop on Lewes road which has been a home and hub of community action for at least a decade (check out their work at https://siwacharity.org/) - a gorgeous charity shop full of great fabrics ornaments and clothes, run by a family whose cute toddler is always “helping out” in the shop; and the ONLY places to get beeswax for 20 miles are http://www.sensationalworldofhair.co.uk/ and a small hair studio round the back of Burger king that I just can’t seem to find online… run by a woman with magic hands, like Painless braids, check back for reference in another post. But apart from the struggling businesses selling things you really have to Need to look for, the community representation of African diaspora (diaspora – a displaced or immigrated population) in Brighton has in the past few decades been slightly lacking; maybe it’s because of the largely conservative nature of the surrounding areas but it seems to this Brightoner that a lot of the Brighton population are students, coming and going, so often the diversity we speak of is actually a transient population of students who graduate, move away and leave the actual social landscape of Brighton lacking in diversity. And I do see it effect the blackonomy (local black economy).

Would you believe me if I said it’s scary being other? I’ve worked in several bars around Brighton, been attacked twice behind the bar and never completed a week without hearing a person of European descent make a joke or comment. So I can truly tell you that when the bustling vibrant city that’s verging on diverse empties out of all the people dedicated to self awareness and learning, the minority population is left to realize that there’s a difference between visitors and community.

The black population in Brighton is growing slowly, and it’s beautiful to be part of. The reaction of the left wing to the small minded politics of the English Defense League has all but irradicated their presence in the Brighton political sphere (I don’t celebrate the marginalization of anyone’s politics but they were rather violently opposed against my existence) – meaning that instead of yearly rallies through town by white (White is a political term denoting identification with the ideals of European Nationalism) people holding signs about protecting themselves we now have signs in the windows of people of every nationality showing support for the local African community through the Black Lives Matter movement (Black is a political term denoting identification with the ideals of African diasporic liberationism) and vehemently engaging in the liberation of the human ideal.

Brighton has always been a political hub, but we have to remember that it’s situated in the very outskirts of our gorgeous country, and as such ideas can take just as long to leave the city centre as they do to get here from London. From personal experience I’ve noticed that the police don’t have a problem making comments about “black violence in Croydon” to justify their aggressive arrests, and the social services told me face to face that the fact that I was from London and from a certain community gave them “Cause for Concern” despite an unblemished police record – and it’s deeply important to remember that depolarizing (making less racist) the British institution doesn’t mean smoking weed with white black pink gold and brown festival goers who all feel comfortable in dreadlocks laughing in the sun. It means celebrating the culture, and struggling through the pain. It means taking employment in the services and deciding to shop communally. It means being the Only black police officer in Brighton, which no one has taken up the challenge of yet, not even me (I don’t think they take Schizophrenic trip lovers on the forces) and it might just mean hearing the old “Ni***r Ni***r pull the trigger” song down at the level once a year while a couple of ten year old’s ride past on a scooter back to their home in the largely colloquial and out skirted parts of Brighton that aren’t included in the photos about the Brighton Fringe.

Wow…? Was that a descent into disillusion? Don’t ever let them tell you you don’t have a right to be hostile… there’s a certain resentment from growing up Black that filters everything you see until you realize how beautiful it is to be African – I look forward to immersing you, the reader, into the local African diasporic community and sinking my teeth into a real appreciation of the vibrant culture we’re nourishing here in BrightHelmstone because truly there is an unbelievable amount of joy love music and creation to dig through in this town; but for now I’d like to introduce myself and say

Hi! I’m a member of the black Brighton community and I’ve been in agony since the day I was labelled. Brighton is lonely for black people and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the community my daughter grows up in be so misunderstanding of her journey.

There’s not a large black community in Brighton, if you do feel like reaching out to a few organisations remember, the most powerful tool in building community is a pro active approach to ones own participation. Get involved!!!!!!

Under the burning hellfire of prejudice it really helps to live by the sea…

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I want to talk to you beautiful people about what it’s like to be black in Brighton. But I also want to give you an enjoyable experience as you climb inside the corners of my mind through this blog… I don’t want to stress you out with political rage or force you to identify with a gaping chasm of loneliness that eats away at me when I go outside and feel alone, I want to keep things, as the old adage goes, light and breezy, and have this blog reflect the left wing diverse ideals that Brighton boasts in it’s tourist compendium of nomenclature describing our far too fair a city.

But as a member of the African diaspora, I don’t have that luxury. As a member of the globally oppressed nation of pan continental God hood I have a duty to be real, and a right to feel marginalized.

The council has never necessarily seen me as a black man, I’ve been housed and supported like any other lower working class citizen which to the untrained eye may well differ only slightly from the minority experience, not only in that they seem to be in the majority and yet labelled as the underclassmen. However on the day I moved into my flat, moving a homes worth of furniture up a flight of stairs I was shown how Brighton’s most obvious racism isn’t institutional; it’s communal. I hear a bellow from the window above, from a blue balcony with washing out on the line where a young English woman is smoking a cigarette talking through the open window to someone inside; a mans voice, shouting in frustration and distaste omits the charge;

“Oh for F***s sake. F*** off you black bastard.”

Now that’s a black Brighton experience. Weekly heckling from the colloquial audience. Not convinced that Brighton is desperate for more black people to join the permanent population?

Here’s another;

I’m in the Admiral pub on Elm Grove, working an evening shift behind the bar and trying to ignore the last two drunken louts leant heavily against the bar as they boast about their reckless and untethered drug dealing habits; I’m also trying to pretend that they aren’t trying to impress me, which becomes impossible when the one closest to me leans over and says with a tone of desperation akin to the sound of a parent giving socks away for Christmas to a 13 year old boy;

“Here, how bout Childish Gambino? You like him don’t you?”

Honestly at the time I had no experience of Donald Glovers music, I’m a bit older then the mainstream and these days stuff passes me by; I still don’t know what a Doja cat is but I hear Lil Kim approves (which I said) and I told him I was more into rock and folk music, that the closest I got to Hip Hop was Neo Soul (again, I had no experience of Childish Gambino but for his comedic run in community so I didn’t realize that was exactly what he made and I’d probably love it). I told him the same thing I always say when white people harass me about rappers; spiritually, I’m a Baduist.

Erykah? You feel me.

He proceeds to list every rap artist he knows assuring me that I was definitely into them, against my own knowledge and understanding, and as the hour ticks by to closing time I breath a sigh of relief and let them know I’ll be cleaning up and kicking out.

He’s not happy. The drunk white man has entirely failed to connect with me on the only basis he understands and becomes irritable; I notice the blood reach his face and he starts turning to his friend for some kind of assurance of his righteousness as he begins to huff about “his local pub” and how “he’s been here since day”. I let him know I’ve got to get on with “it” and turn the music up and begin cleaning.

They say self-entitled toxic masculinity hates nothing more than to be ignored.

I’m not sure at what point they started smashing the pub up and telling me it belonged to them and they could do what they wanted. Part of the black experience for me has always been dealing with untethered displays of violence with a level head and letting go of the memory as quickly as possible… I called the police and reported a hate crime, but for the quintessentially black Brighton experience, just try making a police report about a hate crime to Sussex Police.

I’ve made four. They ignore me every time. Even with footage. Of me at the Black Lives Matter protest being attacked.

That’s not to mention the 11 violent arrests with no further action. I still wake up to flash backs of Sussex Police breaking down my door and trying to shoot me in the face with a taser earlier this year… they never did tell me why. But every time they arrest me there are two more officers and another comment about “violence against police in south London…” did you know a black guy shot a police officer in Croydon? I didn’t. I was told that in Worthing holding cells while they forced my legs apart and stripped me naked. Now that’s a Black Brighton experience.

A red haired and freckled NHS worker who after one date became paranoid I had spiked her drink with Marijuana. Brighton street smarts.

A pale young woman takes me home from a fetish club and tells me when we get back to hers that she wants to play runaway slave before snorting a gram of ketamine, freaking out and asking me to phone the police; to tell them she was being raped by a “big black guy.” Brighton risqué.

Can I be honest with you? Apart from the resonant pulse of every continent running through my veins and the voice of ancient God’s leading my ever unfolding path, there is nothing good about being black in Brighton. It’s a desolate landscape of ignorance and faux acceptance; we don’t have a black community. We don’t have an Electric Avenue, a Bradford, an East Indian Community Centre. What we do have is a city wide population who think LGBTQ+ (are you old enough to find that irritating?) acceptance and ethnic cultural understanding are the same thing.

By the way… LGBTQ+ politics do not constitute a culture and Yes it Is insulting that we march for the pride of privileged white individualism under a rainbow flag whilst marching only for the African culture under the guise of social bereavement. The words Black Lives Matter neurolinguistically perpetuate the idea that somehow the African Liberation movement is centered around a problem with our culture. Every other culture is celebrated with music in the streets but our traditions have been annihilated and replaced with a cycle of misunderstanding and self abuse in the name of radicalization.

But it’s good to be involved with change. Brighton is definitely a hub of that; and if the only problem is that the local population still seem a little trigger happy with the racist jokes and songs I’m happy to deal with a little police violence in the name of forward – sorry Upward progression. The one thing you learn as a black person living with such a dark label being projected onto you by people throwing shade from under cover of their forcibly bright eyes, it’s that you’ve got to keep a sunny, bright and fair perspective on these things, and identify your place in the revolution rather then identifying where you feel you’ve been pushed out. Or Marginalized perhaps.

Weed is a Cultural destabilizing Weapon

Are you addicted to smoking? Do you feel like marijuana is the only way to relieve stress in the comfort of your own home? Do you ever feel like as a black person and part of a left wing community theres an expectation upon you to smoke weed?

Hi. My names Oisin HendriX and I’m sick of being controlled by the government and society. I’ve been smoking most of my life and as a black person living in a mostloy white town I’ve always been identified by others as a portal toward the marijuana realm, either by people who think I might be a dealer or by peers of an alternative lifestyle assuming certain parts of my character due to my skin colour.

And they’re partly right; whilst “Wagwan” isn’t my chosen greeting and it becomes obvious I’m talking to someone with not so quiet racial social projections bubbling away under a veneer of sociability when I hear it, they’re usually correct in the idea that I know about, or partake in, the use of marijuana as a recreational activity.

How can I complain when I’m supporting the paradigm so healthily with about £200 a month spent on what is ostensibly surmounting in this piece to a racial affectation?

Put simply I’m complaining on behalf of everybody; in these towns where diversity, left wing politics and freedom are cornerstone ideals you’ll also find stoner shops, Pueblo and American spirit (stoner favourites) in the newsagents and a wealth of government funded drugs available to those experiencing an alternative lifestyle – from CBD cafes opening en mas to medical grade ketamine suddenly being widely available on the floating market, the psychic membrane has always been under attack from a range of products hoping to subdue and sedate the political membrane with sensual engagement and substitution feeling.

Yes it’s annoying to be called Bob Marley by the person handing me my tobacco and about three people a week must be disappointed and confronted by humility to learn verbatim that “I don’t partake in the retail of narcotics despite the shade of skin I inhabit” but when you’re surrounded by hippies like we are in this little Sussex corner it becomes easy to forgive and communicate through the irritations of “racially enlightening conversation” (Which is much more fun for the person asking the questions I can tell you) – the really annoying thing is to realize that my own mind, and environment, are instrumental in making me and other people feel like they Have to take Drugs.

Yesterday I was told off by a friend because I didn’t want to chip into cocaine; they said I was bringing the tone down and we were just trying to have fun. They asked if I could lend them the money instead. I calmly stated that I was feeling a little manipulated and I felt like the drugs were changing our relationship. The person in question proceeds to tell me I’m being aggressive and in the way the began frantically asking for protection it was clear they feel threatened by my gender if nothing else. But the funny thing to me is that they weren’t trying to convince anyone else in the room, I seemed to be a totem (as the only black person, I ignorantly project in these situations) of narcotic acceptance, and the fact that I didn’t think it was cool seemed to be causing the Biggest social rupture!!!

A few months ago a homeless man got very upset when I wouldn’t sell him heroin. Would not listen when I assured him I did not sell heroin. But he was convinced he knew me.

Weeks hence I was sitting on the beach smoking an evening cigarette when the words “Yo wagwan fam is that a Ganjaman?!” were shouted in violent exuberance from behind me. And like every other time this joyful city has risen up to let me know it still has partitions of ignorance waiting to be lifted I felt my heart start pounding with the knowledge that most people in this country consider it a test of masculinity to fight a black guy and the brighton seafront is quite known for it’s socially ignorant clientele.

But I’m not annoyed at him. I’m annoyed that I smoked a joint with him and sunk back into sounding aggressively London for a half hour while he sucked up to me with casual social appropriation and I pretended to like Trap. It’s not our fault we don’t know ourselves; and how the hell are you supposed to communicate a self you don’t know? Do I rant politically about cultural appropriation and start a fight on the beach with what I’m rudely labelling as a Chav? Is that supposed to be progression? Or do I humbly go back to my socially institutionalized roots and Yeah Fam No Fam Three Bags Full Fam myself into a harmoniously progressive if not Absolutely Mundane interaction? So we smoke. And we get over how there’ll never be a breath deep enough to relieve the tension we feel from having being split from each other at birth.

They say for every cigarette you smoke you could just stop pretending you were happy about something in your life.

While writing this piece I smoked No Cigarettes.

A week in the Social Prison of Brighton and Hove

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This week has been interesting to say the least. I’ve spent a week hanging out with some old friends with some very interesting affectations, and as usually, focusing on the racial polarization between their behavior and consequences and mine.

I’m not that into four dimensional story telling so I won’t start at the beginning. The point that made me realize the weeks experiences might be right for this blog came at about twenty past eight last night whilst I was sat with what I’ve loosely termed as friends of mine, when one of them, a passionate and beautiful woman launched herself across the room at me with readied fists whilst amped up on some facile hip hop track featuring the word nigger as it’s unique selling point screaming “You Are A Nigger!” before attempting to punch me in the face.

I’d rewind the story to the beginning if it might give context to the event, but it doesn’t. What gives context to the situation in my opinion are the ideas in her mind only that she is white, addicted to cocaine, violently self entitled and sat opposite a black man. For the previous day we’d been hanging out in Brighton talking about drug recovery and exploring productive and creative ways of directing energy away from drugs; during which the uncontrolled and violent nature of her addiction meant I was constantly the target of her violent outbursts. My jaw hurts right now… do any other men experience an inner expectation to take violence from vulnerable women to help them in their journey of feminine catharsis? I don’t want to but it feels natural, or at least socially engrained, and I think as a black man I’m a totem of fear for a lot of women, white black yellow gold and green. Anyway, passively expunging the violent energy from a cocaine addict whilst talking through the finer points of the universe… where was I…?

As we’re walking through town she spots a friend who she regularly smokes crack cocaine with and decides it’s high time for a fight. I omit some form of pacifying quip but quickly realize she won’t be responding ably to any kind of empathetic charge and instead decide to film what ostensibly pans out to be a group of chavs, 5 parts white and one part African descended besides me, trying to stop a white woman from attacking a white man in the street, and then consoling her for how hard it must have been. She did end up being covered in the bottle of fanta that was in the male counterparts hand; and spent the rest of the day playing the victim card to anyone who would listen.

I had an argument in the street with my girlfriend once; she assaulted me several times and I was the one who was arrested. So it was interesting to spend the day with this violent psychopath who seemed to have her way paved with Gold.

Later that evening she comes to mine to hang with me and some friends, and spends a while remarking on how different the aura is, how much freer she feels and how much less toxic she feels just breathing the air. Until she asks if she can invite a friend over. Now – I’m adamant that I can love heal and accept anyone, I don’t endanger myself but I’ll open my heart to anyone, so when, after she asks me if she may invite a friend over and I happily acquiesce, a blast from the past in the form of an old housemate who accused me of rape (after taking a copious amount of ecstasy and pestering me for sex for an hour when I poorly decided to speed up the process of relieving my ire by giving in to her pressure) turns up at the door smiling and extending her arms for a hug.

Is anybody aware of the AA concept of Step Nine? The worst thing about knowing addicts is feeling like you deserve an amends. Just focus on their pain. Forgive them. Don’t ever expect an apology.

I quickly ensure that she knows that she’s forgiven for the deep infraction upon my name. She starts talking about how great the parties used to be at the flat. I say it’s a shame the group fell apart. She says she’s still friends with some of them, they’re doing well. She asks how I’ve been; I tell her not bad, I spent some time in prison after my mother tried to bite my finger off and I punched her in self defense. She sympathizes and tells me that she’s just narrowly avoided prison after kidnapping a 14 year old and forcing them to smuggle heroin in their anus across Britain, then getting them addicted and raping them while they sold her supply. The judge gave her two years probation. I don’t think she’s ever seen the inside of a cell, I didn’t ask.

I remembered that this person had spread the most vile kind of lie a person can spread about me and tried hard not to make her feel judged.

I thought about friends I have in prison for a fight in a pub, or some weed sold on a corner, and the #MeToo movement, and thought of a very different list of names I wanted to say.

Osama Bin Laden.
Muamar Gaddafi.
Saddam Hussein.

Robert Mugabi.

Victims of the White Colonialist Narrative.

Oh, and Oisin Hendrickse. After nine rape accusations from Caucasian females with power imbalances and control issues, I consider myself to be a passionate leader in the #StrangeFruit movement. In which we recognize just how many black and African descended men have been lynched from the tree of love and knowledge in pursuit of the democratic nightmare.

It wasn’t till the next day the first friend attacked me with her viscerally nigger bound fists. I’d let her stay on my sofa and we had woken up with plans to spend the day actively engaging with sobriety and life, perhaps a gym membership, perhaps a walk through Brighton in the rain for 10 hours. I’m not going to bore you with the details of a day in Brighton, Coffee at small batch, snacks from Tesco in the park, and for maybe five hours I spent such pleasant time with the person beneath the addiction that I am not afraid, dear reader, to admit that I began a little to fall in love, past the gates of my better judgement, and imagine that the street fights and drug fiending were a symptom of social corruption and could be raised in my esteem to the level of “schoolyard flirtation” (which was a realization for me – women have been very violent to me my entire life I wonder if that makes me popular) and I let my guard down.

This is becoming self indulgent; needless to say, she asks me back to hers because she doesn’t want to be alone and end up picking up drugs. I go with her, and once past the barriers of her home the demons spill out and she becomes entirely vile, using any balance of any kind of power or control as a reason to be able to hit me. Which brings up like, Ancestral memories. I let her know her behavior is unacceptable and she calms down, maybe eight or nine times in quick succession before she puts on some ignorant nigger heavy diatribe from some aggressively expressive rapper who I sure hope was a black man and decides it’s time to attack me.

If you know a white man or woman who should be in prison, please don’t hesitate to push the authorities into behaving appropriately and getting them off our streets. Brighton is a diverse community and it’s up to us to keep our streets safe by not allowing the behavior of violent criminals to go unpunished just because of the color of their skin of their supposed Gender.

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