Stating the Obvious: Blackspeak

Black people love talking about being black. Whenever a group of “us” congregate, it is almost inevitable that the topic would turn to that hefty communal personal thesis – The Black Condition or rather The Significance of Being Black. It would therefore be remiss of this not to introduce myself without stating the obvious. I do not say this to say that I feel burdened by this, it is almost as if talking to an old friend- like the English platitude of the weather, black people feel a certain comfort, a “plantainisation” so to speak- to talk about being black.

The trouble with this conversation however, for me, is that I find myself not speaking it in earnest. Precisely because it is a conversation I never really knew. I only really knew I was black on 3 October 2001 in a McDonalds restaurant in Cambridge. Sure, I had read about Marcus Garvey, the civil rights movement, Rosa Parks, the comeback of the Afro, black power and thought I truly knew it all, until that day. It was a simple and ordinary conciliatory gesture but to this day, I bet that sixteen year old who served me did not know the weight of his question? I asked for a Big Mac with no pickles. He asked me if he could bring it to me. I for the life of me could not understand how he would be able to pick me out among the sea of people who were in McDonald’s at the time (this was before the McFood scare). It was only after a moment’s reflection I had the epiphany- I was the only black chick in the village.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wear my blackness as an affliction. Not at all. I like being black. I like the fact that I can own and lay claim to Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Barack Obama, Nelson Mandela and Oprah (not necessarily in that order). Okay maybe I get a little bit annoyed when all the nude shades of the season are a corally pink (isn’t the point to make it look like your skin?) and when M&S and Boots only do one shade of black people tights (Cocoa and Vision respectively) but overall, I think I am really lucky.

I imagine myself in an interview. Ms P, how does it feel to be black? Me: I don’t really know. How do you feel to be a man? See, growing up in Grenada where almost everyone is black there isn’t the feeling of minority attached to this colour. We were brought up bold, confident and even arrogant (to some extent) because we were never taught that we had to tick a box that had some sort of meaning or “belying expectation” connotation. We existed in a state of blissful racial playground disharmony- teasing each other for any peculiarities- race was not cordoned off as a no go area. It was “coolie coolie ram goat” for one of my friends of Indian descent, “goat rolls” for me, because my afro hair was kinky and as hard as goat’s droppings and we traded these insults with affection. Because of this I never grew up thinking I was different or that my parameters were adjusted in any way. I was simply Akima, Bridget’s granddaughter, who lived with her mother in a small wooden house by the pasture.

The Black British experience is therefore very different to my own experience. I remember going to my first job interview with braids in my hair, finding it perfectably acceptable. My British friend thought it not conservative enough. I could not care less. Or maybe I just did not know enough of old English establishments to care, about prejudice, discrimination, expectations and conformity. However, now I know I still don’t care.

Which brings me to the inevitable question. What is being black about? Is it now just a word that unites all of us of the African diaspora? Or is it something deeper? A soul-religion, a community, a fellowship? What is certain is that we are not a homogenous group and we are perhaps more divided on more things than we realise. There are some black people I don’t like. Those who recoil for instance at any - the “how dare you suggest I am one of them?” folks who would never show up at Black Lawyers Network meetings. These are the people who like to pretend the world is colour blind and who repeat things like “I never see colour” until the shit literally hits the fan! They are usually known as coconuts although you did not hear that from me. They would most often be found exclusively at the opera or at national gallery (Wasnt Giselle wonderful dear?) trying to prove their westernisation. They do not attend soca fetes and do not cook traditional food (it takes too much time!). They take care to make sure their children are a warm latte or mocha instead of deep Jamaican black. I don't like them hos.

I am not a fan of Nation of Islam, preaching blacks either who try to convince me that my weave is self hate (Nope, I just feel like channelling Kima-Fierce today!)and that I need to support a black business that is robbing me blind (and offering poor customer service on top) at the expense of my Asian brethren round the corner.

Yet, we all seem to have a certain shared experience (no, that’s not based on uniting against The Man). I don’t know whether it is the commonality of a shared history. All I know is that it is present in that random nod that you get on the streets of Oxford when one black person passes another, present in that buzz you feel when you listen to Obama, present in that pride that bursts out of your chest when the West Indies beats England (still hoping!). Maybe it’s just the human condition- to seek refuge in a common denominator.