Being Black, Being Bipolar, Being Male

I hated it, I let the messages seep in, likening and reducing me, to a feral animal. I was afraid of it. I didn't want to interact or identify with it. I pleaded to be anything else but this. I easily forgot how good it felt to be black. A lot of the negative things I was hearing about my ethnicity were not examples that I was experiencing. The disparity was a gaping sinkhole. Things would be easier if I were white. If I was afraid of the negativity connotations held against blacks, how does everyone feel? I felt horrible thinking these things, but so curious to know how the other side navigated life. I felt I already lost getting straight in A's in school next to the white kid that didn't do as well as me. I wouldn't feel I have hit my glass ceiling in my career if I had other role models that looked like me, doing good work, in more senior positions. Being bipolar and black feels like a double edge sword. My mental illness is stigmatised and misunderstood for anyone suffering from it. The accepted notion is I am a man, and should be able to handle my emotions; bottling is strength, keeping the lid tight. Man is strong, formidable and unwavering. Anything other than is, is pathetic. Political correctness has gone insane! My openness is brave, apparently. People's actual thoughts contrast their carefully rehearsed words. I need not to hear your Chinese whispers; my mental health is not an excuse for not performing properly as a colleague, friend, brother and son. My demons already tell me this, only for it to be reinforced by hearsay, bullhorn-ing my paranoia to deafening decibels. My admission is my own emasculation, weakness and worthlessness; I'm no man because of it. Being black is enduring racism more covert than Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat in coloured section of the bus, for someone white. Nowhere near as obvious as when Martin Luther King made his, " I Have A Dream" speech. Those heroic events, I am told wiped racism out. Black Lives Matter is only a campaign to drag the past up, that blacks need to let go of. It offends so much, in order to control me, arrests, abuse of power and lack of exceptional representation means I fear the cage I am threatened with. Metaphorically and literally. My aspirations and dreams are stamped on and squashed, opportunities denied to stop me from mastering anything outside of the attributed stereotypes. I am only ever good for sports, entertainment and populating the world with fatherless children. It's a wonder I have a mental illness. It's a complete shock I struggle with self-worth, especially if i'm not built for sports or music. Where is my worth? Where do I fit? I have to make a choice.

My skin is brown, like chocolate, it's soft and glistens in the sunshine. I remembered loving this. I'd try to breathe the Caribbean air, thick with humidity, the sun beating down on my brown, supple skin. The burn felt good. I'd run my hands up and down my arms, caressing the sun kissed skin, feeling it cool as the salt water from the sea ran down them. As the water evaporated, the salt left white streaks on my skin; I'd dust it off with my hands and watch the sodium particles float in the gentle breeze grazing over me. My uncle would be cooking some chicken and pork in an oil drum, made into a jerk pit. Smoky, spicy white smoke would waft up and float over the tops of the houses. I didn't care about how I looked. I saw varying examples of black skin, from very light to very dark. Varying hair textures, some soft with loose curls, others more course with tight curls. The hairs on my arm are auburn as well as on my legs, the hair on my head is a dark, rusty red/brown colour. It's thick, with a weird straight and curly texture, soft to touch and smells of coconut oil. There was pride taken in appearances. The girls of the family always had their hair done, colored bobbles and dresses pressed. The guys, had pleats in shirts and trousers with military precision, shoes highly polished. I cared nothing about the differences or variations I saw. Everyone was a person, made in their own right. My Aunt and Uncle always told me I was handsome and smart; the world is at at my feet they would say. At school, I was top of my class and would help the other kids with their classwork. My parents reminded me how much they admired their "Ally-Bally" and that I could do whatever I wanted. I was about to learn and see things that contrasted these words.

I was back and forth between the U.K. and Jamaica quite a lot when I was younger. This meant I had friends in two different countries, two schools, two bedrooms, essentially two different lives. Jamaica is home to some of my best memories. Saturday nights, was movie night. Around 7pm, a Rastafarian guy would pass each of the houses on the street with a massive metal canister secured to his push bike. Hanging from the handle bars would be these white paper cups, with little paper handles big enough to fit an index finger in snuggly. He'd open the canister and steam would erupt from it. A massive ladle hung from the side; he would unhook it and start stirring. I was too short at the time to be able to see inside, but the smell told me it was red pea soup. It smelt delicious! I was excited to bite in to the long, finger-shaped dumplings, the soft potato, and slightly gritty yam. My aunt, uncle, two cousins, 6 house guests, my cousin's best friend and the dogs, knew what time it was. Whilst this was happening, my other uncle would be driving back from the movie rental place with tonight's movie. I was known as 'handbag' because I would hang on to my cousins side never leaving her. I was a happy kid. Popular among my family, and in the neighbourhood for being a good child. Nothing significant happened to me at any point to trigger my feelings of insecurity.

As I started to stay more in England and visit Jamaica less, there were certain things that I started to question more and more. I saw less black people and more of other ethnicities. I noticed that my white classmates tended to live in better areas, larger houses, going on more holidays than my black classmates. What I never understood was the fascination with my hair. The kids would want to put their hands in my hair without even asking my permission. I had zero compulsion to touch theirs. I could see with my own eyes what the texture looked like and ultimately, what it would feel like. I could hear the texture as their hair fibres would pass through the brush bristles. I didn't have to touch it to find out. I didn't need to invade their personal space, but it was ok to rob me of mine. Left, right, and centre, white kids would want to touch my hair as often as they could. I felt like a petting animal. What's worse, the kids would say: "My mum says you don't wash your hair often and that's why you smell and get nits". At 30-years-old I have never had head lice. My mum was not having any of that at home. My brother was growing dreads too during primary school. She would tell him, if he caught lice, the dreads would have to go. My brother made sure his head was wrapped up at all times. No one was touching his hair.

When Stephen Lawrence was killed, I was just six-years-old, struggling to understand why anyone would kill someone just because they were black. I would hear stories my dad would tell me about being pulled over, subjected to ridiculous searches and the Brixton riots. My cousin was also very popular with the police and wrongly accused at one point for theft at secondary school. All of my examples of black men around me were positive. Everyone I knew worked, some worked two or even three jobs. I was well fed, loved, looked after, protected, supported and understood. Outside of this microcosm, a different story was being told. In primary school, I was part of a group of friends that contained the popular black students. The majority of us would get into trouble for merely being associated to one another. I remember I got suspended because another kid told the teacher to piss off. The teacher thought it was me and I pleaded that I had nothing to do with it. Shortly after, a number of my friends were suspended for similar things over the next coming weeks. We were all guilty by association. Old enough to understand, too young to articulate it. I was told that if I didn't dribble a ball or sing/write lyrics, then I would struggle in adulthood. My teachers actually encouraged me to dance. I had rhythm, but nothing extraordinary. It wasn't until Mr. Gordon arrived and started teaching us in Year 5 and 6 that my beliefs started to change. My predicted scores for SATs increased and was able to apply for better secondary schools. I had the aptitude and he rediscovered it. On my estate, some of the kids parents told their kids to never share their belongings with black kids because we would take it away. When I got to secondary school, places in London were off limits for me to go to; Eltham and Welling being two places my parents explicitly forbade me to go. I was called a nigger for the first time here and remembering the pain I felt once the word had penetrated. I cried; someone hated me because my skin is brown. They had no idea who I was. In secondary school, my friendship group was mainly white. It became popular at one point for the white girls to date the black boys. A preference for black boys were being stated at a young age. They actively sought out black boys, black skin. A part of them. Not the whole person. I often thought was this preference in place to annoy, frustrate and anger their parents? I'd wonder if it was an act of rebellion; the boys didn't care because girls were falling at their feet. I'd question whether I'm just being too cynical or were these boys completely oblivious to what was happening? It's an advantageous situation, who wouldn't welcome it with open arms? But from a young age, black men were already being used, already being told they are no more than their physical make up. The rewards seemed so good. All this was though, was the beginning of a negative spiral. Am I attractive because I am black? Or am I generally attractive and so happen to be black? Furthermore, what constitutes attraction and how the hell do I get it?

Contrast to this though, I was hated on sight. I could never work out why jerk chicken and black men were popular to consume, yet we were being pulled over by the police and locked up at an alarming rate. Everywhere you look, images of perfect bodies surround you and are more abundant than oxygen in the atmosphere. Adverts for aftershave featuring these insanely handsome, ripped, lean men, metaphorically holding up the world. Women often playing the subservient role. This is what we are taught and conditioned to believe. We forget temporarily that these images are heavily manipulated. Reality television programmes like: Love Island and Ex on the Beach feature archetype representations of the 'epitome' of human aesthetics. TV dramas depict masculinity with devilishly handsome men, struggling to stay faithful to their partner. Or, some other affliction is pasted to men making damaged look attractive. It's ok, he's damaged, I can fix him. As if this, is the accepted weakness of a man and easily forgiven when it comes to infidelity. The average Joes tend to finish last and end up being cheated on for the aforementioned, widely publicised image of perfection. Survival of the fittest I hear you cry. Yes, maybe. But everyone has something to offer, right? Wether it's compassion, loyalty, empathy, love, support, intelligence. All characteristics that improve your chances of survival over how good you look. Instead, we say men have to have muscles, be this tall, earn this much, drive this car, appendage this big. All of these superficial factors must be satisfied or you aren't worthy. It's even worse for women. You either have to be, slim build with big arse and massive breasts. Or, you are thick all round. Breasts big, arse and thighs thick. You must be faithful; cheating isn't allowed or forgiven. But your man having a side chick is excusable; in certain situations this female will be fought to maintain the hierarchy.

I want to add another factor to this: Race. Certain ethnic groups have silly stereotypes attached to them. The age old one: Black men have big penises. So if all of the above is expected of men, what is expected of the black man? Dominance? Aggression? Large appendage? Absent father figure? Lack of respect for women? Drug dealer? If he doesn't, the whole picture falls apart, right? Infidelity brings about a wealth of insecurity, for both parties. Lack of support means families fall apart. Very rarely do people understand their worth. In addition to understanding self-worth, as a black man I have experienced being reduced to parts or sum thereof. I am not my active brain, my wit, my bipolar, sense of fashion, interest in quantum physics and psychology, geek by birth, video gamer, technology enthusiast, music loving and collecting man. I am my large penis. I am good for nothing else, popular for only a few other things. Music and Sports. Being black, I have seen so many contrasting things. I have phenomenal role models, yet in the media the famous ones are ones that entertain others. I struggle to identify other black figures that have succeeded in other areas. I grew up loving myself and being told I am worthy and beautiful in my own way, yet for it to be taken away and I am reduced to a sum of body parts for other people's pleasure. I am still being bought and sold; I am not my active brain.

Being bipolar doesn't make me feel brave, it makes me paranoid. My head hurts from frowning my forehead, thinking about my desirability, my earning potential, my advantages and disadvantages of being black, taking my anti-psychotics and mood stabilisers, trying to make everyone love me, not caring if anyone likes me, asking why I am still single. It makes me erratic; so erratic, my thoughts are a jumbled mess at 4:43am, spinning round a mile a second. Manic enough I buy a new car and TV, planning a 21 day cruise around the Caribbean. I am full of energy, spewing it from every orifice. I am untouchable, powerful, a false sense of being in control and a force never to be reckoned with. I am the only one important. Depressed to the point My reality is distorted, I believe none of the positive things my loved ones tell me anymore. If I don't work myself to almost death, if it doesn't hurt, if my insomnia isn't kicking my arse, I'm not working hard enough. I will never achieve the picket fence, the house and the car. I will have proved my teachers right, I amounted to nothing. I cannot afford not to take my pills, If I do, I can't predict how any go this will manifest. I can't predict for how long. I don't know if I'll survive self-destruction. I don't think I'll be able to pull the horcruxes back together again.