Guilt trip

My father passed away last year. He was a tall, thin, proud, very handsome, very dark skinned man. He didn’t ask for help often, but when he did it was a humbling experience for me. Weird no? Dad asking for help and it’s me on edge. I remember when I was a kid my mum relayed the story of being a toddler, dad’s blood sugar was low. He asked me to share my Mars bar, I said no. That would be the last time I denied my father. My mum, sensing danger snatched the bar out of my hand and gave it to my dad. Dad never asks, so if he asks, he gets. As a result I have a complex about dark skinned black men. If they’re in need, I give. Why? Because they’ remind me of my dad, and if anyone ever denied my sweet, loving, gentle giant of a father a single thing he asked for. I’d raise hell in a way that makes “the furies” look like an all expenses paid trip to Disneyland. Because he’s my dad and I protect him because no one else will. No one ever looks at the humanity of black men. I, as a stereotypical black woman know them to be brothers, fathers , friends. I came from a black man, and I feel immense guilt for the rest of my life because of it.

Whenever they portray black men as criminals, that’s my father. Black men as homeless people especially hurts. Homeless people are constantly trying to cover basic needs. I cannot have my diabetic father in need. There are life threatening consequences. He could lose limbs, he could die. And he’s my father, he is my dad. The idea chills me to my soul. I remember one time dad wanted to give money to a blind man in his village. I normally gave him £50 a month back then. So he asked me to take it out of his “allowance” I could never. I saw it as the height of disrespect to the man who has never had a miserly thought in his life. Especially when it came to his children. He is not my child and I don’t make bargains with my parents. They get their money as a sign of devotion, gratitude and love. There are no conditions. I’m glad I lived true to myself. Especially now he’s gone. Living an authentic life is the most thing you can do. In my brief experience I have learnt that and felt it deeply. But also something vitally important is living a life of peace. Peace, rest and a life free from suffering. It is in this vein I tell the following story.

I made a mistake today. It was raining so rather than walking to Waterloo station from my workplace In Brixton, I decided to take the tube. I walked to Brixton station. Chatted to my mum, fairly innocuous. I was stopped by a man with a Nigerian accent and a crutch, said he’d just been discharged from hospital, did I have money for a bus fare. I don’t carry cash, but offered to buy him a sandwich… Black men of that generation don’t eat sandwiches. They eat hot food. Therefore the only “white food” they understand is chips. Couldn’t find a chip shop close by so I bought him some food from a Ghanaian street seller. Expensive. Then he wanted a beer. I was missing my train at this point but I couldn’t leave because I have been trained never to turn your back on your elders when they ask you for help. More like always help your fellow “black brothers.” This man isn’t my brother. He’s old enough to be my father. Which means I can’t leave. According to him he was born in the U.K., which makes him black British rather than African. Yet it was the African he was leaning on. Ultimately I not just fed him but bought him an Oyster card and topped it up so he could take a bus back to his hostel. It was a very stereotypically African interaction. I was exhausted after my first week of work at a new job and was keen to get it over with. Even though I had the money, I was duty bound to get him whatever he needed/wanted. We fell very easily into our respective roles. Anyone who saw the interaction from the outside would presume me to be his daughter or female relative. There is no doubting what needs to be done and how… At the end of the interaction he even asked for my number he was so bold. I often give this out of my “May God help me” fund. Praying to God that I made the correct decision, and that I don’t suffer for it.

Then I had to live with myself. Giving instinctively out of guilt and obligation even though no one was watching. I even hung up with my mum to tend to his needs. It was in the aftermath I realised, something that I keep coming back to. Every so often I think “oh wouldn’t it be nice to marry a black man” I have even had positive interactions with black men recently. Know how bad your life has been when you feel the need to write down “ I have had 3 positive interactions with 3 separate black men in the past 3 months and it was beginning to help me.”

Truth is, I can never marry a black man because of the experiences I have had with my father, brothers, cousins, uncles. A friend of mine once said “very black man in your life has failed you” in a way yes. I don’t associate black men with safety. I associate them with my spontaneous, adventurous father. My criminal brothers, my wicked cousins and my useless uncles. Too much has happened. I can’t let go and I can’t forget, some of the crimes weren’t against me so it isn’t for me to forgive, but some of them were against me and I can’t forgive. I was a child, an innocent child and I was used and abused by people, by men who were meant to protect me. Who were meant to look after me. You can’t blame every black man for my father’s sins, but the tears I shed would never allow me to abandon the lessons for which I cried. My hope for a happy life could never allow me to marry a man that would essentially keep me in a constant state of fear, I spoke to a friend about it. Telling her 2 hours later I was still stressed and triggered by the event. I won’t be walking to Brixton again. I can’t afford £24 to give to every homeless person.

Sad thing is I don’t associate black men with hypergamy. The sadder thing is, I can’t call it internalised racism. I saw my father put his sisters kids before me. I suffered for it. My brother beat up his wife, abandoned her with no money to take care of 4 kids (whilst he spent 4 years in Sierra Leone stealing from his sick father) and then returned to his wife expecting a loving welcome and cussed her out for finding someone else and dumping him. I saw my cousin marry a lovely woman for papers, then break her heart and walk off the face of the planet… he abandoned her and us until she gave up and divorced him. By which time he was impregnating his next wife/victim. I lived through these things, my heart is broken. As is my spirit. People think they can do “wild shit” and there are no consequences. The consequences are never what you expect. I bet none of these men considered that by pulling their selfish nonsense that their actions were destroying the black community… because this girl will never marry a black man. I find almost all interactions with black people exhausting. We’re always black people. We’re never just people. We have to let our race define us because we choose that. Why? Why can’t we just be? I showed a colleague a baby picture of mine. She commented that “all black parents” dressed their kids like I was dressed back in the day. Maybe they did. But we were in a room full of white people and I didn’t feel comfortable defining us as the 3 black womenswear in a row. Why couldn’t we just be 3 (of many) 90’s babies? That would be more inclusive. I just want to live in peace. Peace without having my defining characteristic thrown in my face over and over. Isn’t it boring?

I love challenging stereotypes, and therefore I really hate the “black love” community. Know you are broken when you have to set up a movement to show a glamourised version of “traditional family values” “black love” implicitly promotes black marriage but the kind of “Beyoncé and Jay Z” kind of marriage. The truth is that a lot of black women look like Beyoncé, are talented like Beyoncé and are all for traditional family values like Beyoncé… but not many men are like Jay Z… and let’s not forget Jay Z cheated and could have wrecked his home and his children’s lives. So not a healthy stereotype. Also Instagram is promoting a type of marriage which will almost exclusively end in divorce. An “empowered” woman acting like a spoiled child and the husband acting like a metaphorical (I hope) beaten dog and bitch slave… healthy… so again not for me. There is no way I want my son to marry a woman like that. Being “high maintenance” is now considered a virtue, synonymous with having “high standards” yet these women lack self-regulation. They seek validation on the internet from strangers and act like children in front of their own children. They’re breeding disaster. But a tangent. Black love isn’t for me. Black men are funny to me… but funny doesn’t pay bills, funny doesn’t make me feel safe… funny doesn’t give my children the best start in life and these are the things I crave.

Say it with me Annetta, you are not responsible for black men. They are not your father. Your father is with God.

Say it with conviction, say it with grace, say it with courage.

Grace and Courage

Annetta Mother Smith