Mixed Race 2

It has been suggested that childhood is like being drunk in as much as everyone knows what you did except for yourself, and in many ways, if that is so, my childhood still continues. Slowly I de-colonise my mind so as to unravel the mystery of myself, and yet, these pieces I do have rarely fit. In fact, for the most part, I tried to re-construct this puzzle using pieces that were not mine, and yet, what are these pieces? These pieces are communications, conversations, perspectives and narratives. I attempted to operate off of programmes that were not my own; along the lines of patterns I did not construct. I tried to be a part of that which I did not belong to. I attempted to identify with that to which I could only relate, and so, ultimately, I was fakery. I was unreal; I was a façade. Everything about my selfhood was a façade. It was completely duplicitous, based on appeasement and compensation. It was all aimed at being and remaining invisible so as to avoid embracing and confronting the reality I was unable to deal with: the fact that I had no authentic self. Unlike the others, I had not been born with this mirror, and so, the only self I could construct was a flimsy imitation which was far from exact, and rather incongruous. And yet, as it goes with things like, rather than surrender, people cling. For the longest time, I clung to this identity, even though it kept me blind the submerged self; even though it kept the true identity eclipsed. I couldn’t afford to be vulnerable and exposed, for having come from the environment, I had learned that I would always be persecuted for being “UNLIKE” them.

I remember that when Rodney King died, it was suggested that he had spent a lot of time with himself trying to make sense of his experience as he didn’t realise how much his past affected him. Likewise, in the falsification, Amos Wilson suggested that when we are not attuned to prior events that impacted upon us, we become mysteries to ourselves – living lives of falsehood – and very much true to this, I was this mystery. I did not have the capacity to reflect and therefore make sense out of the ways in which I responded to peoples, situations, to words. Every word had such an impact upon my being, and yet, living without skin and being so particularly attuned to everything, this was to be expected. Ultimately, it came to be expected because I found myself in the gifted narrative. I belonged to discourse. It provided the answers to the questions that had plagued my existence for so long functioning as impeding stumbling blocks interfering with ht expression of my better self. Likewise, “bibliotherapy” was the other tools I used, having always lived in that world of language, and yet, following on from the question of James Mellon, from where did this emerge? It is difficult to say as although I always was with a typical “nigger” circle, expression “black” culture, and even playing the playground bully, apart from that, I lived in libraries. I was, theoretically in an abstract world so much so that it might be said I was never with anyone. I didn’t have a famiy as I wasn’t “present.” I was not “with” them, even if “Of” them. I was very much a solitary figure that happened to be about, and who incidentally was around and yet, that was not where my consciousness was. It was always elsewhere.

I grew up in libraries, and I mean it was an obsession. I was always in there, intrigued by all the books, and using them as a means to alternative world. Maybe it was escape, and yet, like “Pan’s Labyrinth” I was very much in need of the fantasy. I needed that release, and it stimulated me so much more. Unfortunately, a series of unexpected events meant I was torn from teat world of intrigued and innocence, and thrown into a pit of turmoil and despair – one that I still struggle with as I attempt to resolve the many difficulties created by this disruption and warfare; by this paralysing void of emptiness, and resentment. At this point, I came to be torn between two worlds once more, only this time, much of my selfhood had been diminished – and with that, my capacity was always in decline. It is for this reason, I imagine, that people like myself attempt to salvage a self as something to hold on to as a believing mirror. It is an anchor needed to build upon; a foundation to serve as a foothold in our efforts to negotiation an identity, and attempts to navigate this difficult world. Our lives are so focussed on the experience of violence; of having others torn from us; on never being able to rely on others; on never having these consistent others; in always fearing being obliterated; that we can’t afford to reveal ourselves, and so we remain hidden, burying ourselves in an abyss of regret and remorse. We have our development arrested, and yet, it is never our own fault; it is because others assume they are “normal” and so “natural”, they fail to take, and be responsible for their failings which ultimately amount to sabotage. We beg for them to be accountable, and ask for accountability in this world, and yet, these refuse it. They want to have entitlement without requirement. There is no qualification for they are really tyrannical in their consciousness: our oppression.

About omalone1

I live I die I write
This entry was posted in Sick of being black and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s