Chapter 55 - Forever Decay
Through an office window, situated on the third floor, I see the hodgepodge of decaying, red-bricked, Victorian buildings; the roof tops covered in bird excrement, and their foundations melded with the effluence of a bygone time. On warm mornings, I can smell the detritus. Even in twenty-first century Britain, this is typical of the neglected areas of London, labelled by some, as ghettos. This place reminds me of Harlem in the nineteen seventies. I hear Harlem has changed now. I’ve been told it is quite gentrified. I suspect this part of London was considered to be deprived in the nineteen seventies too. But still, in this so-called Cool Britannia, there seems to be a great deal of poverty here.
I hear unsubstantiated rumours that the commercial properties here are leasehold, and that many of the tenancies are drawing to a close. If this is so, then I wonder what will happen to the nail bars, cafes, barbers and record shops. Rumour or not, I can't help noticing that the properties are neglected. Where does the onus of their upkeep lie?
I enjoy visiting a particular African-Caribbean record shop. The music is loud enough to be heard on the high street. I occasionally venture into the store, and stare at the hundreds of colourful reggae records on display, but I am ashamed to say that I recognise just a handful of the artists. I like speaking to the proprietor, Danny, a small black man, in his late fifties; always standing behind his till at the back of the shop. The shop occupies just one floor, barely bigger than an average sized living room.
“Hello deary!" Danny shouts to me, over the music. A customer walks into the shop, they of course take precedence over me.
“I’ve heard this song and it goes something like this.” The customer begins to hum. I barely hear the rendition, for the music in the background seems to be breaking the sound barrier, eradicating all other sound. Danny lowers his head, concentrating.
It takes Danny less than five seconds to reply to his customer. “I think I know the song you mean.” He quickly goes to the back of the shop and returns promptly with a record in his hand. He puts it on his record player. A song begins. “Is this the one?”
"Yes, fantastic. How much is it sir?" the customer asks.
I would not say that black people are more musically adept than anyone else. Music is just one of the only forms of communication that we have truly been allowed to use —for hundreds of years. I believe these parameters are still set for us. It’s a bit like Capoeira, practised by black Brazilian slaves in secret. Practised because they did not have access to weaponry.
And so, this record shop may say more about the history of non-white Caribbean people than perhaps any book or documentary. The British cotton industry and the exploitation of workers was on my school syllabus. Yet, the exploitation, resulting in the underdevelopment of countries that aided the progression of the British empire, was less evident in my learning at school. But here in this shop, and on the streets of this so-called ghetto, I can see the result of one of the most sinister sides of this small island’s empire.
I encounter many black businesses here, and I enjoy speaking to them, but I am affected by comments like, “Black people don’t want to work for whites, they don’t want to work for Asians. Who do they want to work for?" Hinting that there is a culture of worklessness within the black community. My reply would ordinarily be that we probably want to work with, rather than for white and Asian people. I am afraid to convey my thoughts, and I think those who communicate that we do not desire to work, know that I am too scared to comment.
Purporting superiority over another group or individual, was necessary for the success of colonisation. Such a perspective has left a mark. The success of one group over another is used as a crutch by individuals. It is seen as an affirmation that one group is superior to another. But I find this belief abhorrent.
"Black people just resent the success of the Asian community,” my boss told me one day.
"Do you have evidence of this?" I plucked up the courage to reply.
"I can just tell. I am from a different culture. We are encouraged to enter professional positions.”
"Well I can't speak for every black person, but I am sure most parents, whatever their background, would like their children to have professional careers," I replied.
My comments were met with a few derisive laughs from various staff, who then turned and looked away.
It is probable that the majority of the Caribbean businessmen and women that live in this part of London, spent their formative years in the Caribbean, not unlike my mother. But their offspring are perhaps more likely to have been raised and educated in Britain. Educated in an environment where preconceived ideas about others, be they working-class, middle-class, migrants or otherwise, are immovable.
So which came first? Is it the supposed culture of worklessness, said to be vehemently practised? Or do the theories of labelling and self-fulfilling prophecy have some impact on the circumstances of the unemployed; soon to be labelled unemployable?
I belong to those who are deemed unemployable, and have a growing sense of worthlessness, chained in perpetual psychological and physical deterioration, unable to emerge from the decay. There is no happy ending; no phoenix rising from the flame. There is just visible, constantly festering debris.
