An entire month has past with nary a post. I could say that life has been happening to fast for me to report it, but I'd only be being half truthful and there's no sense in that. Life has been happening (fact). The month of October passed quickly (also, fact). But not too quickly for me to tweet, and tumbl, and roll around in bed and watch an ungodly amount of Breaking Bad. I'll be better this month. I don't have many left in London and as I wrote to myself in my journal a couple weeks ago "How will I recount this time in my life without written record? What will I make of it in my memoirs - a string of drunken memories and half dreamt realities??"
I am going to try and make these snapshots into the past month as cogent and captivating as my memory allows. Here goes it:
Classes at SOAS: I get my schedule sorted on the second. Ethnomusicology is a necessary brain drain. My classmates are all musicians, mostly white, who have fallen in infatuation with "world music." I've dropped Ethnography of West Africa for the sake of Prespectives on African Experience and picked up an anthropology course on New Religious Movements. This is my second time taking an Anthro course focused on religion for some reason this course work always seems to find me at times of spiritual need. I have problems with folks in my class who take this cold scientific approach to the study of culture. To try an belittle all the color of someones life into a little box to better dissect seems intellectually cruel. I completely disregarded my requirements (which ended up as predicted) to take Perspectives on African Experience because of an experience that can only be referred to a "love at first lecture." Dr. Kwadwo Osei-Nyame speaks with fire in his eyes and carries that same familiar omniscient nature present in all my favorite teachers in the history of ever. He rambles through the text - mixing the words of Garvey & Dubois & Achebe with that of Bob Marley and other lesser known reggae purveyors. He sings, and curses Babylon. He is so spirited and black and lovely that the alienation and discomfort I feel in my other lectures melt away. I am taking a history course on slavery with a re-occurring theme of "well it was really all in the hands of the Africans." My professor is a white French woman who studies internal slavery in Mali, my TA is a Black woman with shoulder length locs and a smile that apologizes after each lecture.
Adventure #1 The Tate Modern: I tag along with a group of IFSA students to South Bank for some art. One girl and I get separated from the group because of low funds on our bus passes. We have to top-up then catch a later bus. She's a planner, we've strayed from the plan. I adopt the mantra "trust the city" walking with purpose from directional sign to directional sign. I have no idea where I'm going but have lost the will to freak out about it. She's nervous. We get there. It's windy near the water but there's a big wooden structure calling for us to explore it. We wander about this freestanding staircase contraption take some pictures and make our way inside. In an exhibit titled "Poetry & Dreams." I walked through the galleries completely giving myself to the images and text on the walls. In a room with a focus on contemporary realism as a means to discuss unconventional realities, I was visually confronted by a naked black body. A male, one knee bent the other extended to the end of the frame leaning on the arm of an exquisite white couch. He holds a pipe with his headed tilted skyward against a geo-floral pattern. Shoulders hunched, shaft exposed, eyes averted, everything about this figure said "I am here to exist, not for you to see, I am here to exist as I am". The piece was entitled "Family Jules: NNN (No Naked Niggahs)" After reading the title I exhaled a giggle of gratitude, of praise for the celebrated freedom and comfort of this black man (painter & muse). The description accompanying the piece was about confronting white fears and stereotypes of black male sexuality. Simply put, this nigga gave me life. And It wasn't just that it was a bold artistic effort, or that I was shocked to see it in the same space as numerous Picasso's & Polluck's. I looked at this "naked niggah," arrogantly comfortable on these white walls, under this immense white gaze, and saw myself (5 feet of black/woman with a tower of hair and a southern/American accent) walking through London smiling at strangers.
Visit #1: Aliya arrives from Spain on Wednesday. I pick her up. We drop her bags and head to an area of East London called Shoreditch for a meeting with my Internship Family. I am late, and again have no idea where i'm going. Mantra still steady "Trust the city" as I walk in search of a sign or map that may point me in the right direction. I find one, I follow it. We arrive. At RichMix, a cinema/performance space, I meet the Numbi Arts Team for teas and a chat in the cafe. I am given a run down of what my duties are and we talk about everything from art to Baldwin to Rihanna's new "Pour it up" visuals. After the meeting we walk down Brick Lane to get food at this wonderful Indian place tucked off past the street art and vintage shops. More conversation over naan bread. My belly is full. The walk back is cold but I'm so entranced by the energy of the area that I can't speed through it. We get home via the Overground and I'm already planning my return. That night is chill. The next is not. We get go out to "Southern Hospitality's" Hip-Hop Karaoke in central London. It's poppin. Friday there's a not so poppin' party at the bar across from my dorm. We go. I'm drunk. I dance. I don't care that the room is almost bare or that i'm the object of full on white male gaze. By the time we leave I've decided I'm crushing on the DJ. The next night is chill, partially because of my inability to dress myself. We make a run to the store, eat ice-cream, and watch British TV shows. Sunday morning we get up and head back to Shoreditch. The plan was to grab lunch then get Aliya back for her flight, but the truth about girls in markets is that they tend to lose grip of time. Aliya leaves me at Paddington tube stop around 3 and ultimately misses her flight. I wait up for her searching plane tickets. She returns, It's all sorted. She wakes me in the morning to let her out of the building. She's gone before I pick the crud from my eyes. Such a lovely visit. Almost felt like a dream.
To Be Continueeeeeed
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