Calamity Jane #7 - Seventh Circle of hell (Violence)

Sunday 10^th January at a bar in Catford one quintessentially black London ‘youf’ (baggy jeans riding the crack of his buttocks, an oversized jumper, body warmer and some rather funky and expensive looking trainers) stood before me to recite a poem he had written about his mother. His eloquence and delivery were polished, the substance of his words powerful. The young Bard spoke of the perpetual beatings he received (only black’s open a poem about love of their mothers with stories of beatings - as though the two are inextricable linked. Anyhow it inspired laughs and emphatic nods from everyone in the room), the humiliation the beatings invoked, the adoration and respect it derived, the love and protection that grew and finally the man it inspired him to become. His strength, his humanity, his passion, his life choices were all inspired by his mother (who seemingly ruled with an iron fist).

There is a new guard of child rearing theory, often espoused by the well educated, well paid, Guardian reading liberals (none of whom reside in Catford). The sorts of people whose children have names like Hermoine or Tabitha (and they have the cheek to look down on Shaniqua, Laquisha or Ray Ray). Their children refer to them by their first names and discipline at home and in public is supplanted by ‘healthy debate’ - recall the looks which could summon death that your mother would give you if you ever showed her up in public - as blacks we recognise the significance of public displays of bad behaviour.

It isn’t that black children are loved any less by their parents; they just have a different way of delivering the same message. It all boils down to vernacular. For example in an effort to encourage her daughter to lose some weight a middle class English woman may say to her daughter ‘darling, lets start going for walkies in the Heath together, we could both do with the exercise. We haven’t ridden Jezebel (the black stallion) in some time, why don’t we pop to the stables for ride this weekend? Remind me to send Bee (the maid) to the organic shop to pick up some bean sprouts for dinner’. Over the same topic Keesha for example would simply say (as I have witnessed with my own eyes) ‘Fat giaarl stop eating that crap. That’s why you cian’t lose weight!’ Behind the hardened veneer of Keesha shouting fat giarlll, I knew there was love.

This is not the forum to debate child rearing techniques, but as I ponder my own childhood, the tales of discipline are embedded in my psyche… Amongst the black community, tales of discipline have bonded and united generations of people, who, although brought up all over the country were all reared in the same way. Go to any black comedy night, party, outdooring (naming ceremony) or gathering and the tales of childhood discipline (brutality tailored to audience) will be told.

God Bless hair salon is no exception. I had become accustomed to a degree of shouting at the badly behaved children when called for, but the ferocity of it sometimes knocked me off guard. I knew what was coming when I’d hear Keesha calmly tell the kids to stop running, quietly but firmly under her breath (I was always dumbfounded that the kids didn’t read the signs) giving them a chance to redeem themselves with her warnings. They didn’t, they carried on obliviously; Slamming into customers, who were already perplexed by their own gaggle of bored, cooped up children, who’d spent their Saturday following them round the market looking for the cheapest yam, ripest plantain (accepting nothing less that 5 for a pound) and freshest chicken and were now about to face the abyss that is the salon. I didn’t blame them for wanting to play. I just wished it were outside and away from me. Then BAMN! before I could blink Keesha’s turned and with one hand wrestled the screaming kids down to the ground (two at once) whilst giving the lucky third who got away the ‘so help me God if I wasn’t carrying this hot comb, you’d be in my hands right now’ look.

As the stiff upper lip British resolve hadn’t yet penetrated the borders of Peckham, I knew her emotions from her recent outburst would come to bear on my head. Those were the moments I prayed to God (staring down at me from the lone crucifix on the wall next to the poster of the scantily dressed woman cupping her breasts advertising the month of January) I wasn’t next in line for Keesha chair. Inevitably I always was...

CJ