A friend recently commented that her colleague, who it surprised her read and enjoyed my blog (surprised because he is male, works in the city and wears one of ‘those’ rings on his little finger…) had proclaimed that the blog reminded him of the 1990s popular television show Desmond’s. Caught somewhere between humour and horror I decided his statement was worthy of further exploration…..
At first enraged by the crude statement that appeared to reduce the experience so many of us share to nothing more than a caricature, I felt slighted that there had to be a comparator at all. Why did my blog have to be the same as a show set in Peckham in some fifteen years ago? Not everything written about the east end of London is comparable with Eastenders. And yet the black experience is always reduced to a finite number of comparators otherwise it is unconscionable. For example a black woman has to look like someone for her beauty to be corroborated (Missy Elliot or Jennifer Hudson if you are fat, Whoopi Goldberg if you have a big smile and dreads, Beyonce if you are lucky, Alicia Keys if you are mixed race), as though there are five of us in total and we’re simply multitudes of the same person.
Then I thought back to Desmond’s with fond memories. Like most I fancied Sean despite his short and slight physique he was as cool as cool could be (no brains, but who needed them as a teenager?). Then there was his sister with her BAD weaves. No excuse for that on TV, even in the 90s. Porkpie and Matthew - The Caribbean and the African immigrant - At constant loggerhead and yet underlying every tension (and cultural slur) was love and respect. Peckham has come to embody more than just the microcosm of black (African and Caribbean) settlement, now the Polish, Czech, South African, Spanish, Chinese and Brazilians all live side by side discovering in equal measure the injustices and splendours London has to offer; All from the safe enclave of a barber shop, a patisserie (of which there are many should you stray off the beaten curve), a ‘dumplin’ shop or indeed the formidable God Bless salon. It’s too easy to relegate God Bless and Desmond’s to a mere caricature (although my tales are certainly meant to entice laughter), as it erodes the significant roles such establishments have played in settling (for many who are new to the country it provides a home from home where they are supported by people who share their cultural experiences, as they navigate their way through an alien and subversive time and place) and then showcasing their best to the world (Peckham is to patties and Jollof rice what Green Street or Brick Lane is to curry and naan bread).
My allegiance to Peckham is not borne of any fondness derived from my hair raising (pun intended) antics at the multitude of hair dressers which line the high street (interspersed only by fish shops, nail salons, wig shops and pie and eel shops – yes Del Boy’s legacy is alive and kicking), like tress in a suburban neighbourhood. Although I confess all of the above have come to form the exceptional character of the place. No, my penchant for Peckham is out of deep seeded principle over pride.
Ten years ago London became my home and Peckham the epicentre of my personal London experience. I recall with fondness my university friends comments of derision (don’t forget your bullet proof vest and your passport. Going that far you’ll need to be checked by an immigration officer to get back in) as I set off from our halls of residence for an afternoon in Peckham, where no-one questioned what food I was buying/eating, or why my hair went from being short to long of an afternoon. Nostalgia aside, the reality was you’d have been excused for thinking you were on the set of Boys in the Hood (minus the Kid and Play esq hair styles) when you entered Peckham from Dulwich (home of Margaret Thatcher) or Surrey Quays (going through its own transformation at the time – seeking to attract the Canary Wharf folk).. It was so polarised and pre Damilola Taylor (it takes tragedy to recognise poverty), a completely forgotten and abandoned place.
Ten years on and teetering on the verge of evolution and revolution Peckham pulsates with life and singularly embraces the multi faceted human diaspora; its streets are full of every walk of life. If there is one certainty about Peckham it’s that (to quote the great Sam Cooke) ‘a change is gonna come’… again and again and again.
Looking at the award winning Will Alsop designed library and leisure centre in the heart of Peckham (directly opposite the Kumasi market where I go and pick up Ghanaian food every Saturday - And is featured prominently on many a grime music video) which stands prominently on the landscape, a mish mash of colour bleeding out into the horizon. The modern flamboyant design is a stark contrast against the drab dilapidated Edwardian buildings (mixed with the worst of 1980s architecture) that surround it, and yet the vibrancy, energy and eclectic mix of the people using the library compliments the building’s architecture so eloquently and completely. Unfortunately I can no longer use what is a phenomenally successful community space as I owe the library something ridiculous in fines and had to pretend to be my own (fantasy) twin sister when returning my seriously over due books and quickly scuttle away into the dead of the night, before security were called and I was escorted off the premises.
Peckham has a particularly elevated place in my heart as I’ve watched it evolve and take hold of its once restless history, embracing the rapid cycle of change that has come to define its place in the fabric of the city. Thus if a comparison with Desmond’s is necessary I gladly welcome the analogy.
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