Fuelled By Rage And Sweat
Summer this year has been passing really fast. We have both been on furlough for months, and the unusual consistent weather didn’t make telling the days apart any easier.
I have always found “political climate” an interesting phrase. And this summer consolidated that. At some point it felt like the news was dictating the passing of time, with the hottest weeks of summer overseeing the rise of the recent Black Lives Matter protest.
And when we met again, in the shade of Natasha’s garden, sweating under the face masks and too tired to fill the awkward silence…
R: “So… What happens now?”
We had been talking a lot about the protests and BLM. I was always worried to bring it up, but I really wanted to check on her. As a trans man and activist, I am fairly familiar with riots and with the sense of grief in turning the TV on and seeing the news flooded by the deaths of my siblings. And I know it can be painful to talk about, but I also know Natasha and I function in a very similar way. “Today we cry, tomorrow we fight.”
N: “What about it?” She lights a cigarette and looks up.
R: “I have been looking at the prompts for next month, you know that online magazine, the one that publishes my articles? There’s one about the future of Black Lives Matter. You know, what’s going to happen when it stops trending. If it’s going to happen again. If we’ve achieved anything. And you know I struggle to be optimistic.”
N: “So, here’s the thing. This is not the first time Black people have fought for equality, right? These fights have been happening since forever, it’s the changes that…
Well, the thing is, we would have to change society as a whole, not just a handful of allies: the majority.”
R: “And that’s scary. What’s scary is that minorities are called that for a reason. We are the minority. If this comes to a vote, we don’t have the numbers to back that up, unless people in the majority start caring. And at what point do they start caring? Because so far, we haven’t cared when we invaded countries. We haven’t cared when deaths have been live streamed on TV. So… how many more fights and deaths and protests do we need to start caring? Yes, there’s… change is happening, but how much of it is something that’s actually been asked? How much is doable? How… how are we supposed to change… everything? When does this change actually start and happen for good?”
N: “So Boris Johnson said, ‘this country has made huge strides. I remember the 1970s, and the horror of the National Front. I truly believe that we are a much, much less racist society than we were, in many ways far happier and better.
But we must also frankly acknowledge that there is so much more to do – in eradicating prejudice, and creating opportunity, and the government I lead is committed to that effort.
And so I say yes, you are right, we are all right, to say Black Lives Matter; and to all those who have chosen to protest peacefully and who have insisted on social distancing – I say, yes of course I hear you, and I understand.’
But I don’t have to be the one who hears and understands, you get what I mean? So what is it that society hears and understands? What does Mr. Johnson hear and understand? How are we communicating what we want? And what do we want?”
R: “At this point it probably comes down to short-term plans. I think you mentioned this earlier, that the reason why people are listening now is that it’s impossible to ignore it. And this boils down to all sorts of people, not only openly racist ones. The world is full of people who are not educated on these issues, because they have the privilege of ignoring them. I remember talking a couple of weeks ago to someone who lives in Tulsa and had never heard of the Greenwood Massacre. And what really upsets me is that somehow the burden of this education falls back on the shoulders of oppressed people. We not only have to fight for our survival and rights, but we need to educate, and offer solutions, and do the job our country should be doing for us.”
N: “You know, history has been… is full of people that have stood up and said “This is not right.” There have been injustices across our society against people of all minorities… but it’s slightly different I feel, when it comes to the subject of race. There are certain atrocities that have happened in the world that led to the general consensus that we don’t want these things to happen again.
We remember those crimes committed, we commemorate those times. We have anniversaries and rightly so, because when something awful happens that affects the entire world, that serves as a reminder of how we don’t want things to be. And not only wars, also accidents like Chernobyl… These tragedies are imprinted in our minds and we commemorate and remember the lives that were lost.
But all throughout history we’ve had people like Claudette Colvin, then just months afterwards Rosa Parks, and then Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, and even on our own shores here in the UK we have amazing activists like Olive Morris, all people who have picked up the baton and taken up that fight because it’s still not where it needs to be. So why is that when we discuss something as atrocious as slavery, we don’t want to remember it? Why is society allowed to not acknowledge it to the point that some people don’t even believe that it happened? And that’s oppression that’s happening today?”
R: “The thing is, since the dialogue has been open for so long, do you think this might be an actual turning point?”
N: “I think now we have this very peculiar moment where these deaths aren’t perceived as isolated incidents anymore. Of course, these things aren’t just happening all of a sudden but they’re being filmed and shared across the world for people to see, they’re literally in your face now. You can’t just ignore it anymore because it’s been thrown out there. That’s the only difference with what has happened throughout history. So now that we have this global recognition, how do we turn this momentum into action, how do we keep this going?”
R: “I genuinely hope that’s a rhetorical question because I’m pretty sure I’m not equipped to answer.” Our laughs serve as a short break, but the tension is still in the air. That sense of restlessness and lingering resentment. Natasha almost immediately breaks the silence again, leaning on the table.
N: “But that doesn’t mean we need to do forever and ever and ever. That my generation and every generation after mine will still be fighting the same fight for rights, waiting for Black people to be treated as equals. I don’t think it’s feasible to think we will be continuing this on for however many generations. But how do we keep the dialogue open but also make those changes, and how do we articulate those changes, what is it that we really want to happen on the back of this? The opportunity is now because we have the attention of the world that we probably didn’t have before. But what do we do with that? Where does that change begin?”
R: “I can definitely see what you mean. Fighting is exhausting, even more if it goes nowhere. And we cannot rely exclusively on the people fighting, they shouldn’t be the only ones pressing for change. Our society needs to move past that, we need to make sure all people have a seat at the table, and we need to be willing to give those voices space.”
N:“I think the more we discuss the more we circle back to that, and what I’ve noticed is that as Black people we’re having to validate ourselves in society, we’re having to justify our place in the world. We’re here on condition, we’re only allowed to walk down the street and not be attacked or be murdered on condition which is ridiculous. And that condition is that we’re being peaceful and productive and that we’re the ones pressing for integration. And I find that with everything that’s been happening lately, people are now looking into Black people and our history almost trying to find a reason not to kill us.
It feels like people are becoming more aware, which is an amazing thing, but it’s also sad, because everyone should already be aware of how we contribute to the countries we live in, we’re born in. It’s not just about Windrush, it’s not just about coming here to rebuild the country. It’s our continuous contribution to the country. A country that effectively doesn’t care. And we have to prove ourselves in a way that our white counterparts don’t. They don’t have to prove themselves in the same way that we do.
I was born in this country. I’ve only ever lived in this country. And people will say: if you don’t like it here, then leave. This is my country, why should I leave it? If a white person doesn’t like something about their country, no one tells them to leave. And this happens on national TV as well, I remember watching an interview on TV and a journalist making that comment, and they weren’t even upset, it sounded like they were legitimately offering a solution rather than making a racist remark. And these things are not challenged: why aren’t we challenging them? And how do we challenge them, how do we change those things?
For me, I think it's the lack of education, of knowledge. Because we got to a point where people are racists and don’t realise that”.
R: “That’s something I’ve noticed as well. For years I’ve been one of those well-intentioned racists as well. I didn’t know better, and I didn’t have any way to learn more about it. We didn’t study anything about Black people in schools apart from slavery, and looking back I’m… I was about to say surprised, but that’s probably not the right term. Black people have had a longer history than white people, but if you read any textbook it looks like your story started with slavery and colonialism.”
N: “I think that education really has to start in schools. I remember finding out about Black Tudors, and being so upset. Did you know there were Black Tudors? I didn’t. It’s disheartening because especially as a child you look for those people who look like you and…”
R: “…And you only see them as slaves. Yeah.”
She sighs and rubs her forehead, holding the cigarette painfully close to her skin.
N: “It’s so hard because there are so many things that are ingrained, institutionalised, embedded so deep that I honestly believe that the majority of white people don’t even realise that, they just don’t realise how embedded prejudice is. I’m sure there’s tons of people watching the news and going: bloody hell, what? Are Black people still being… really?
That’s just naïve. Yes, it is still happening. Really. We are still fighting this same fight. But the difference is, there hasn’t been a turning point for this subject matter. We have these things happening in our society that serve as a purpose, as a reminder of things we don’t want to repeat, but I don’t feel racism is one of them. That’s still happening.”
And then again. Silence. A couple of sighs, hard to tell if our eyes are red from the sweat pouring from our foreheads, or if tears are building up. It’s hard not to feel like our conversation shouldn’t even be happening.
R: “It reminds me of abusive relationships.” Of course, this chat couldn’t end without one of my hot takes. “You love your country, and you’re invested. Emotionally, physically. And then when the gaslighting starts, you struggle to voice your concerns. You fight the first, the second time, but then you start thinking you might be the one who’s wrong. You look around and no one has similar relationships, no one has issues. You talk to your friends and they all defend your partner, you know. He’s a great person, successful, kind. You’re the only one seeing something wrong in him. And, slowly, you resign yourself to the idea you might be wrong, and you stop seeing the arguments as a warning sign until you find yourself in danger. Because that’s how they manipulate the narrative, they isolate you, make you feel unwanted and not welcome, blame you, but you get so used to it you keep coming back. And that’s the same when it comes to the red flags, you know. Most people don’t notice them because they don’t know what to look out for. And we are used to looking at intentions over actions… at least until those actions are against us. But well-intentioned people are allowed to commit atrocities. We have people excusing police brutality, excusing killing people in their sleep saying that was self-defence.”
N: “Yeah. I think education is definitely a big thing. And I think that…”
She shakes her head. “It’s so difficult. It’s so so difficult. Even just sitting here thinking about it, my mind is racing and going over all these things… it’s overwhelming how embedded racism is. How hard it is to imagine what an alternative looks like. I think a lot of people are struggling with the idea that we were invited here, specifically talking about the Windrush scandal, and therefore we’re ‘guests’. But all those people already felt British, they were British citizens because those countries, those colonies belonged to the British Empire. We’ve never been ‘guests’.
Scotland is going to be the first country to include LGBTQ+ studies in the curriculum, which is amazing. But also, and I’m saying this as a Black queer woman, why wouldn’t you include, or even have in the first instance, Black history.
And I don’t even like the term Black history, it’s just history, we’re just as much a part of history as everyone else. This is still segregation, when you make those separations. Something as global and universal as history becomes ‘regular’ history and ‘Black’ history. It’s still ‘them’ and ‘us’.
But it would be interesting to see how many families and parents would be ok with that. Would there be the same backlash, the same outcries that occurred when they tried to introduce LGBTQ+ discussions in that primary school in Birmingham?
And who would teach those classes? Hypothetically speaking, let’s say history, all history, including the Black part, is now an official part of the curriculum. Congrats UK, you’re now a civilised country. Would it still make sense if that was being taught by a white person? This is the issue, it’s not even remotely enough to say “we want Black history taught in schools” or “we want a police reform” or “we want equality” because there aren’t concrete plans that would make that viable. How does that work? Do you have two history classes? Do you arrange extra exams? Do we retrain all teachers? And who trains them? What are we asking? What do we want? Because, unfortunately, whatever it is, we’re going to have to work hard for it. We’re going to have to basically spoon-feed what it is. Everything needs to be thought thoroughly.
But could there be a potential domino effect? If we’ve made that change and that’s included in the curriculum, would it allow for more Black people to go into teaching? Because here’s the thing, we would feel more represented and what’s been taught is about us, about our history. So, could we see more Black people going into schools and teaching, maybe not even history? Because that’s what drives us, that sense of belonging.”
R: “I believe ultimately that’s what BLM is about. It was the same for me when I found my community. It gets extremely tiring when you’re fighting alone. You need to feel welcome, to feel represented. I remember mentioning the first time seeing a trans person in a movie was ‘Boys don’t cry’, and there is something incredibly unsettling in being only represented through violence. There is something grim in having representation as only a series of obituaries. You want to feel safe, and you can only feel safe if you see people like you who are there, who are thriving, who are excelling.”
N: "Yes, that’s the biggest thing, that sense of belonging. Because right now everything is saying we don’t belong, we’re not worthy, we’re expendable. We’re nothing, we are less than ‘them’. You made a reference to politics working like an abusive relationship, but you know, before that relationship turns south there’s that honeymoon phase, when things work and progress.
There’s that moment when you get to know that person, and know they have a house and a job, and you decide to move there and go live with that person. When you’re at home, the one thing that makes you comfortable is having your things around you. Even if two people share a home, it’s just that feeling of warmth that comes from knowing you have a certain part of the wardrobe or you can put pictures up. So then you see yourself in that house, living in that home. It represents you and because you see those things, you feel like that’s your home as well.
Essentially, we are the partner. The new partner that has been told to move in. And we left our flat, our home, we gave it up, to move in. And there’s nothing that ties you to that place yet, but you have just walked in so that’s fine. You just have to find your way and settle in, it takes time, it’s a process.
And then you shyly ask ‘Would that be alright if I put that picture there?’ and they just go like ‘Well... put it over there instead’. And you go ‘Oh, ok’ but you still feel happy because you have a picture there now, you start feeling a bit more like that house belongs to you as well. It wasn’t where you wanted it, but the picture is on a wall. You’ve been placated and we’ve been placated with things like ‘World food’ aisles in supermarkets, like having certain pockets of society that are ‘black areas’. We’re allowed to have shops for our ‘Black food’, salons for our ‘Black hair’. And then you add a few more things along the way, but you’ve been living for a while now, and you just go ‘Look, I just want this here now. There’s this vase, my Nana gave it to me, I just want to put it here’. And you’re told ‘no’.
And it gets to the point where you’re years and years in, and you are somewhat integrated now, but the other person starts getting a bit anxious about you being there. But they’re reluctant to kick you out, because you’re contributing to the household. So what’s the alternative? They make it difficult for you to live there. They make it hard for you to feel comfortable. You want to have friends over, but they won’t allow you to. They say ‘why don’t you go to their house instead’ and you are tired of fighting and you just go there.
It’s that slope, that slippery slope that you are now on and they make it harder and harder for you to live there. And you start being overwhelmed with resentment, because you don’t understand what you did wrong, you don’t understand why this person is treating you like that, so you try to fight back and ask ‘what’s going on?’.
And then there’s a massive argument and you get hit. And you’re shocked and you’re appalled. But the person is sorry, they’re stressed, they had a hard day, so you just say ‘ok, I understand’. But then it happens again and again and again, and you make excuses, you make a lot of excuses, because they come home and bring you gifts and tell you they love you. And you think ‘Oh my God, they care’ and you forget that they kicked you and pushed you down the stairs two days before, because they make you think maybe you misjudged them. And there’s more beatings and more arguments and you fight back and talk to your friends, until you find friends who tell you: ‘Listen, that’s not ok.’
But then they lose their job, so now you need to provide for them again, you can’t leave. So you stay and you put up with the insults, the rage of being out of work, the resentment. They resent you’re the one who’s still got a job, even if you’re paying their bills. But you make allowances because this is now your home, and this is now your life, and you can’t leave. Where would you go? You still blame yourself and you don’t have the strength to pick yourself up and start again. So you stay. And you keep repeating yourself ‘it’s not that bad’.”
I look at my mobile, running out of battery. The sunset is still far, but it feels like we’ve been talking for days. It feels like it could be the middle of the night and the conversation would still feel as heavy, as secretive. I feel like we shouldn’t be talking about that. But maybe that’s not how we’re supposed to feel.
R: “But it is bad, isn’t it?”
I ask under my breath, pulling my t-shirt now stuck to my body. The heat makes me feel like I’m suffocating. Or maybe it’s not the heat.
N: “Yeah because you keep reassuring yourself everything’s fine. Fighting is hard, it’s easier to close your eyes. Until the next argument. Until the next kick. Until the next fight. And then you get put in a hospital. And you nearly die. And you honestly think and realise that person was trying to kill you. So, what do you do then?”
R: “I don’t know. What do you do?”
We both sigh. I put the phone in my pocket, the screen is now dark.
R: “We should probably write that article, someday.”
N: “What was the pitch?”
R: “What happens now?”
N: “Right. What happens now?”
Writers in conversation:
Ramses Oliva
In addition to working 9-5, Ramses can't seem to stop writing, even if it means scribbling on a notebook overnight. He's a trans activist who loves talking about queer identities, diversity and art. He is co-host of the brand-new podcast "Punching the Wall" and you can find him posting overpriced selfies on Instagram at @queer.discart.
Natasha Pierre-Louis
My name is Natasha. I live in East London with my amazing 17-year-old daughter, who simultaneously manages to keep me young and age me. I work for Levi Strauss as the Training & Admin Manager. I am also the founder of WMNKIND™ a community for Women and Young Girls and co-host of the brand-new podcast "Punching the Wall". I have always written but have never considered myself as a writer. But maybe, just maybe my English teachers were right…