The Dirty South (2 page)

I didn't really have a bad argument with my parents until I left school at sixteen. Paps was vex at the time, waving his walking stick in my face telling me ‘education is the key', trying to convince me to go college. He's always told me that education is the key phrase as far back as I can remember. I can recall Paps introducing me to this one-eyed rastaman. Jah Nelson his name was, and he tried to give me some extra black history lessons. He was around for over two years in my early days. I can't remember what he taught me but I definitely remember his face scaring the fuck out of me.

‘Education is the key, education is the key': that was Paps' mantra. I'm sick to death of it now. I felt like hitting him many a time but how can you strike a man who you have seen almost every day of your life struggling up the stairs? Clump, scrape, clump. Clump, scrape, clump. It was proper embarrassing when friends were around. He's stubborn too. If you asked him if he needed help he would put on his screw you face. I hate to admit it now but there were a few times when I wished he would fall down those
motherfucking stairs. Mind you, we had some deep pile carpet on those steps so that would have cushioned any blows.

Life was comfortable growing up. I always got the Nike trainers I wanted, which was the important thing and I didn't have to queue up with the free dinner ghetto kids at school. If there was a film I wanted to see at the cinema I didn't have to wait outside the side door at the Streatham Odeon with the rest of the ghetto brothers to be let in.

And we had Sky TV. Schoolmates, whose parents couldn't even afford a TV licence, would come around to my gates after school and we'd sit on my couch watching Puff Daddy videos on MTV Base and all the fit gyrating chicks in them while we killed out all the crisps Mum bought for the month. We fantasized about wearing heavy gold chains and fur coats and driving them rides that bounce up and down on road. That was the bomb.

It was about that same time I stopped having white friends. Nothing racial about it. It's just that we have different musical tastes. Most of them like Oasis, Coldplay and shit like that, you know, music that don't require getting up and dancing to and instead they'll do that air guitar fuckery. We like R&B, hip hop and dancehall reggae. One or two other white brothers liked that shit too but it wasn't cool to hang with them. The fact of the matter is that most white brothers I know can't dance, just like most black brothers I know can't swim too good. Simple as. When I left school I might nod to a white brother in the street who I knew from school days but up to the time I was sentenced I didn't have any white bredrens. So burn the mayor's theory of a cool London multicultural society. It ain't real.

During my growing-up years Paps made me go on family trips to museums, castles, sites of historical interest, all that shit. My paps said it was good for my education… It bored me senseless but my sister, Davinia, lapped it up though. She's three years younger than me and was a proper Lisa Simpson from the day she was born. I would get excited by a new bike and Davinia would get all overcome like when my parents bought the entire World Book
Catalogue. When I had no homework to do my parents would suggest reading through book ‘A'. Burn those books!

School was boring. Never had no problem with the work. The teacher would tell the class what to do and I would be finished within ten minutes or so. Then I would have to wait for some of those no-brain ghetto kids who didn't even know how to spell their own fucking name. They would sit at the back of the class with their stressed-out mentors, wondering what the fuck they let themselves in for while their charges were trying to string a sentence together. Dumb as shit they were. The funny thing was that the parents of the dumb fuckers were the first to come to the school and cuss the headteacher about being a racist and how their little darlings were not getting on 'cos of being black, but the same ignorant parents didn't give a shit about their little darlings doing homework…

While I was waiting for the idiots to complete a task, I would create a bit of mischief, start an argument or something, swapping insults about our mothers. Every kid did this to test how far could you go, how much could you tolerate before switching… Now and again, kids switched big time. Geoffrey Allen, a fat West Indian boy in my class, was brushed about his weight by Kole, this African kid. There was always beef between Jamaican kids and Nigerian kids. I didn't like the way Nigerians would go on all superior.

‘Geoffrey, you're fat like a footballer's wife shopping bag. How you get so fat, man?'

‘ 'Cos every time I fuck your scar-faced, bruised-legged, droopytitty mum she gives me a fried dumpling.'

Kole proper switched. Leaping on Geoffrey, kicking him, punching him while tears were running down his face. The rest of us collapsed in laughter. Geoffrey always had lyrics but then he had to have lyrics. He was fat and butt ugly.

The only part all the boys loved was Games. In my first year at secondary school, during the warmer months, our teacher, Ms Trevor, took us in the school van to Tooting Bec Athletic track. We threw the javelin at each other, tried to drop the shot on people's toes, see if we could piss in the long jump pit from the jumping
board, hit each other with hurdles and ripped the shit out of other kids who went to better schools; given half the chance we would jack them too. And it was at Tooting Bec Athletic track where I first saw my life's obsession. It was like me sitting and chilling watching one of those MTV Base videos and all of a sudden one of the chicks just climbed out of the TV.

I was strangling a bredren with a tape measure when my MTV video queen burned past us like some rapid shit in a PlayStation game. I relaxed my grip around my friend's throat and just watched her. She must have done two laps before she rested on the grass near the track. Her hair was in long plaits, decorated with red, gold and green ribbons. She was taking in deep breaths and she was wearing this blue Nike tracksuit. She had this elegance about her, even when she ran. She wasn't muscular but petite and slim. She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen and I wanted to pack her away in my kit bag and take her home. She's gonna be my girl, I said to myself.

So every Friday afternoon for two years I picked a spot near the finishing line of the track just to see her run by. I would pretend I was performing warm-up exercises but really I was watching her every move, every step, every stretch. Even if I didn't attend school on a Friday I would still make my way down the track just to see her. In all this time she never once noticed me or acknowledged me. I found out from another boy that her name was Akeisha Parris. And that her PE teacher reckoned that one day she would run for her country. And judging by the determination on her face you had to believe it.

One time, watching Akeisha compete in a 800-metre race, I saw something drop from her wrist… She went straight on to the changing rooms and when I was sure she wouldn't come out, I went to see what had dropped off her arm. It was a simple wooden bangle, with a gap of about two inches from either end. It was neatly made and carved on it was the head of a lion, a pyramid, a bird with a long tail and the word ‘love'. It was smooth all the way round, warm to the touch… I closed my eyes and imagined Akeisha's pulse vibrating through it. I then pulled it on. It was tight to my wrist and the gap of two inches was now three.

I knew I should have waited for Akeisha to come out so I could give it back to her but I wanted it for myself. I may have been too scared to talk to her but at least I had something of hers. So I took the wristlet home, cleaned it and polished it. The next day I even took it to school and instead of paying attention to the teacher in woodwork class, I sandpapered my bangle to make it even more smooth. I then gave it a light varnish and I remember the teacher was all shocked-like to see me fixing up a piece of wood. At home I placed it at the bottom of my wardrobe underneath the sheets and blankets. In private I would take it out now and again to look at it, thinking of her.

In my third year at secondary, Akeisha disappeared from the Tooting Bec track. I asked one of the groundsmen if she came on a different day but no, he hadn't seen her since last summer term. This news really distressed me 'cos my highlight of the week was watching my video queen run. On weekends I took a bus to the track and hung around for a few hours just to see if she would come. She never did. Some might say it's a bit over the top if a fourteen-year-old is suffering from depression but I really was. Mum and Paps didn't have a clue what was wrong with me as I spent sulky evenings up in my bedroom. I would take out my bracelet and look at it for hours, trying to picture Akeisha running around the track, red, gold and green ribbons flying out behind her. This went on for weeks but slowly the memory faded and the bangle remained at the bottom of my wardrobe.

Apart from Games, English was my favourite subject at school. Only because of the teacher Miss Blaine. Fit she was. She had a Hollywood eye candy thing going on and I liked the way that no matter what sweater, blouse or top she wore, you could see her nipples poking through. All the brothers behaved in her class and I reckon quite a few bishops were choked in the boys' toilets after her lessons. I noticed that she read black fiction, writers like Iceberg Slim and Chester Himes. She told me once she liked listening to R. Kelly and Usher. She even told me she always went to the Notting Hill Carnival. I guessed she was into black men so at every opportunity I eyed her up, staring at her breasts, her behind, into
her eyes and I didn't care if she caught me. She would blush and turn away… I wanted to give her a wok so bad it hurt.

In one of Miss Blaine's lessons we had to do some shit about
Romeo and Juliet
… I wrote a piece about a black man going out with a white woman in 1970s Brixton… It was the only homework I ever did that took me more than an hour. I even asked Mum and Paps to help out and they told me what it was like for mix-raced couples back in the day. Miss Blaine loved it. She even wanted to type it out and display my story outside the Head of English office. Burn that idea. I just wanted to give her a wok. Not that I had given any girl a wok up to that point in my life, though I had had untold wet dreams about Akeisha Parris.

My chance came when I asked her if I could borrow one of her books to take home and read. She told me to wait behind after class and I sat through the entire lesson with an erection. When everyone filed out I remained seated at my desk. She was rubbing out instructions on her white marker board and for a minute or so, I just watched her shapely behind doing this Beyoncé thing in her smart black slacks as she erased away. She went to the storeroom to put away some papers and text books. I followed her in and stood behind her not quite knowing what to do. She turned around and smiled. ‘Can't you be patient, Dennis. I'll be with you in a minute.'

I just stared deep into her brown eyes feeling uneasy about my first move. I didn't know how to kiss so I kind of raised my hands and touched her breasts… Or I should say brushed her breasts. I was still peering into her eyes. She then turned around, her back facing me. She kicked the door closed, took hold of my hands and firmly placed them on her breasts. I couldn't believe what was happening. I kinda squeezed and groped for the next minute or so until she grabbed my right hand and placed it between her crotch. I wasn't really doing anything. She was moving my hand up and down and I could sense her growing excitement. I freaked and ran out of the cupboard.

When I got home that evening I took out my bangle from the bottom of my wardrobe, looked at it and then wiped the dust off
it. I closed my eyes and saw Akeisha Parris running around the bend, her balance immaculate, her speed impressive and that gritty determination showing itself upon her face. Would I ever see Akeisha again? Where am I gonna put my face when I'm in Miss Blaine's lesson? Why did you run out, Dennis? You pussy! Got to see Akeisha again. Maybe she'll like that rubbing the crotch shit? I just wanted to see her so bad. Maybe I could just hang out by her school but what would I say if I saw her?

When I look back on the store cupboard shit with Miss Blaine in the store-room, it was one of the best and worst of my life. The worst 'cos I didn't have that experience with Akeisha. The best 'cos that was my first sexual experience. It could have been a dream for a fifteen-year-old boy, but I didn't get to give her a wok. I never told no-one about it 'cos I knew she would get into trouble. It only happened once and following the incident she hardly acknowledged me, refusing to return my stares… So I started to make trouble in her class, throwing things around and flinging books in the bin. She ignored me. I even started a fight with this Arab kid but she went and got help from another teacher and she blamed me more than the Arab brother. That really fucked me off. Because of all this shit, my written work for her suffered. She didn't say much, she simply marked my work with C pluses and Bs instead of the As I had been getting. Thinking about it, I haven't enjoyed English since – not until I started writing this at least.

At the end of that term, Miss Blaine left our school. I think she moved to somewhere like Guildford and taught there. Burn Guildford. When I think about it though, what bright young talented teacher with ambitions is gonna want to teach in a Bricky school? I wouldn't.

At this point I could just about get on with my life without Akeisha's buff self invading my mind. But there were moments when she was there in my head and I could do nothing about it. She would pop into my head when Mum was asking me how was school today or when Paps was telling me about some weird book that I should read… She was always there when bredrens chatted about busting their virginity and whenever I flicked through the pages of
porn mags. Sometimes I would just ‘surrender' to the bangle and take it out, giving it a clean and simply look at it for longer than was sane. It was as if my video queen was forever performing her shit in my brain.