Race Archives - The Pure Life of Dreams

April 10, 2024October 3, 2024

Young, Barefoot, and Pregnant

She is thin and bony, young (like in early 20s), and she’s pregnant; and she’s my girlfriend although the baby is from her previous boyfriend.

We go out fairly regularly though sometimes we’ll stay in and paint the flat. Cans of white paint lie spread around, the walls are half done, but the step ladders are up and ready for us continue.

June 16, 2023June 17, 2023

Two Women, One a Smoker the Other a Drinker

I am in a bar with two couples some years younger than me, maybe in their twenties. They are hooked up already, one couple, one side of the booth, the other couple opposite; with me sitting on a chair, next to the second couple.

I fancy the platinum blonde with the long curly hair and would like to go out with her, especially now they talk about swapping partners.

She’s a drinker rather than a smoker, whereas as the other woman, her hair straight, shoulder length and dark copper, she smokes but does not drink.

They are all going to another bar, one that is a bit rough and dark, they say, even though it is raining outside. And when they get up to leave, the smoker pulls out a large green golf umbrella and I think to get mine too. Only I have to hurry back to my flat to get it.

I leave the couples waiting at the entrance, and on my way to my flat I call Ricky G to describe what’s going on and which woman I should hook up with.

Then on my return I pass by the White Resort, pass through the side alley where all the workers bustle about, behind the view of the patrons. To my right are the tall white columns of the front entrance, and as I walk side by side with a Hispanic worker wearing the white tunic from the resort, the alley gets darker. I explain to him that I am going to the rougher part of town, a black neighborhood where it isn’t so safe.

And then upon my return I see the couples are still waiting for me by the old bar. The blonde sees me, holds in one hand a flagon half filled with red wine, holds it up with a finger hooked through a small circular handle at the neck of the bottle.

“You have the same umbrella!” she says and indeed I have the same matching dark green golf umbrella.

The smoker peels off. “I have to get something first,” she says. And I suggest to go with her, because it is not safe.

Her hair is darker than I first thought and I go with her to a local supermarket, black owned, with dark wood paneling and an empty feel.

I follow her in as she walks through empty aisles with low wooden counters that would normally have goods for sale; until she arrives in a new room, at a corner where a black man closes in on her. The man hems her in between a brown wooden counter that lines the wall and another counter that stretches out perpendicular.

I see him adjust his shoes so that she cannot move, so that he can further close in on her.

I think he is going to threaten her but then she turns away from him where, the other side of the counter, sits another black man on a stool. He’s older with a greying Afro.

And in the bright voice of recognition she cries out to him. “Hello!”

Photo by Shima Abedinzade on Pixabay

May 4, 2022June 15, 2023

Jamal Ahmad was Shot Dead in the Age of Gentrification

I dream that I am crossing the road using the pedestrian bridge. It climbs high to clear the noisy traffic below and is all grey steel and yellow girders, clanging with my steps.

It was where Jamal Ahmad was shot dead. I have the magazine article about the unjust killing of a black man in my jacket pocket, rolled up .

There is menace in the air and a number of parades are scheduled for commemoration and protest.

As I exit the other end of the pedestrian bridge several black youths are coming the other way along the footpath. They climb the steps, and scatter; they push their way past me, and start to holler. I don’t know how to express sympathy without seeming churlish.

But I need to get back home, and so I take a short cut through the shopping mall. The back way cuts through a pub that is thick with smoke and the smell of day old booze. Wooden panels and TV screens; it looks like Celtic are playing, maybe with Rangers, but I can’t see the score.

I could have a drink. There is a full pint of lager on the counter in a tall glass, but I think better of it and exit the back way, through a corridor into the hotel. And the hotel is newly done up with bright yellow walls and black moldings. Sleek black furnishings, oversized leather couches and side tables are arranged across white tile.

As it is early in the morning only one half of the lobby is lit and the lights are still off on the far side. I remember when it used to be a department store; Marks and Sparks, 70s decor, long overdue for a refurbishment. Then I exit through the swing doors at the front and am back on the high street.

A parade is walking by in memory of the shooting. We gather by the side as the parade comes close. The parade occupies the width of the road and I want to take a photo but am not sure it is a good idea. Plus a very fat woman in grey track suit is in the front bearing down on us, and it won’t make for a good photo. Behind me I catch another bystander taking a photo so I turn back to the parade and snap one anyway.

The parade passes by me and at the end of the line is the coffin, white, close enough to touch, and held up by three men either side. I see only their hands grip the base and I feel my tears well up. But a black man comes up to me. I can’t tell whether he is about to threaten me.

“Yeah I know,” I say, but I don’t really know what to say and I start to cry. Another man dances past me, spiky Afro hair that springs as he moves.

“How’d he die? Did he get away before he fell?’ He asks to no one in particular.

And after the parade has gone by I cross the road; it marks the way home though I don’t recognize any of it. It has changed so much since I lived there.

I am lost but for an instant, when I see the Uxbridge Road. It is now a covered plaza, with sleek metal beams on the roof and on the road. It is a pedestrian only area, it looks nice, newly done; but it is still not clear where I am.

Looking in the other direction, there are more new buildings that I do not recognize. I turn the other way and around the north east corner, coming into view, is the old St. Peter’s church. That’s the way.

At least old buildings can’t be got rid of so easily. And can help you navigate the way.

Photo by Chad Davis via Flickr