solipopschreibt

[solipopschreibt]

Where Does It Start?

Yes, when does it end, but... Where does it start? When I was little, I would always say I never wanted to go to a petting zoo, because I knew how the animals felt. Of course I did not mean it as a political statement – I was six – but as I keep exclaiming in seemingly never-ending discussions: Everything is political. People were touching my hair all over the proverbial shop and I could empathise with those cute goats and sheep who had probably never asked to be put in a pen for other people's entertainment. Read that again. I could empathise with goats. Maybe that is where that love affair started, so I cannot say I am entirely sorry for it, but in that “harmless”, as people like to qualify it, question of “can I touch your hair” – or worse and way too commonly, them just doing it, they are making six- year-olds feel like goats. Again, I adore goats, but I do not want to be one. I do not want to be seen as one. So that is why yes, it is racist to stroke my locks as a stranger, to ask if I can dance like that, to say you wish you had my skin. Honey, you do not. For one because then you could not afford to be so ignorant. I don't recall whether the pinkish crayon in my particular set was called “skin colour” (I preferred coloured pencils anyway) but I do distinctly remember never colouring in drawings of myself. Now this is not traumatic to me, in fact I am proud that at that age I found a solution that worked for me to be able to happily go on drawing, and I do not need anyone to now shove perfectly shaded pens in my face and apologise profusely for my lacking childhood, but I do need you to know that it does make a difference. Of course it does, how would it not?

Everything we do makes a difference, so we should try to be mindful of our actions. How do people understand and quote the butterfly effect on a universal macro-level but not that it will shape a person if they only realise at the age of twenty that plasters were supposed to match people's skin tones? This broadens into not believing that products could be tailored to actual people, because they were never tailored to all actual people. I think a while ago band-aid came out with a black and brown range (I tend to use animal prints, because when you are hurt, you might as well have something fun to cheer you up. But I have never had to blend into a corporate setting, or, for whatever personal reason wanted to choose a more natural-looking alternative) and Crayola have their “Colours of the World”-pack, I believe, so we are headed in the right direction. People are listening to Black and Brown folx when we tell them what does not work for us. Sometimes. If the press about it is big enough and they can stand to make money from it. But, I don't know, is it too much to dream of a world where the “norm”, as White people have somehow designated themselves, could try to consider these things before being called out? Like building wheelchair ramps (which, I am still appalled to notice, way too many places do not have) or adding Braille to lift buttons? And do you know what might help make decisions that serve diverse people? Having them there to make those decisions alongside you. That utopia is not forced diversity, it would be a mirror to actual society, it needs to be the future, and it is where the end to racism* starts.

*These streams of consciousness have been about racism, but obviously this also applies to sexism, homophobia, ableism, transphobia, fatphobia, etc. The bads of society, you know?

[solipopschreibt]

Angry Black Woman Too (The Invisible One)

I have always hated the stereotype of the Angry Black Woman. (Hello, Miss Congeniality Two.) But I am one. Even now, as I am sitting on my heavily throw- pillow inundated sofa with a vat of Birchermüsli, watching Sex And The City – or, for short, being White as fuck – I still have these permanently furious, Hulk-type parts of me, that in best Banner manner I try to control. Almost forgetting that I have a right to be angry.

I am excellently assimilated. There is no telling how much power I could have harnessed from my “roots”, had I not been more intent on being more eloquent than anyone who could ever aim to criticise me. In two languages. I am only now learning to embrace the part of me most people see first. I might even try and learn to cook Yoruba dishes that never seemed as elegant as prettily twirled pasta, though elevens on the taste-scale. Now do not misunderstand: languages (and, honestly, Italian cuisine) are a huge part of me and I am grateful, but in always running after White approval, wanting to be “One of the Good Ones” so many of us have learned from white supremacists to reject Black culture. What this ends up making a lot of multiracial people or post second generation “immigrants” feel is simply neither White, nor POC enough.

So again, I've kept quiet. “Let's not make it about race, I've never even been to Africa”. This isn't about the emotional turmoil of seemingly split souls and the suggestion of having to choose “half”. That should be obvious to anyone ever having heard an introduction stating someone was half-something. Fuck that, I'm whole. This is about the cishet white patriarchy once again dividing people. Thusly silencing so many who like me never felt racism was “their conversation”. It obviously is, it should be everyone's. But realising that over-assimilating is just another symptom of the system is like that moment when Cady becomes aware that bringing down the Plastics from the inside does not work. We need a new system. One more fetch, some might say. One where I can complain to you in English about German schooling while frying up plantain that I got from the Asian market. Maybe along with some Okra. But before this deteriorates into a melting- pot food blogpost, I will as clearly as I can state this: the ways in which I have adopted Western Culture have made me who I am. The fact that aged seven I could handle my spices better than my forty-something aunt have made me who I am. Racism has made me who I am. Both suffered and inflicted. This is a huge privilege, and that has made me who I am. But none of those things should – or will ever again – make me invisible.

[solipopschreibt]

Why I Get Reni Eddo-Lodge No Longer Wanting to Speak to White People About Race

I'm mixed. White mum, Black dad – though I'm much closer to her. So I've mostly kept quiet about race, a mix between not wanting to make White people (or, honestly, the White parts of me) uncomfortable, not wanting to make conversations about myself, but also often not feeling like I had that much to add. Racism is bad, we all know that, right?

But I am realising it is not that simple. In the last few days alone I have had to hang up the phone over a conversation that essentially boiled down to “prejudice against blonde women versus systemic racism” and my mobile pretty much self- combusting toward the end of a WhatApp battle of art against human rights. These were some of the people closest to me, people to whom I would have never guessed I would have to explain systemic racism. But I guess this is my own fault for not having shouted about Black rights like I always do about feminism or LGBTQIA+ issues. (Which obviously are all interconnected, but I suppose I just always assumed anti-racism was the clearest cut issue out of these...)

So now I am massively disappointed and emotionally exhausted because while I feel I could empathise with their points – person A was attacked by someone with a preference for blondes; yes there are stereotypes; yes there are “blondes are dumb”-”jokes”/ I am with person B about the arts being some of the most wonderful parts of human existence and integral to cultural dialogue – I just cannot agree that they trump, or honestly even come close to the fight fo human equality. While it is terrible to make someone doubt their intelligence based on their natural hair colour, hundreds of thousands of people still aim to copy it, there is literally a (seminal) feature film (plus sequel and magnificent musical) called Legally Blonde (help me, Elle Woods!) challenging those exact clichés, and I'm pretty sure any superficial prejudice stems from jealousy over them having won the “genetics jackpot”. Plus you won't have a harder time looking for a job (on paper), finding a place to live, or seeing variations of people looking like yourself in mainstream media. Just on Friends alone there are arguably three main blondes: In a pinch Rachel could pass for ditsy because of her spoiledness (though she is clearly good and taken seriously enough at her job to rise fairly quickly), Phoebe is certainly smart, streetsmart even, and the only fault in Carol could be not realising her sexuality sooner (spoiler alert?), but I'm hoping we all know that has nothing to do with intellect.

So no. I do not agree that a few pages of blonde-jokes – while unoriginal and morally faulty – could even begin to be equated with perpetually being seen as lesser than, to the point of being shipped for sale, being put in zoos (yup.), being segregated, having “inspired” parts of sexism, trans- and fat-phobia, as well as countless more instances of “othering”. And, touching back on the other recent conversation that gave me palpitations, I do not believe objects to be more important than messages being sent pertaining to human rights. No matter their cultural significance. Museums should not be showing pillaged art. Having the audacity to make the vitctims' heirs pay for it in entrance fees or tax subsidies. When they say that the most important thing is that these items are seen, what they are also saying is (and if you need the emotionality, imagine them telling this to a little Black girl on a school trip with mostly White staff in front of mostly White classmates) “it's okay for your ancestors to have been raped, murdered, and/or sold, because look, we got this vase out of it to represent the culture that would still be thriving without us.” Pay for it. If anyone even thinks about asking for it back, get out your bubble wrap. You do not get to profit off a culture if you are incapable of respecting its people. What is most frustrating about these types of conversations is that they are had with people who should truly know better. They have in some ways been marginalised, so I empathise with wanting to run away from the possibility (translation: fact) of having participated in a system that does onto others as they do not want to have done to them. I empathise, but I do not exculpate it. Grow up, as we all have to. Own your mistakes and learn from them. Try to be better, maybe even without someone having to shout it at you. Want to be better.

Is that understandable? Am I excused from having to yell these kinds of facts into whichever electronic device is at that moment being used to push me to my limits? At least for a little while? Well, I will be taking a nap while my lazy Black arse an I are under deliberation, call us when you're ready.

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt auch manchmal weniger quatschiges, wie letztes Jahr, als ich versuchte, einen taz-Gastkommentar zu landen.

Nicht unberechtigt, dass das hier nicht genommen wurde, aber ich hab’s trotzdem mal ausgekramt.

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Poskarten (und ist mit dem Bildlayout immer noch unzufrieden.)

Station Sieben - Mallorca (Cala D'Or und Palma)

Bildbeschreibungen:

1&2: Das schafft Ihr auch selbst, oder?

3: Bild, das an Tag eins verwendet wurde, um Nichtverreiste neidisch zu machen

4: Bild, was ich besser verwendet hätte, um Nichtverreiste neidisch zu machen

5: Schildi

6: Frühstück

7: Fischi-Pedi (Das Kleid war zu weit runter gerutscht)

8: Baum vor Angelas und Tonis Hotel, der aussieht wie ein Hundekopf

9: Laden in Cala Ferrera

10: Gastgeschenk für Mrcy, der mich in Palma aufgenommen hat

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten

Station sechs - Wien!

Kurz und knapp.

Die Weiterreise nach Mallorca? Weder kurz, noch knapp. Aber tiefgekühlt.

(Bild 9: Abends in Barcelona. Ich war da. Mit Edding.)

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten

Station fünf - Budapest, Photostrecke Teil zwei.

Beschreibungen:

1: Ratet mal, was mein Ohrwurm des Tages gewesen sein könnte

2: Es hat einige Versuche gebraucht bis ich weit genug weg war, um das ganze Ding einzufangen

3: Wo ich mich und mein Frühstück anherbsten ließ

4: Sä Kettenbrücke, so ich denn nicht irre

5: Eine Skulptur, vermutlich lediglich als Selfiehintergrund geschaffen

6: Nein, ich hab mich nicht reingeschlichen

7: Der Blick aus der Gondel auf den Burgberg

8: Der Blick von einer der zahllosen Treppen, auf meinem Weg nach unten

9: Ich würd mal behaupten das sei ne Silhouette

10: Ich habe mich in semilegale, schwindelerregende und lebensgefährliche Höhen begeben, für dieses olle Panoramabild. Würdigt das! [Aber Jesus (schätze ich) stand mir bei]

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten

Station 5 - Budapest (Teil eins, ich habe Speicherplatz und Akku bis aufs letzte ausgereizt.)

Photobeschreibungen:

1: Extreme Postkarting

2: Erste Begrüßung am Bahnhof... Ich schätze der Lift geht nicht?

3: Leichte Krösus-Erscheinungen

4: Zebraelefantenpopo

5: Muss ich ja wohl nicht beschreiben, oder?

6: Blick aus meinem Hotelzimmer

7: Typisch ungarische Kost

8: Urban Hiking und Schieling

9: Das passiert, wenn man seine Ringuhr an nem sonnigen Tag trägt

10: Peace Out.

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten - wenn es denn welche gibt!! Bei Station vier, Liberec, war das nicht der Fall.

Nach Liberec bin ich eigentlich nur gefahren, weil ich es seit meinem letzten WWE-Lager nicht mehr gesehen hab. Ich wollte sentimental sein. Und das hat auch super geklappt! Ich bin zwar mit viel Gepäck, statt mit vielen ungeduldigen Jugendlichen angekommen, aber als ich zum großen Platz am Rathaus kam, hab ich mich genauso gefühlt, wie früher immer: sehr, sehr hungrig. Ansonsten sieht die Stadt exakt aus, wie früher, allerdings der McDonalds, in den wir damals alle reingerannt sind, als wäre uns Gold versprochen worden (als welches die Pommes bei uns fast durchgegangen wären), IST KEINER MEHR! Was entweder bedeutet, dass die Stadt sich weiter entwickelt und eine eigene Esskultur an der Stelle aufbauen möchte, oder aber eben nicht, sodass sogar der gruseligste Clown der Weltgeschichte (inklusive ES) dieses Örtchen aufgegeben hat.

So oder so, ich hab mir dann Pizza geholt. Weniger erwartet, war aber freudig überrascht.

- Ich muss gleich auschecken, also Fortsetzung folgt!

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten Station drei!

Und ja, ich habe vor, die Karten noch abzutippen.

(Biere und Stettin'scher Öffner waren das Gastgeschenk.)

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten Teil zwei: Sczcecin/Stettin!

(Wenn Ihr gute Bilder wollt, fragt jemanden, der google heißt.)

[solipopschreibt]

Solipop schreibt Postkarten.

(hoffentlich in Zukunft besser.)

PS: Magic-Bahn hat es tatsächlich geschafft, dass ich alle Züge gekriegt hab und auf die Minute pünktlich ankam. Nix zu meckern. (Höchstens, dass ich deshalb nicht einfach erster Klasse fahren konnte.)