O-street-ised
O-street-ised
verb
past tense: ostracised; past participle: ostracised
excluded from a society or group.
"Rossington Street" is announced over the tannoy as the bus pulls to a halt. As the doors slowly open with the sound of the hydraulic hiss and the echoing steady beeps, a patter of Jewish kids scramble to be the first to disembark. They are followed closely by the college kid taking off his student card that is swinging from a bright yellow lanyard. He puts it in the front of his bag without looking, he does it with ease, like it is routine before bouncing onto the pavement. As both doors fully open, more people exit the bus, some gently holding the assistant rails as they alight on the right while others pour frantically out onto the pavement from the left, oblivious to their frail fellow travellers. Everybody seems to be in the same direction, crossing path, eager to get ahead of each other; they are all are moving towards the direction of Clapton station, passing the two pharmacies that face each other on either side of the traffic lights, vying for trade. Perhaps the mass are heading to towards one of two barbers, the mobile phone shop, the Chinese takeaway, the newsagent or maybe the gentrified coffee shop that looks directly at the Tesco Metro partially hidden behind a large number of delivery crates carefully stored alongside the shop front. Everyone is walking back on themselves, away from Rossington street and the guy with unkempt clothes who is a permanent fixture smoking in the doorway of the Ladbrokes situated on the corner. Adjacent to the illuminating Ladbrokes sign sits an old and rusty signpost displaying the N.E postcode and ode to early Hackney. This antique sits proudly in line with the bus’s upper deck and with the backdrop of Clapton's Northword Estate.
As the main road curves to the right, the prominent structure of the concrete bricks and perfectly aligned double glazing bares its head, windows beautifully stacked on top of each other, identically side by side. The bus pulls away, as a woman with a crutch hobbles through the cigarette smoke into the Ladbrokes arched shopfront. She kindly greets the smoking character as she approaches the door . The man takes a pull from his cigarette and then scrambles to open the door for the woman, the nicotine hit seemingly reminding him of the gentlemanly thing to do. Holding it open with the back of his foot and leaning forward with his cigarette he blows more smoke as the woman skirts around him and into the shop. She raises her hand to the regulars as soon as she enters as if they are her welcome party. The guy throws his cigarette butt, steps into the shop and squeezes past the women and disappears out of view, while the women continues to navigate through the shop on her crutches. As the roar of the bus settles, Rossington street's noise amplifies; the clang of mechanic’s tools on metal emanating from the garage, merging with the muffled voices of street slang and swearing from a group of males gathering just past it. The group commandeer the pavement that leads to each of the four-floored council buildings.
I turn and walk down the street. The black, white and greyscale apparel seen from the group seems to coordinate with the faded black and worn tarmac of the pavement. The matching grey kerb and the small sports branded logo embroidered into their jackets and tracksuits become more evident as I approach. It is impossible to pass the collective without having to walk on the road. The parked cars on the street make it even more difficult to navigate. The mechanic’s work spills onto the road and pavement. The vehicles, all severely damaged, raised on jacks, in need of new tyres and windscreen repairs, line both sides of the road. The mechanic shifts from roadside to pavement avoiding pedestrians and passing vehicles as the men joke around, roll spliffs and pass them about.
I start to veer right after passing the mechanic’s oil-covered cloths and the tools he has placed on the pavement to walk on the road. The group start to part on either side of the pavement with a burst of boisterous laughter; there’s now an opening in the circle for me to pass. My plan of action to avoid intruding the circle is soon destroyed; roaring announces that a car is approaching occupying my intended path. I relent and veer back onto the pavement.
As I approach, the laughter subsides. The large movements I witnessed beforehand have now transformed into subtle gazes exchanged between each other and back on to me. I continue to walk straight, deep into the group. The males now stand affirmed cautiously relinquishing their territory, motionless on either side of the pavement leaning against the cars and the wall as I walk through what feels likes a tunnel of judgment. The group is suddenly quiet. Each of the men seem intent on figuring out if they have seen me before, trying to place a name to a face, analysing my body, posture and clothes, from the shoes on my feet to the hair on my head. As the last two males disappear from my peripheral vision, another car breaks the awkward silence in the air, this time coming from behind me and pulling up just in front to make way for oncoming traffic. I continue to walk further down the road, slowly but fast enough to catch up to the car. As it pulls away, and the subtle noise from the main road returns, that's when I hear words, those words. Words echoing down down the road. They reach my ears and hit me: Batty Boy. It's a deep, elongated sound that vibrates off the walls resonating around each floor of the buildings in front of me. The reverberation seems to phonetically spell out their disgust. The sound encompasses me as I turn around to see where it came from. I'm frozen.
I’m frozen, yet everything carries on as usual, the mechanic in the background is too focused on his overhaul of the cars. The men glance back as only to acknowledge me for a millisecond before continuing to behave like adolescents just as they did when I was on the other side of them. The traffic continues to flow. I start to wonder if I was hearing things. I don't know what offended me more; the fact that nobody around seems to be alarmed, or the fact I've become a casualty of homophobia after living in this area for 15years? The flat I live in and love, bears witness and standing just as still as me. The tremor of the insult would have made its way to my mum's house situated 5mins away by now, I comprehend what's happening as my feet start to move from under me towards the group and I gear up for a confrontation. I used to see myself reflected in this community in Hackney, united by the varied saturations of skin tones . But as people continue their routines and act as if nothing has happened, I quickly realise that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. We are blatantly divided by diversity, Turkish, Indian, Polish, Brazilian. It's my problem. Nobody cares. As I stand solid and squared up to the group, the harsh reality hits. Today I stand alone. There is no such thing as a community on this side of Clapton, if so, where is it? Here communities stand separated and we just co-exist under this umbrella known as a borough. It is dead silent, the wild wild west standoff between all of us males, chest puffed, shoulders down and eyes engaged. "Who said it?" I posture slightly shrugging as if to inadvertently say "what the fuck?!" I’m met with silence and the diminishment of macho tendencies. They relax and look at each other as if to say a response is not even warranted. The silence cuts deep, subsequently disrespecting me again, the lack of engagement only adding insult to injury. Even though they were just words, I'm sure stabbing me might hurt a little less. Nothing feels worse than falling victim to a black-on-black crime on your doorstep.
I face them, coordinated in streetwear looking just like one of them and passing as one of the “man dem”.
As my hurt turns into rage, I question whether my stance was off today or my walk, perhaps, a little skippy? No, none of this! My mannerisms have nothing to do with it, I trade fine. As I throw my hands to either side of me, gesturing ‘well?!’, it becomes apparent none of the group are willing to stand up for their actions or take accountability for the words that just bellowed down the pavement. They appear sheepish as my ‘street credibility’ comes back to me, and I begin to turn and walk away.
If you are gay, and don't want any trouble, you need to be in with the “man dem” chilling on street corners, smoking weed, and united; that way everybody knows who ‘your boys’ are. The "road" knows you've not got a girlfriend and it is kept "under wraps". Or, you need to know someone that eventually introduces you and keeps you hidden out of sight, thereby avoiding a billy goats gruff scenario. I still have never succumbed to this system. I find it similar to being the black “friend” in a group of racists who are blatantly and overtly disrespectful. It is not a tokenistic situation I want to be in and don not believe anyone should. I should be able to be left to my own devices and walk home in peace. These actions merely feed into the narrative of oppression and DL “down low” culture; it is okay to be gay if nobody knows about it.
I reach midway down the road, and the next stride feels the longest as I question if it will happen again or if I could finally make it home. I get a small sense of déjà vu as I retrace my steps, after the homophobic episode. My self-assurance is in abundance, and I feel like I've made a change and stood up for not only myself, but all fellow black gays, Nearly home.
When I was growing up, roaming alone Hackney as a black male was hard enough without somebody questioning where I was from. Deeply aware of this, I always navigated the neighbourhood staying out of trouble’s way. I was never into gang culture but had a cousin who was and knew of some far-removed female friends that dated them, so maybe that's why I was never afraid to walk down any road. Or, perhaps, it was just my quest for adventure and self-discovery that helped me defy spatial urban borders as I haven’t spoken to my cousin since the age of 10 and never thought of socialising with that circle. But this mocking group of males is not part of a gang, they are merely a group of friends.
As I turn the corner, I hear them repeat it, "batty boy" and burst into laughter, this time not nearly as loud or aggressive as the first time, as if it is more of a joke or a dare. It’s almost comical and I just roll my eyes. Regardless of how the tables have turned, I’m now the one it doesn't warrant a response from. Not one of them could take responsibility for their actions at the moment of confrontation. they cowardly waited until I was out of sight to hurl further insults. I felt I was on the winning side and that what initially started as a homophobic attack was now a sick game of cat and mouse.
Looking back at this encounter, leads me to reflect on homophobia in black communities, however white communities are no exception here.
To say black people are more homophobic than any other race is not only a disservice to black people, but also not true. Only recently, a story broke in the news that two white lesbians were physically beaten on a London night bus for not kissing when asked. It was one of many white- on-white homophobic attacks that gained publicity after initially being posted on social media. And, although black trans women are killed by black straight men frequently in America, I've never heard of black conversion therapy on the scale of our white counterparts. What I’m trying to say is homophobia is rife within all our communities. Nevertheless, in black culture, the use of homophobic language is apparent, especially within dancehall and hip-hop culture.
With both becoming forever more popular throughout the decades, it’s not only the frequent use of homophobic slurs from black men to black audiences that has perpetuated this idea into the mentality of black communities that homosexuality is wrong. There is also a perception that its acceptable to name call when you suspect it. Hypersexualized masculinity in commercial urban media perpetuates this narrative of toughness where anything outside of these constraints is deemed weak. It doesn't excuse the behaviours of those men, nor do I want to downplay how much it hurt or enraged me. Nonetheless, I can't help to think why “we” do this and why we don’t step in when we bear witness to homophobia.
It is as if to say homophobic words such as batty boy, are the new "nigga"? popularised in music; used to offend, and now culturally acceptable for blacks to use against blacks? However even if I was called a faggot, I’m am sure the outcome of the situation would have been the same, everybody acting as if it’s a normal everyday occurrence within our community.
Stood there is a group of young black, British, men, little do onlooker know the inconsolable difference is sexuality. Identity hangs in the balance on street corners. As much as it hurts being attacked by your own, being able to stand up for yourself and show your whole neighbourhood you're not a ‘pussy hole’ is worth it.
