In defence of Rachel Dolezal

Rachel Dolezal lied. A white woman pretending to be black. This is the thing that will follow her for the rest of her life.

The top job in the fastest growing sport for women, in England, is held by a man. Mark Sampson is Head coach of England’s Women’s football team and this is somehow completely acceptable.

What message does this send to young girls and former players who want to get into coaching? That no matter their effort they will always come second to a man?

It's unfortunate, perceptions of women have stagnated and even digressed in recent times and racism and classism have stepped up their game to create a cocktail of pure hate.

Rachel Dolezal lied to get a job she cared about and was probably very much qualified to do, apart from being white of course, and had she been a man the matter would have ended with her swift dismissal and unremarkable replacement. Instead the media and Internet have taken her to be some sort of vile, child eating villain.

And how the people love a female villain to set alight at the stake on a pile of inflammatory and hate filled blogs and tweets. ‘Burn the witch’ they cry all the time forgetting their own daughters are watching; fearful of their own dreams to be more than they are.      

No one has taken the time to ask for a measured response to why she did this or highlighted her achievements on behalf of the NAACP.

Caroline Criado-Perez received all manner of threats during her campaign to have a female face on the new banknotes (Jane Austin will appear on £10 note in 2017) and Sue Perkins suffered the same because of a fabricated story about her hosting, that standard of maleness, Top Gear.  

With such unwarranted attacks on women of merit it is no wonder that more teenage girls are turning to the porn industry, unconcerned that this will haunt them indefinitely, out of a lack of self-worth.

We are in danger of raising a generation of girls who are too afraid to fulfil their potential because they are learning just how harsh our society comes down on women who dare to ascend, despite their hard labour and achievements. 

 Rachel Dolezal lied and has lost the faith of those who trusted her, but the attacks that followed were extreme and said more about our society than her immeasurable lack of moral fibre. 

Love Will Not

I find myself on a stony path at the edge of a precipice, starring into a black oblivion. I ask myself, as all we must, how did I end up here?

 Myself turned to me and gravely pointed out the roads we had travelled, “It is the dark side of human nature that has driven us in this direction. Selfishness, deceit, fear, loathing, these are the easiest to transverse, smoothly paved highways beyond the reach of all who suffer the indignity of poverty, disease and oppression.

This is the place that the journey of the blind ends. What can save us now that our destination is upon us, what will stop us from stepping over the edge, into the plummeting end we so richly deserve?”

“Love,” was my answer without hesitation, “love will not let us fall.”

The Falling

I didn't like what I’d see,
But I knew the darkness would be lifted.
A life so precious a gift
Too soon wasted on the rocks of a man-made cliff.

She spoke to my broken bones from the corner of the street,
“I live with the sunrise
And die under a million stars.
I am the tide that crushes the stones
Only to recede into the murky moonlight.” 

Suddenly I loved her.
The overbearing understanding of her nature, 

Appealed to my temporary self.

I reached for one soft touch
Blood dripping from my skin,
A tenderness of a passing kiss.

But the sun was falling in the west,
She faded like she wasn't there
And left me lying in the dark.

The Tiger and the Flowers

I read the book they hope will sprout flowers of remorse in my damned soul as the sun breaks through the prison bars. 

She comes to me more like a dream than a memory, standing on Denmark Street sandy hair whipping across her face, dark skirt dancing about soft lined thighs, and knee-high boots that could break a priest.

She brushes aside the strands to reveal those emerald eyes, that painted skin, those razor cheekbones, those crimson lips. “Sarah,” I whisper out loud, the other man in the cell shifts uncomfortably in the bunk below.

How you rattled my heart, with those eyes on that May morning and the nights of endless music that followed. Why did the song have to end? 

As the axe came down against her skull I knew she would be eternal. No other would see her like this, she would never fade or grow old and she would always belong to me.

Love is a hungry tiger and unrequited love will consume you until it is as if you never existed in the first place.I begin to laugh, the man beneath protests strongly, but I can’t hear him. 

I'm still laughing when he drags me from my cot and snaps a heavy shot across my cheek with a mighty fist.

I laugh as I pin him down and smash his head into the concrete floor after a combination of my own. His skull makes a wet squelching thud on the second blow between my blooded fingers buried in his hair.

The laughter stops as he goes limp. I pull the broken remains of his nose to mine “Sarah!” I hear myself scream, it rises again and again. I'm still screaming her name as they drag me away to the gleeful cries of my fellow inmates.

My throat hurts and the screams fade to pitiful sobs. Yes, flowers will grow. 

The Walk Home

Dear Reader

 Due to circumstances of a nature I am yet to understand, I have recently been forced to walk 20 minutes from Carnaby street to Chancery Lane every morning to get on the tube. At first this seemed to monumentus grievance but this is far from the truth.

London is a stunning city and as locals we tend forget that buried in the hustle and bustle of our day to day troubles. So to celebrate this fact I took some photos for you to enjoy:

   

Dear friends, relatives and frelatives

Dear friends, relatives and frelatives

At this time of celebration Tina, Harry and I would like to share with you the ups and downs what has been a turbulent year.

I am glad to say, after her third stint in rehab Tina has finally conquered her addiction to conkers, this has made her a much happier person, my sunny disposition of course is still mostly reliant on the liberal use of alcohol, antidepressants and class A drugs. 

Harry is finally coming out of his shell. He has joined the local track and field club, excelling in the 100m sprint which he completes in just under 11 days. It’s very disappointing.

Tina is insistent that I take up vegetarianism for health reasons, my response being that I intend on dying covered in the blood of my enemies, surrounded by their marinating carcasses.

By enemies I mean cows, pigs, chickens and all of whom have made the fatal error of being born delicious and slow witted.  

In April we endeavoured to create the country’s very first urban fox hunting club on our estate. Instead of horses and beagles we were to use bicycles and local dogs; 6 staffordshire terriers, 2 jack russells and a large cat named Spot.

Our efforts came to an abrupt halt when the authorities turned up. We explained that we had no intention of killing any foxes we merely wanted to round them up and educate them in proper bin raiding etiquette and such. 

They pointed out that several of our bikes were stolen from the local elementary school and that Spot was actually a small child in a particularly convincing onesy.

Apart from occasionally frightening the locals at Waitrose, by dressing up in a hoodie and asking where the discount beer at, I believe we have finally been accepted into the lower middle class society that is Wanstead.

Merry Christmas everybody and happy New Year.

Kindly yours,

Troy, Harry and Tina    

The thing he sells

The windows burnt with morning fire, so I moved across the table like a spider and poured the poison from the glass. The TV whistled and hummed with stars. All I saw was the dull ache that rots; death, hate and putrid states of being.

I must leave this place.

So I moved across the table like a spider through the broken door of my dreams and into the joyless sunlight. With fresh pain to sell the man, I placed my heart on a train that never stopped, to a desk that sounded like hungry teeth grinding. And as the moments beckoned, delighting in my misery I set my pen to the ground. I dug the grave of a thousand words and they paid in drops of my own blood.

I must leave this place.

Night crept and broke the heat with cool suits and the promise of love. So I moved across the table like a spider, through the ice that formed. Freedom stood open chested and beaten with the cat. I licked her face for just one sweet taste but her tears were acid and her skin began to flake. I sat to figure the situation; what had just began? At the other end the liquid stood waiting to be consumed.

I must leave this place. 

So I moved across the table and poured the poison from the glass.