La Dulce Vida - Da Soul Hip Blog Queen

“So, will you be missing Tony Blair?” I asked.
“Eh?”
“Are you sad because Mr Blair is resigning?”
“Is he resigning? I didn’t even know. Don’t give a fuck.”
Then elaborating on his previous point, he said: “They’re all the same. It’s a conspiracy. I saw this programme on TV once, yeah. It showed like how they got secret handshakes and that. Tony Blair and Bush. They only care about themselves.”
“Did you vote in the local elections, then?”
“I got some stuff in the post. But I didn’t vote. It’s a conspiracy, anyway.”

I asked whether he didn’t believe in democracy as an idea, or if it was just that he didn’t think it actually happened.
“The main problem is money, you get me,” he said ignoring my question. “Every problem is about money, right. If there wasn’t money, and everyone could have everything…”
“Everyone could have everything? I don’t think so… This world couldn’t sustain everyone turning into an American consumer. Also, there wouldn’t be any point in everyone having everything they want.”
“Yeah, there would.”
“No, there wouldn’t. Because a lot of things have nothing but symbolic value. The reason we want certain things is because not everyone can have it. Why do you buy expensive trainers when you could get equally good ones that cost half the money?”
“Yeah, but that’s because of the style.”
“Yeah, but why is a certain style better than another style? If everyone had everything, that ‘everything’ wouldn’t have any value.”
“Yeah, but you keep talking about value. Money. That’s the whole problem, you get me. And food, right, shouldn’t cost anything. Everyone should have what they need.”
“To each according to his need...”
“Yeah ma’. See, my man needs to hustle to make some dough, and then some next geezer lives in a mansion and dat. Everyone should have an opportunity.”
“Are you talking about England or in general?”
“England and in general. The ghettos all over the world. If all the hustlers in the world came together you get me, we could make it a better place.”
“Workers of the world, unite!”
“Eh?”
“So, why didn’t you vote then?”
“Coz ain’t nobody think like me. Nobody ever has thought like me.”
“Imagine that…”
“Mad, innit?”


There was really nothing to be added, so we sat in silence. Then he noticed a book on my bed, which I had just got from the Amazon. Although it’s American, I thought that ‘Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? And Other Conversations about Race’ by Dr Beverly Daniel, may become useful when analyzing self-segregation in Birmingham, one of the most ethnically segregated cities in England. Apart from some places like Lancashire.
“‘Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?’”, he read aloud. “Coz they’re having dinna! What a mad question!”
“Good point.”
“Innit thou?”
“And it took her a PhD to write that.”
“Mad, innit?”


I am about to go to Dani’s to watch the Eurovision. I have ignored Nathan’s calls – 5 every hour. That’s more than the traffic I get to this page. (So popular!) I just can’t have these intellectual conversations every day. That’s where the Eurovision comes in. Who would have thought that it would ever take place in Finland?

Mad, innit?

...That until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned: That until there are no longer first-class and second class citizens of any nation; That until the color of a man's skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes…

Haile Selassie I

My little sister’s body is light as a grasshopper. I worry that any vicious blow from the Atlantic will sweep her away from me. And one dark moment it does. One day she stops breathing and as I try to hold her close to me, I just crunch her bones in my sweaty grip. All I’m left with is a pile of her drawings of somewhat obscene anime characters.

It was 4 AM, and I had just had another episode in the series of nightmares called, ‘Horrible Things That Happen to Your Siblings (and Dog) Because You Are an Unworthy Big Sister (And a Dog Owner)’. In the last one my brother became blind, because I didn’t take him to the doctor’s early enough. The series have been going on since 1985 and has been BAFTA nominated a few times. (Soon on DVD.) I couldn’t get back to sleep so I spent the rest of the night sobbing until eight o’clock, when I made an international phone call.
“She’s at school and seems quite sound and happy to me,” my Mum reassured me. “Except that last night she had a nightmare, in which I beat her up.”
I knew something was wrong! “Is everything else cool?”
It was a rhetoric question requiring nothing more than a philosophical or biblical answer in the days, when the recent elections in the old home country have resulted in a right wing nationalist coalition. “What’s new? It is consistent, after all, to make racism and classism within the country sit well with the global neo-colonialism of economic liberalism,” I sympathised, but not too deeply so as to make me guilty about not voting. My informers in Finland have been fuming and speculating on an exodus. I welcome all my loved ones to Britain, where I’ve been making a living as a cultural refugee for five years now. (“Dreaming about the death means that a new era is beginning in your life,” Mum says.)

All I’m saying is that there are no KFCs in Finland. But enough about the demographics. Here it doesn’t seem to bother me, when people think I’m from Norway / Sweden / Denmark / Switzerland / Iceland / Italy / Russia (well, that bothers me. Kakogo chyorta!). But it has really started to get me, when my so called compatriots always take me for an asylum seeker.

Having (almost) changed my family name – "Cuba, we’re waiting..." – now my life ambition remains to unlearn my mother tongue, so that by the time I’m old, I won’t understand any of the fifty eight ways the ex compatriots tell me to f*** off to 'my own country'.

My Ex had a different take on the issue, and amused my family - but no-one else - by learning some essential Finnish phrases prior to his visit to the country.
“Where’s the jobcentre?”
“I don’t want to work. How can I get benefits?”
”I want your sister as my third wife.”
To add credibility to his act, he put on a mock Nigerian accent in the last one. (The first two weren’t jokes). I didn’t have the heart to tell him, that it really wouldn’t make any difference, whether he had a ‘we-are-looking-forward-to-do-business-with-you’ Nigerian accent, his father’s soft Jamaican accent, his own arrogant London accent, or my newly acquired Brummy accent on – all you need is a pair of brown eyes, and people will change to the other side of the street before you blink.

“By the way, did you know that by 2080 there will be hardly any blue-eyed people left in this world?” my brother, an African American in his pervious life and almost but not quite as bad as Tim Westwood ("Where my dogs at?!"), asked me without raising his head from the Malcolm X biography.
“Yeah. And?”
“It’s f***ing brilliant!” His eyes, electric blue, twinkled. “That means that all the girls will be chasing me, ‘cause I’ll be so exotic!”
“An interesting point, but you’ll be 93 years old. If girls will still be after you, well, that’s exotic!” Although, my brother is not a bad looking youth… A word of advice: if you see a blue-eyed man pushing a rollator at the end of this century, just watch your grand daughter, okay?

If you want to see what you’d look like, if you were different race, you can upload your photo here.
A Caucasian make-over made me look like I had been involved in a fire accident of the first kind, so as not to scare the younger ones and potential partners off, I’ll just give you the picture of me as an old person, that is, when I’m a carer for a blue-eyed OAP sex monster. I won’t understand a word he says, but it may be just better that way.



It is actually comforting to know that maturing gracefully suits me better than a Michael Jackson makeover. In a way, I’m looking forward to being officially old. Isabel Allende, who I am a big fan of, is a stunning and charming old person. It’s the years between 26 and 42 that I’m mostly terrified of. After that your game is over, so you can do whatever you like, apart from having underage sex. (Note to my brother.) You can write a book, for example. Sitting well with today’s topic, immigration (in the case you missed that), I warmly recommend you familiarise yourself with Marina Lewycka, the author of A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian. She is soon releasing her second book,Two Caravans. I can’t actually wait, because ‘A Short History’ was one of the best books I read last year!

By the way, I told FHM about my nightmare.
‘Did you eat cheese before you went to bed?’
There was no point to denying it, because he had witnessed me with a toast with more cheese on it than you get at the Oceana night club on a Friday night. Apparently stuffing your face with the yellow substance at night will give you nightmares. Oddly enough, The British Cheese Board disagrees. But I just looked in the mirror and saw my waistline – or the lack of it – and if that wasn’t a nightmare, my name is Stilton.

As a mixed race person I’m in the privileged position of getting shit from both white and black people.

FINLAND


(Sweet wraps like this is what I grew up with and their presence in sweet shops is still fiercly defended as part of the Finnish cultural heritage.)

When I was little, it was my fate to educate adults about things of which I had only flimsy understanding myself.
“My mummy got me when she was young and didn’t know Jesus and didn’t know that you’re not supposed to be married before you’re married, and that’s why I’m a bit dark…” Looking at the even more confused faces of my interrogators I always had the feeling that there was a logical lapse somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on it…
When I was three, a middle-aged lady tapped my curly hair and asked me in a most condescending tone “Well, which faraway place have you come from?”
“My mom’s belly,” I answered.
This is one of those historical quotes within my family, but to be honest in the 23 years I haven’t thought of a better answer. But neither have they thought of better questions.

ENGLAND
I moved to the UK and thought that with black people it would be different. That's what I thought. My origin is once again the topic of the Question Time. The most annoying question I find – apart from “are there any roundabouts in Finland?” – is “are there any black people in Finland?”.

With 25 years of experience I’ve become very sensitive to people’s motives, and I really don’t mind people who are truly interested in widening their social geography, if they are then willing to share the same information about themselves.

But then there’s this group that I have often encountered, and who I find most intimidating. They wear hair wraps about the size of Cuba – either real or psychological – and their militant race consciousness would put Minister Farrakhan in shame.
"What? You’re from Finland? From FINLAND?"
"Are there any black people in Finland?"
"Are there BLACK people in Finland?"
"Are there any black people in FINLAND?"
"Are there people in Finland?"

They are about just as interested in the demographics of Finland as a Finnish neo-Nazi is interested in my family tree. What they really want to know is my claim to my pigment – or more importantly – to going out with a black man (because they are going extinct).
Obviously, some people are genuinely interested and then I try to be genuinely interesting, but when I’ve answered the same question for the 27th time, I start going (coco)nuts. Here are some tested answers listed from the most polite to the most offensive one.

1.

2.


3.


4.


5.


6.


7.


8.


There weren’t many black role models around when I was growing up, apart from Michael Jackson, who might have been bad, but didn’t exactly make me love the skin I was in. It took about 15 years to accept and 5 more years to love my colour, so now that I’ve got here I’m not going to exchange the shame I used to have regarding to my blackness to a shame about my whiteness.

ANYWHERE
The funny thing is that most African Americans – who these black militants happily quote – are blissfully unaware of there being black people in England. “You saying there are black people in ENGLAND? Are you kidding me, kid?”
But they are not completely ignorant there. I love this one:




See more stuff about Ian Clark!

PS. Thanks to my little sister who taught me how to use Paint for making cartoons.

Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.
Sally: So you are saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive?
Harry: No, you pretty much want to nail them, too.
When Harry Met Sally


Because Jay and Jada bailed on it, it was just me and Michael going to the ACS Valentine’s party on Tuesday night. Although Michael is fit (and five years younger than me) and so on, our relationship is strictly platonic. I cook for him, we watch Ugly Betty together, talk on the phone for hours, have lunch at Nando’s, but it’s nothing more than that . We are open about the people who we fancy. This means that when my friend asks me if Michael and I have something going on between us, because she fancies him, I feel I have to let him know, because I don’t want to stand between him and the many girls who find him fit. (Although, he wasn’t quite as annoyed as I thought he would be on hearing the news!)



Anyway, ‘Kings & Queens’ was more like ‘Princes & Princesses’. Boys crowded around the technical equipment in the DJ booth while girls were dancing on the floor like in a school disco. You can be sure I felt old.

Most people hardly smoked or drank, and judging by the pitch of her voice, my Finnish friend was the only customer at the bar. Didn't I say she’s Finnish?
The night hadn’t gone very well for her. I think she had lost her bag while herself had been found by people she wanted to avoid. She was being rather expressive about her bad luck in the women’s toilet, so that the eyes of a slim black girl who just walked in, widened in horror like she’d just witnessed a scene from the Exorcist.
“What was that?” she asked me, the less loud one of us.
“Finnish.”
“What is she saying?”
“I’m not too sure.”
“Who is she talking to?”
“Me.”
“That’s good”, she looked relieved. “At least to another human being.”
Then she asked if me and my friend, who was going to pass out any moment, were both mixed race. When she had shared this amazing revelation (“there are black people in Finland!”) with her friends, they wanted to know all about Finland, Cuba and race and racism there.
“How do they see you in Finland? Are you considered as black or mixed race?”
“Neither. I’m a bloody immigrant.”
“Oh my God! That’s a bit rude! You know if I was you I’d give them some Haile Selassie!”
“Urm… yeah… so where are you from?”
I told them they were the nicest black girls I had ever met in a toilet, and confessed that generally I find black women a little bit intimidating. They said that the friendly ones were few and far between, but not all of them wanted to rip your unrelaxed hair off. After I’d told them that Michael and I were just friends, they asked me the all important question.
“So, what kind of men do you go for? White or black or mixed race?”
“It’s not about the colour, it’s the personality… It’s all about the black man’s personality!”
“Oh yes, that’s the way forward!”
We cheered and high-fived before dispersing to meet our men (white, black and mixed race) outside the toilet.

“What took you so long?” Michael asked me.
“I was bonding with some sistahs.”
“You what?”
“Never mind.”
We decided that we shouldn’t be antisocial, ‘cause we were giving people a reason to think we were a couple. I went to the dance floor (I had to do the Hot Wuk), and he went to talk to some girls by the bar. A few more people asked if Michael was my boyfriend. I corrected everyone apart from Stalker.

We only met in the dancefloor when they started playing T.I.’s ‘What You Know’, because that's the tune we always sing to in his car.
“I’m glad when you said you don’t fancy my friend,” I shouted to his ear.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that means you’re not going to start taking her to Nando’s instead of me.”
The rest of the night we danced to some slow jams in a very platonic sort of way. It is funny that people just can’t understand that a heterosexual woman is friends with a straight man.

The next day I slept too late to go to the ACS Valentine’s meeting to play Singled Out. I’d actually forgotten about it, until Michael phoned me.
He’d won it.
He’d won a date with a girl.
“Oh my God! How did you win it?”
It had been the press-ups. He could do more press-ups than the other male finalists. Obviously, it was no big thing really - at home he can do twice as many, but he just didn’t want to show off.
“So what did you win?”
“A meal for two at Nando’s.” (Oh yes. What else could an African Caribbean Society come up with?)
“But that’s our spot, Michael!”
“I know, Dulce. That’s why I’m phoning you. I didn’t want you to find out any other way.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I hope she’s not taking it seriously.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. It’s just a game. What kind of a stupid girl would take it seriously?”
“Yeah… I suppose so…”
“Don’t worry about anything. Just have fun, OK?”

Joshua will have a fun Valentine’s date tonight. After last night I’m tired and moody and now I’ll be thinking about Michael and his date. They better not sit in the table 15. The girl better not order a chicken salad, medium spicy (I know Michael will order a Chicken Burger, medium). They better not listen to T.I. in the car. Actually, why would Michael have her in his car, anyway? Surely that’s not part of the prize? Surely?

I better call him right now.
Then I’m going to contact the ACS. I will demand a new round. Let’s see whose lasagne Michael likes more, because I’m gonn’ give them some Haile Selassie!


PS. I know I sound like my dj ex bf, but in the party I heard this wicked man high-life tune that I’d been looking for all my life! My quest is now completed. The best high-life song ever is called Premier Gaou and is by Magic Systeme. I hope you appreciate the fact that I’m making life so easy for you.

It snowed last night.
(This is my second post today, so just scroll down not to miss my previous entry. You wouldn't want to do that, would you?)

It's this morning's main news story. BBC tells us not to go out if not necessary. Schools are closed, there are airport closures and severe train delays... "If you need to go on the road", BBC warns, "be equipped with blankets, water and food".

There is a Finnish person in Harborne rolling on the floor, laughing. She shared the news with her family back home.

Dad (in Jyvaskyla, mid Finland): "There's 30cm snow here, and -25 degrees. You must be having a hard time."
Mum (in Helsinki, Southern Finland): "There's a snow storm here, -15 degrees. No-one's talking about a national emergency. Kids are at school. 'Slight inconvenience on some roads, but no main disruptions'."

My little brother is sleeping in a forest in a tent doing his military service. My little sister will have ice skating in PE and will be given detention for moaning about the weather.


My street in Birmingham


My back garden in Birmingham


My country, any day


...which I miss.


Temperatures in Finland and elsewhere

+15 °C:
The Spanish wear woolly hats and gloves. Finns are sunbathing.

+10 °C:
Without much success, the French try to turn the heating on. Finns start planting flowers.

+5 °C:
Cars in Italy don’t start up. Finns drive convertibles and put their roofs down.

0 °C:
Water freezes.
The river in Helsinki turns a bit thick.

-5 °C:
Old people die in California.
Finns stop barbecuing.

-10 °C :
Scotts turn the central heating on.
Finns change their t-shirts to jumpers.

-20 °C:
The Swedish stay inside.
Finns barbecue a few more sausages before the winter starts.

-30 °C :
The Greek die.
Finns won’t hang the clothes outside anymore.

-40 °C:
Fake Santa Clauses move south.
The outdoors training of the Finnish Army is cancelled due to warm weather.

-50 °C:
The Danish lose their teeth.
Finns rent films and stay inside.

-60 °C:
Polar bears leave the North Pole.
The Finnish Army starts training outdoors.

-70 °C:
The Siberians move to Moscow.
Finns lose their calms, because you can no longer store vodka in your garden.

-273 °C :
Absolute zero.
Finns say:”It’s bloody cold outside!”

-300 °C :
The hell freezes.
Finland wins the Eurovision Song Contest.

I love dancing salsa Cuban style. What I don’t love is that New York style or whatever it is when your feet spend more time in the air than on the floor, and unfortunately that’s the style they teach all the white people over here.

Anyway, it had been a while I had been shaking what my mum gave me, any style. Even when I was in Cuba last September, the whole island had been swept over by reggaeton . So one late evening – bored, depressed, broke, romantically challenged and sexually deprived – my friend and I decided to try a salsa night on Broad Street.

My dancing wasn’t quite as good as I remembered and had advertised, but by the end of the night we were both sweaty, laughing, not much more broke than we were two hours before and I had exchanged numbers with someone with a sense of rhythm.

Next day I was studying at the library, my heart still beating to 'clave' , when I got a text from Joshua:
“Hi Dolce. It was nice meeting u last nite. If you fancy doing it again soon holla @ me.”
I texted back saying I was sorry for having constantly stepped on his toes and that I was busy, but maybe we could meet in January. My phone beeped again.
“After u left i went 2 accident & emergency…Have 2 broken toes on each foot. Been told 2 give it a rest 4 2 wks. So Jan will b good 4 me :-) See u soon”

Three weeks gone, and I still haven’t danced any more salsa. That’s because I’m still working on my essay and viruses and stalkers haven’t helped the situation whatsoever. I phoned my friend Michael to complain. Michael is a first-year and very young and innocent, but also very intelligent, and one of my few friends at uni. He also happens to be quite hot and definitely Best Friend’s type. I’m constantly perving at him and reporting my observations to Best Friend. He’s got no idea.

Michael asked me if I had watched the new drama Ugly Betty. He was obviously slightly embarrassed about bringing up the subject, because Ugly Betty is not only chick but not just a little bit gay too. I told him there was absolutely nothing wrong with him being in touch with his feminine side, and that’s why he’s got a lot of female friends like me, which many other guys would be jealous of. There are so many reasons to love Ugly Betty! After samanthas and gabrielles it is nice to see some values embodied in the likeable character of Betty.



Michael suggested we watch Ugly Betty together next Friday. Must tell Best Friend.



But Friday was still far in the future and I was going mad with boredom. I wanted an excuse to wear make up and leave this postcode for a minute so I went to the centre to buy some groceries. I bought Clinique foundation make up, Lancome’s L’Extreme mascara (it is so good) and a jumper at Morgan.

While I was waiting for the bus with my shopping I started to go through some old text messages. I realised I hadn’t replied to Joshua’s new year’s wishes, so I texted him:

“Hi, how are you? Sorry I’ve gone silent. I’ve been working 24/7 and then lost my essays to a virus. Hope your 2007 had a better start”

He sent me a text back:

“My 2007 just got better and I can walk again. Hope u’ll be able to recover your work. Remember I did soc sciences too – if I can help…”

I was trying to think of a very witty answer. Michael, for example, is very witty. And that’s when I got an idea for my blog: I would write about Michael! He’s so funny and cute and definitely Best Friend’s type. I looked for a pen in my handbag but all I could find was a tampon. You know, there will be a day when I’m looking for a tampon and all I can find is a pen. Anyway, phones are for these moments. I started putting down key words in my phone, so that I would remember to type it when I got home.

“Michael. Impresses me. If he asked me to marry him tomorrow, I would say yes yesterday”

I was getting quite carried away with my idea, and I suddenly realised I had got on the wrong bus. Because of some kind of a programming error in subconsciouness, I always get the 22 when I should get the 12. Once I told my little brother to get the 22, but when he called me from Wolverhampton, I tried to say he just hadn’t listened properly.

So I rushed out of the bus, which takes long if you like sitting upstairs in the back of a double decker, and then you have to check you still have your purse, your buss pass, iPod, gloves, Lancome L’Extreme (it is so amazing), Clinique foundation and the tampon – don’t forget the tampon – with you, because you might have sort of made yourself home, you see.

It had got dark and rainy by the time I got home.

That’s when I got a text from Joshua:
“Now I’m confused!”

You know those moments when you want to turn into an ostrich and bury your head very deep into the ground forgetting that everyone would still see your ass, which in some cases might be a significant part of the body? You know those moments that make good sitcom but bad reality? Would you text to explain the mistake? Or would you call? And he said HE was confused!
I was thorough as usual: I texted to apologise and phoned to explain.

It turned out to be a lengthy conversation, not only because of me trying to convincingly explain that 'Michael' was really a fictional character and the hero of my very successful blog, but also because Joshua turned out to be an interesting (and forgiving) person who, having also studied sociology, knew more about my coursework than I did.

He asked me where I was based.
“You mean now?”
“Well, now you’re obviously in Birmingham.”
“You mean before…?”
“I know you were in Bristol before, but like where you’re really from? I mean, ethnically I know you’re from Finland and Cuba, but I don’t mean ethnically.”

You can tell someone has got a degree in sociology.

“Geographically I’m from Finland ”
“Oh, really? But you don’t have an accent. Or you do have an accent, but you’re fluent. Is English your second language?”
“No, but I learnt it at school. And MTV. Mostly MTV”
“I see. So, what does Swedish sound like then? I knew this guy from Sweden… I might be wrong, but I thought it is quite similar to German? They do share like a lot of common words, don’t they, and is there a phonetic resemblance? Don’t mean to offend you.”
“None taken. I guess Swedish is a bit like German, but I’m from Finland. I speak Finnish”.

It is all so very confusing, I know.



Then he said all he spoke was English, Patois and a bit of Spanish. Which is by far more than most English people. I asked whether Patois, Jamaican English, was really a language, and while he was telling me the difference between a language and a dialect, I got a bit distracted thinking how so s-e-x-y Jamaican English sounds. I tell you baby, that’s where my weak spot is! And that other spot as well!

We spoke for about an hour (in English), but then he said he didn’t want to be blamed for my coursework not getting done.
“That’s all good. I’ll be up late anyway”. Yeah, writing this. “But I’ll talk to you soon”
“Yeah, good luck and we’ll catch up soon”
“Take care.”
“And Dolcie…”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t marry Michael tomorrow.”
I promised I wouldn’t.

But only because Michael wouldn’t propose anyway.