I was reading the papers this weekend when I came across the horror story of Constance Briscoe and her mother. No, I haven't forgotten the title of this piece, but bear with me, this story has an interesting punchline.
This is the case of Constance Briscoe, who had been sued by her mother for libel. Constance had written a book about the beatings and abuse she had been subjected to by her mother Carmel.
I have not read Constance's book, 'Ugly', but had seen her on television, where she seemed, nervous, borderline aggressive and slightly skittish if not outright mad. I remember being surprised that she had been made up into a judge.
As I looked at her, I had a slight tinge of sympathy for her, since, it was clear to me, that her mother had 'done' something to her, and I was watching the results.
My sympathy came, because, I had gone to the same school as some of the Briscoe clan. Those girls were older than my cohort, and so there was some distance between the two groups, However, there was enough closeness, for those of us who were younger, to hear about any 'scandals'. One of the more interesting stories that we had heard was that the extremely dominating mother had stormed a dance, had switched on the lights, rampaged through the party in her pink candlewick dressing gown, and slippers, (don't bother asking me whether or not they were carpet or kitten) had 'grabbed up' the Briscoes that were in the party, publically humiliated them and ran them out of the party, apparently into a waiting car.
I was never a party girl, but even I was surprised that the mother would go as far as that, since most of the people in that party were big man and woman. The shocking thing was that these "children" were in fact adults, so I could not fathom why she would waste her own time harassing her own adult children.
As young people, we discussed what we would do if that happened to us. The general consensus was that we would have no choice but to 'co-operate', so to speak, since we knew that the physical beatings would be accompanied by threats of being thrown out of the 'family' home, and made homeless. There was no choice, everyone, appeared to be under the belt buckle, (among the usual tools used to 'beat' us), where their parents were concerned.
Our parents seemed to be in competition to boast about who could chastise and 'beat' their children the most. They even went as far as boasting to confounded white people what they had actually done. They did not hold back, belt buckles, combs, shoe-heels, hose-pipes, coat-hangers, pieces to timber, kitchen knives, the lot. You name it, they [parents] used it to enforce discipline. For the slightest infraction, we never knew whether or not a 'comb-back' would come chopping into our heads - lesson - "to knock sense into your head", or our parents would send one of our siblings to "get the belt". On these magic words people would scatter believing that the weaponry was being brought out especially for them. There was a palpable sigh of relief if it wasn't you.
Unfortunately, for me, I took the brunt of some of the most horrendous beatings one can imagine. that is why, to this day I have a high pain threshold.
So, being at an all girls school meant that we shared our experiences and expressed some horror as to our treatment. We puzzled as to where our parents had 'learnt' these 'skills'. We wondered why we were being 'picked on' by our mothers, the innumerable questions remained unanswered. Eventually the consensus was jealousy. There was a sense of permanent loss of childhood innocence. Many of the abused girls started their periods earlier than the norm. Many of the girls did not hang about, and that 'love' gap was soon filled with a rude-bwoy or two.
There were several welcomed pregnancies of girls who sought escape with their 'man'. Their mothers could no longer treat them 'like children' and more importantly, the mothers could no longer get away with the 'beatings'. However, many a young woman found that these parents could not accept that their "children" were now adults.
Nearly everyone had a tale about their parents asking them whether or not they were going "to take over" (we assumed the house, they meant society). If we were not busy "taking over", we were, (according to some strange unwritten crazy parental law) constantly 'thinking' we were "big man and woman".
Whilst nearly half the school emptied on a Thursday and Friday afternoon - for most of the girls went to the 100 Club, etc to listen to the music and meet their boyfriends, I was busy reading a book. I was never once tempted to leave school to go clubbing. This was not from a judgmental stand-point, but simply out of love of reading and school. I had decided that I would take as much advantage of school time, because, I did not know what I would find when I went home. Usually I would find that my mother had thrown all my school books down the dustbin shoot. I spent many a moment rescuing chemistry, physics, maths. English Lit. and biology books from the bin. Teachers would eventually ask me why I needed so many replacement books. I had to 'confess' that my mother was constantly throwing my books away. They were sickened by the notion of a parent throwing away their own child's educational opportunities.
If I was lucky, would find the books, and the only inconvenience would be that I would have to wash them off, or if I was unlucky, the dustbin men would have already come and gone, dispensing with my books permanently.
So for me, every second in school was a gift not to be wasted. For me, complicated chemistry equations were fun, physics was great, biology was heavy and violin classes were delicious!
My mother made it her duty that she was the bees knees and a 'pillar of society' & establishment. I was busy on the Black Pride, roots and culture lick. I also recognised that knowlege is power. So I was known as "The Book" at school because I always had a book in my hand.
This drive to be 'establishment' for my mother, led to her being accepted as one of the Scarman Report recommended police "lay-visitors". Lena James was now officially part of the police gang. I was non-plused. I believe in free choice. Unfortunately, it was only years later that I discovered that she didn't.
Over time, members of my peer group would approach me and tell me, that my mother was "an informer". I knew that she was a gangster in the home towards me as her daughter, but to go as far as say she was a police informer was odd to me. I would hear young Black men, tell me how they had been disappeared into Brixton police station, and were shocked to see my mother coming to 'see & speak' to them. They expressed fear and anger, and told me that they 'respected' me, but 'hated' my mother.
By this time, I had long left home, after being thrown out. So, these young guys, who were my contemporaries, were not in my social group, I was busy studying. I was very involved in Black politics, but was geared towards people who were more well thought out and cool under fire.
I wore my Afro hair-style, I defended Black culture, and realised that the international dimension was important. I was seen as a little odd because I took ballet classes, as well as Jazz, as well as contemporary. Some girls called me 'Sandy' because in the summer my hair would lighten to a borderline blond\brown colour. I was so Black-minded, that this epithet was the only thing that could be said to me, to get me riled. Otherwise, I was always a happy optimistic personage. I would usually get the offender back on the Hockey field. Jolly hockey sticks it was not! Many a girl nearly lost their limbs and lives as a result of crossing me. I was so genuinely popular that if anyone heard that a girl had upset me, they would 'hurt' the person on my behalf. Sometimes I would find myself intervening on some scene (code for fight) to find that someone was being battered for insulting me. I had to explain to one or two of these fellow young women, that although deeply flattering, it was unacceptable to behave in that way - I made it clear that I did not associate with thugs. Order would then be restored, and everything was cool again.
I was eventually made into a prefect, but struggled to be 'seen' as the school police. The shit hit the fan, when I was expected to wear my prefect's badge. I refused insisting that I was "no policeman".
As for 'taking things', there was no such thing as drugs or drug-taking. I was strongly into the athletics, and trained and trained with man who later won medals at numerous Olympics. I didn't even know what alcohol tasted of, much less cigarettes. I was totally fit, and I was Black & beautiful and shiny. Indeed, glossy!
Hobble skirts, and heels were as far as I went, I didn't know boys. But I had fun watching people go by, offering legal, etc advice where need be, and doing my political 'thing'.I was a popular girl. I had a little thing for a very handsome dark-skinned boy who came from the local grammar school. But I realised that he was not the one for me, because, although he was very clever, and handsome, he was oddly, not Black-minded enough. Chemistry classes were fun because we used to 'look' at each other, and have extremely polite conversations, but we were completely innocent.Very sweet! That was as far as it went.
Then one day, (whilst doing the good daughter bit), I decided to go and visit my mother, Lena James - the police Lay-visitor. We were watching the news, and something 'political' came up. Lena James, angrily turned to me and smirked whilst saying "you sit down there, the police are going to deal with people like you...a true you no know, the police have a complete armory in the basement! Hopefully they will shoot you".
I was left stunned. This was a completely new higher level of aggression from this Home Office police "informer" masqarading as my mother (albeit an highly abusive one). I asked her whether or not she wished me dead? She was very honest and replied "yes".
I left her house, and as I walked away, I wondered what I had done that was so bad, that she wished me dead. By this time I was studying architecture. Need I say more!
I say again, I do not know Constance, and do not wish to know her, but take it from me, many of these old-time slave-minded Black mothers are prepared to anything to fuck up their own "children" (who tend to be adults).
Constance's mother went to the Bar Council to 'inform' them that she was NOT a barrister. That sounds familiar. The mother roped in other siblings in her smear scam. That sounds familiar.
The mother contributed to widely-circulated secret dodgy dossier on her daughter. That sounds familiar.
Constance is lucky, her mother did not go as far as mine, in arranging for her total annihilation - the social, economic and reputational death. The real Willy Lynch syndrome!
And why would these 'parents' be so willing to sell-out their children and the entire Black community? For a seat around the table of a policeman, or for a paltry 'invitation' to parliament or wherever to drink tea with such and such MP, or some government minister who wanted some photographs taken,whilst they patted their "good niggers" on the head.
Patrick Mercer,an MP and a member of the parliamentary committee on counter-terrorism, recently 'confessed' that we young Black people, during the "Brixton Riots", were "The insurgency".
So when my mother threw out her threat of my being shot by the police and boasted that Brixton Police station's basement was "full of machine guns...ready for people like you", she was not ramping, she was telling me where the British militarised police had stashed their arms, in preparation for the "Brixton war".
She was boasting that she was on the winning side and that I was on the losing side. Her statement about my being shot came back to haunt me, years later, when I was in parliament and was confronted by half a dozen parliamentary terror police (SPG's) who were determined to "hound" me "...out of parliament". Even Black Rod, came out to 'deal' with my case.
(See report Nigger Hunting by Joseph Hunt)
I was appalled at the regularity with which I was threatened with being "shot in the head" in parliament and by Elaine Holness, a prostitute, who had been 'given' The Abeng Community Centre (now renamed the Karibu - a Kenyan word to be used in preparation for a future planned visit of the confused 'half-Kenyan' Obama perhaps?). I was subjected to mock executions twice in parliament. The threats of being "shot in the head" were sent by Brixton police, who had informed me, that if I did not give up my political aspirations, I would be "shot in the head", Martin Luther King Jr stylee.
I did not know that there was a whole slew, a whole trailer-load of these sell-out Niggers, who would stop at nothing to be sat around the white man's table. What was it to them, if they killed their own children, sucked a white man's cock, fucked a corrupt policeman, sold police-supplied guns to the youths, distributed police and drug-lord supplied street drugs throughout the entire community, it means nothing to these animals to cause chaos and destruction. Anything to kill the land, and money reparations and repatriation arguments.
These people did not have time to care for their children, since they were more occupied with fulfilling their day dream of gaining access to the establishment. Historically, the crab-inna-barrel, mentality of the parents, has been the downfall of young Black people.
Instead of the political discussion being lifted to the highest intelligent level where the British government's systematic torture and abuse of the Black community was dealt with on a serious level, we were faced with parents, corrupted "community leaders", etc who were programmed to "stop" us. We were faced with failed parents who were programmed to help us fail. That is why when we see a successful, culturised Black person, we should sing their praises to the heights. Unfortunately, Here in Brixton, decent Black people are confronted by a overpaid Black-hating Nigger, (Yardie), called Derrick Anderson, who is one of the most dangerous, useless Black sell-outs who has ever been born. This useless fool has been employed as a chief executive, here in Lambeth, and he was specifically employed to sell us out to the parasitic sodomites and immigrants (esp. the racist criminals aka Nigerians, Ghanaians, eastern europeans and latinos).
Today, I must acknowledge, that the woman who gave birth to me, Lena James, hates Black people so much, that she was part of the "Brixton War" being carried out against Black-English "west-indians". Matters become even more particularised, when one realises that this is about political resistance, leap-frogging over one generation and into the hearts of another.
No wonder, on the last night of Scarman being in Brixton, my "mother", the Nigger called Lena James warned me that if I attended that last Scarman meeting, that I would be thrown out and made homeless. I did not understand it at the time, but that creature expected the Brixton police to open up their armory and shoot my contemporaries in the back.
It would have looked bad for publicity if an "informer" Home Office sponsored lay-visitor's daughter had been shot by the police for being on the "other side". The shame would have killed her! That was the plan for that last night. That was supposed to be the "Crystalnight for Brixton", a real blood-bath, an opportunity execute us young Black people in retaliation for us apparently 'winning' during the riots. The police intended revenge on us. No wonder Lena James was hysterically jumping up and down when she heard that I intended to go and listen and speak at the Scarman inquiry.
That was the plan, that may or may not have been backed by Margaret Thatcher (then the first female prime minister of Britain), and to be executed by Brixton police. That plan was indeed an act of war!
That night I was forced to scrub pots, (like cinderella), and was watched like a hawk, to prevent me leaving the house and attending that public meeting.
I do not know who prevented the execution of that police "Brixton war" plan that night, but all I can say, is that I went out that night to meet my contemporaries on the way back from that last Scarman 'community' meeting, I, for one, was glad to see my neighbourhood buddies home and safe. Were we Heroes, you bet! Do we deserve recognition, you better fucking believe it!
For me, all the talking up and manifestation of "gang culture" is just another angle on the "Brixton Wars" against us. As Bernie Grant MP, said, in relations to Tottenham, the youth gave the police "a bloody good hiding".
The British are still smarting from having to sue the Jamaican Maroons for Peace, and they are still on that "Maroon War" lick where the descendants are concerned. They mean to finish us. Meanwhile, (at the time), We were ALL for ONE and one for ALL.
We must start to get some of that Black pride back again and forget about defending or cooperating with these 'ethnic minorities' and half-castes. Brown is NOT the new Black. Black is my Colour and I guard it jealously.
This has to be a long suit. There are no quick fixes. That is the only way we will win in these "Brixton Wars" and receive the international respect we ought to deserve.
It will do the reader well to also know that the reason why there was no intervention from the UN, was that the then UN Secretary General was Austrian Nazi war criminal Kurt Waldheim who helped organise death camps as a SS member. On top of that, he was 'related' to the British 'German' Royal family, so he would not have gone against his cousin's country to bring a case against the Britain at the Security Council. On top of that,NONE of the African countries had ANY skilled people capable of beginning to address the "west-indian" (diasporan) problem.
The African was, (and still is the ultimate colonial slave-minded useless motherfucker!). So there was no point speaking to the African about helping with our problems with the white man. In fact, it was Jamaican disaporans who went to Africa and explained to them how to free themselves. Unfortunately, they have even made a balls up of that one since.
On top of that, the additional reason why the African is afraid of discussing the slave issue from a sensible perspective, is that they were solidly involved in the slave trade and industry. I have personally seen some of the contracts between the British and the African chiefs. So the African was so overjoyed when they were confronted with idiot Black Americans, Caribbeans and Black-English people who stupidly chatted about 'Africa', instead of asking for the return of their property and inheritance.
The biggest offenders were the criminals from Ghana and Nigeria. The biggest international organisation that failed us was the UN and the Security Council. What should have happened was once the "Brixton War" was acknowledged, the wheels should have started to turn in terms of reparations and requested or voluntary repatriation to a selected list of countries of choice.
Then there should have been an official body to discuss and bring to full fruition our collective healing. Instead we got a room full of idiot broken down Black men (with their white women and confused half-caste children) chatting rubbish.
To this day, the British white establishment, are still hand-picking some Black fool (a man) to front some racist white organisation, to give the impression that they aren't racist. The case has gone so far, that they are brazenly throwing racist half-caste idiots in our Black faces.
These half-caste are usually the off-spring of a Nigger and white trash. And they want to push that rubbish down our throats? They must be mad! In the British parliament, they have gone as far as peopling it with anti-Black"effnik minorities" who are again either racist half-castes or coolies. All that is required of them is that they are sodomites or 'nnam at the two legged stool'. If they are willing to do that, they are in! I wouldn't get in, I'm normal!
