In between a rock and a hard place...

A transformation is taking place. I am noticing things and I'm not sure if I like it: I am getting older. I'm getting to that point where I can say, ' Do you remember..? ' The things happening around me aren't helping either. What is it with the resurgence of pop bands? Am I old enough to see the likes of All Saints, Take That, Boyz II Men and god forbid, the Spice Girls back again? The simple answer is no, and from what I can see, they've just got bills to pay. In the cinema, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is back and digitally remastered, when I'm sure it was just yesterday I was playing Michaelangelo ('cos obviously, he was the best one) while play fighting with my cousins. When I wanna go raving trains of thought are entering my head that were NEVER there before: I've got work in the morning

Let me change my outfit to match my flats, 'cos those heels are gonna bun' my foot after an hour. That's if I want to rave, ' cos it's like 'been there, done that,' tired of being accosted by 10-year-old boys and girls in 'scandilatious' outfits('cos and attention is good attention, right? Wrong!) Slowly, EVER SO SLOWLY, I'm learning that a top that's £4 in Primark, is £4 for a reason (four washes and it's out of colour, out of shape, out of fashion...) andthat no matter how I try, I cannot ake those oh so beautiful size 4 stilletos fit my size 6 feet (damn!). Lately, I've found myself denying I've ever had a childhood while I kiss my teeth and tut at the schoolkids playing the soundtrack to their lives on their phones for the whole bus to "enjoy". But I did have a childhood and it was great - where hand held devices were skipping ropes or at best tamagotchi's; when it was all about stomping around in LA Gears so the lights would shine, or obsessively pressing the tongue on my Reebok Pumps. When hair was gelled to within an inch of it's life and everyone had at least three pairs of ranger loafers from Dalston; When Fonthill Road and Roman Road were what topshop and H&M are today. Wallabees, GAP waterproof jackets, pedal pushers and shagbands. When girls were buff tings and boys were beenies and Nokia 3210s were heavy. Shower was, well a shower, and only ordained priests said 'bless.' Those were the days, but I'm glad there's not too much photographic evidence...

A change of heart...

OK. So, I know I said that this was a space for the ladies, but I've had a few guys come to me and say in a whiny voice ' for the ladies, for the ladies, for the ladies! What about the men? 'And it's true. I thought I was gonna be a beacon for the female of the species, but at some point I've had to accept that there is more to my brothas than Championship Manager and football. So with that said, welcome (again) to Sweeta da Juice (you'll also thankfully notice the shorter url), for the man dem and the gyal dem.

To the Mothers...Happy mother's Day

To the mothers who nurse their swelling stomachs and wistfully dream of things to come To the mothers who appreciate that their minds or bodies weren't ready- Who need to understand that their time is not God's time. To the mother that tries to get the hang of PSPs, pythagoras and podcasts To the mother who struggles to morph between disciplinarian and friend. To the mothers who are mothers to their sisters and their brothers And the grandmothers that have done more than their fair share. To the mother that uses her child (inadvertantly) as currency, a bargaining tool, an excuse. To the mother that runs herself ragged trying to make ends meet. To the married woman who gets a breather because her man's got her back. To the married woman who doesn't but gets on with it anyway. To the mothers who have sat up late at night with worry Then beat the crap out of their kids with relief. To the mother that welcomes home her prodigal child time and time again To the mother who wants the best for her child, but doesn't realise a sheltered life isn't the way.

To the mother who knows that she has to let her child learn from their mistakes.

To the mothers,

To the mothers.

I salute you.

This is your life...Well sort of!

Yesterday, I was accosted by a Revenue Protection Officer (don’t worry; I’m not into credit card fraud). It wasn’t until he bellowed, ‘Tickets please!’, that I cottoned on to who he was. Later that day, I had my sandwich designed I guess, by a ‘Sandwich Artist’ at Subway. As a recent graduate, I’ve been used to seeing these glamorous job titles that amount to little more than a bigger name badge. Is it the PC brigade done mad? A bid to instil self-esteem and attach some importance to an otherwise menial and repetitive job?

CV

Literally means ‘story of your life’, but with 1 in 4 people lying on their CVs, how does the employer know what they’re getting? I, as a lover of words, and have embellished my work as a bar person and waitress to show how I’m suitable for a job in publishing/magazine/or whatever else it may be on countless occasions.

I have a passion to inform the public = I tell customers what the day's special's are

Some of my more audacious friends however, have stretched the truth as far as a t-shirt over Pamela Anderson’s chest. Apparently they’ve worked for the government, the High Commission, the Prince of Wales! Being a steward at a Princes Trust event does not mean you’re on Charlie boy’s payroll. But seeing as he and the government mash up my pay cheque with tax every month, it does seem as though I’m working more for their benefit, than my own.

Employers

Maybe it’s entirely their fault. They’re the one’s searching for ‘Britain’s Top Talent,’ ‘A power player,’ someone who can perform surgery with one hand, write a novel with the other, while running the marathon SIMULTANEOUSLY. We feel we have no choice but to raise our game. To finish, a few choice words from an advert for everyone’s favourite network provider – T Mobile (EKHT- everyone kisses their teeth):

Join T Mobile and you’ll soon discover personal development opportunities and great training that’ll give you the scope to develop an enjoyable and rewarding career. In fact we’ll positively encourage you to take your career just about anywhere in our business.’

This is an ad inviting you to work for customer services at T Mobile. Since when has having someone scream down the phone to reconnect them been enjoyable or rewarding? Hmmm…

Because we're the same all year round, not just on Valentine's Day!

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In the same way, I think that every guy and girl has their equal in our generation. Girls are so good at analysing and labelling guys. But, have we ever thought of the labels that we bear in their eyes? So in an alternate Valentine's Day approach, I want to show we're onto the guys and that butter doesn't necessarily melt in our mouths ladies... The "DVD" Guy Beware! This guy is the one that is A) cheap and B) horny. Firstly, you will most likely be watching the (pirate) DVD on a computer in his uni room, and, oh look, there's nowhere else to sit except his bed. How convenient. This "date" will only take place from 10pm onwards, will involve a film you've already seen and you won't even get through the opening titles before he is trying to fiddle with your bra strap. His equal opposite: The "(fake) naive" Girl I refuse to accept that when a guy says 'come to my house and watch a DVD' that a girl actually thinks she is going to watch a film. This brings me to the following conclusions. Either she is A) just as horny as him, or B) is so into the guy that she'll do anything to spend time with him. Guys, this is a win/win situation for you. The "Nice" Guy aka the "friend" aka the "why are all the good girls taken every time?" Guy This is the guy who will do anything for the girl of his affections in the hope that one day she'll realise she's always loved him (or she'll be drunk enough for him to make a move). I feel it for this guy. He gives emotional support and gets earache about what her man doesn't do. My advice? If you can't be a genuine friend, treating her as you treat your other acquaintances, give up the ghost. His equal opposite: The "not-so-blind" Girl aka The "loves the bad boy" Girl In most, but not all situations, this female's other half is a useless vagabond that she adores. Women have emotional intelligence and usually know how the 'friend' feels about them, and she tries to handle it, avoiding all awkward situations and coyly interrupting any sentence that begins, 'there's something I need to tell you...’ Lets' face it, she loves having an agony uncle on tap and a provider of adoration and attention when her man is M.I.A. Ladies, be fair, if your man can't give you the stuff that counts, that your 'friend' dishes out by the truckload, then your man shouldn't be your man. The difficulty is that we don't necessarily want what's good for us. The "Links and Tings" Guy The rage that the words 'link' and 'ting' bring to my little body mass is unspeakable. 'Ting' is a drink made by Jamrock manufacturers D & G, as far as I'm concerned. This guy sees you as a bum, a pair of thighs, and rashly, a day of the week. This guy wants a girl to do him and no one else without offering commitment; for you to arrive and leave within two hours. And the joke thing is, this is actually becoming a legitimate relationship form... (SKHT*). *SKHT = Sasha kisses her teeth, get used to it. His equal opposite: The "He can change/Why am I not good enough" Girl This girl suffers from bi-polar disorder. One day she's the optimistic wifey-to-be, planning on how great things will be when he does this or becomes that. The next, she's having mood swings to rival Hurricane Katrina, beating herself up because he can't see her worth. Why don't you see your worth and move on? A link is something that bridges a gap on the way to another destination. Why do you want to be a day of the week to someone? Let's get this straight, sex comes AFTER love not the other way round, but your situation's different right? Yeah, course it is. So who’ll be your Valentine? You’re guaranteed the DVD guy will score, (hopefully the fake naïve girl won’t be faking when she climaxes). The useless vagabond will forget, and the friend (who’ll have text ‘happy v. day!’ at midnight) will just happen to be there with Two Can Play That Game and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. The link’s link, will wait in vain for a call that won’t come, ‘cos her assigned booty call day is Friday (Unlucky love). Fair enough, it’s not all bad and some of you will have some seriously envy-inducing experiences, but if all the choice I’m left with is the above, Thank God I’m single!

What is Supposed to be?

What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to be slim I'm supposed to be rich I'm supposed to wear high heels And have perky tits. And if they ain't perky A few stitches, they'll be fixed. But who said I was broken? What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to be on Atkins "You are what you eat" Feeding on the camera's lies Obsessed with warped reality. But hey! I'm a size zero (Well, my confidence is...) What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to wear nike. Never Gola or Kappa 'Cos that would be shame, right? Do we not realise that we're minions We're clones! That WE paid for Mr Nikes Villa and Mrs Nike's new nose? WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE? The entrepeneur's strategy To break my individuality. And it worked. What is supposed to be? Supposed to be is: "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. You wanna belong don't you?" Yeah, I suppose.

Communication For me Nation!

100 is quite a big number in some contexts. 100 percent. 100 Krispy Kremes. But in others - first 100 ladies free entry, 100 pieces of chicken at a family get together is positively tiny! Especially when you consider that it's the number of complaints lodged about the Trident "saahhf" (Jamo accent) adverts. Everyone I know's had an opinion. My friend T said:

I think it's out of order. But as usual, black people don't voice their opinions. Blatantly mocking us. Called it Trident as well (black on black). Why?

So hang on. Black people don't go skiing, black people don't voice their opinions. So what DO we do? When Lemar lost out on Fame Academy (as a self-confessed fan, I feel it was one of the biggest travesties in UK history), with Maria's shock exit on the X Factor, we were the first to voice our opinions then.

But was the advert racist? A dictionary definiton shows racism to be 'the belief that races have distinctive cultural characteristics...and this endows some races with an intrinsic superiority.' Someone somewhere must have the said superiority, as the ads are still on. I don't think it's racitst, just ill timed. With the spate of shootings trying to be appeased by a branch off of the police force also named Trident, marketing chould've let the idea marinate for a bit - black jamrock man, Trident gum, Trident force, black on black crime...hmm. Far-fetched, but these are the parallels my peers have drawn all the same.

So you've got a black man doing some dead out "comedy" routine. Then in consequent ads, you've got a middle-class white man and woman with Jam accents harping on about 'sensations' to their white counterparts. Again, I don't think it's racist, just way out of date and non-sensical. How're they still trying to evoke the quintessential Brit as a reserved, stiff upper-lipped tea drinker when we all saw typical Brit Gobby Goody shouting her mouth off on Big Brother (157,000 complaints I might add. Now the 100 really does seem insignificant)? If everyon'e so PC, and this was our Shilpa Shetty moment, where were our front page news spreads? Our Sky News Live links to the West Indies with the rastas having a go? Oh, I know, Advertising Standards is an 0901 number, and you're on T Mobile's five day pass, right? Is that what it was?

Akwaaba to open-mindedness! (Welcome to open-mindedness!)

Ten years ago, you had the well settled Caribbean’s referring to the recent influx as 'boo-boo's' (name calling= possible hostile familiarity of our own Windrush journey nearly 60 years previously). Now, however, name calling is not just for those form opposing sides. ‘Af’ doesn’t mean ‘of African heritage,’ as I frequently hear Ghanaians and Naijas etc referring to their own not-so-well adjusted counterparts as afs, freshies and JJC's (Johnny Just Come).

Growing up with heavy influence by my (mainly Nigerian) sistas, I'd like to share my cultural musings with you from a Jamaican/Guyanese P.O.V. I, personally, love the cultural melting pot that's going on, though some may not agree. Last year, I visited Ghana for my birthday. To me, it meant sunshine, food, education, but you'd be surprised how many times this conversation occurred:

Them: You're going Ghana. I didn't know you were Ghanaian. Me: I'm not. Them: So what are you going to Ghana for? To which I'd say, ' Oh, you're not English. What are you doing doing here then?’

I expected that small-mindedness from my parents’ generation. Is it ignorance or a fear of the unknown? Rebellion against the multi-cultural world we live in? Or is it purely an attempt to retain our identities and culture without it being watered down? Maybe it's a mix of all of these things, though we're not as dissimilar as we may think.

You call it plantain; we call it plantin (though the adding salt to it will never make sense to my sweet taste buds). Speaking of salt, there's another commonality: high blood pressure. You have yam pounded, we have it whole with ackee and salt fish. Ghanaians are on banku, we've got our cornmeal, but tilapia and escoveitch fish are essentially the same dish.

I'm sure that 'malt' should be THE continent wide drink of Africa. There's not an Af household I know of without a crate of the stuff stashed somewhere, meanwhile, while us Jamrocks appreciate supermalt, pass us a dragon stout, Red Stripe or Guinness and we're bredrins for life! There's only one mystery that defies me. Why is it that when you're offered stew, you're offered chicken or meat (pronounced mit)? What, because chicken isn't a meat all of a sudden? And what is meat? Beef, lamb, goat, veal?! Boy whatever it is, it tastes good! Answers on a postcard anyway!

Even though it's just a comical look at food, and I’m fully aware of the complexities of this subject, you can see, there's nothing to be scared of! We inhabit some of the most beautiful, culturally rich countries in the world and we should delight in, not shy away from proudly sharing our histories and our futures. I'm on it, if for no other reason than knowing that I can bop into one of my many 'aunties' households, pronounce 'Ebi n pa mi' (Yuroba for I'm hungry!), and I'm sorted with a plate of Jollof quick time!

One thing I know for sure is that I'll be donning my kente cloth and jamming to Mz'bel come Saturday! Not because I’m a culturally inept 2nd generation Brit, but because I delight in any forwardly progressive, stereotype changing, celebratory exhibition of my blossoming, powerful, black people. Ghana Independence means I'm honourary Af for the day. Head tie and all!

Welcome to Urbanite

Welcome.

You were probably just intrigued by the blog address. Well, stay for a while!

So, why am I here?

In short, to try and bring something real to the table. There's nothing out there for the young, multicultural, conscious woman. Nowhere that has the guts to talk about the things that I see on the street, or live on a day to day basis. I'm SO bored with the unrealistic body images, diet after diet, what we can buy to make us happy; of celebrities famous by genes, spouses or lack of clothes becoming journalists, designers, perfumiers, fitness coaches just because of their name.

And another thing...

This is for the many people like me who are more than a label. For the "bounties," the "neeks," the posh and "the hood rats"; the many skin tones between light, olive and dark as seen on the beauty pages, those with thighs and batty that can't fit in topshop skinnies, for those that can, but are fed up with people assuming they don't eat because of it; and especially those that have been made to feel that being DIFFERENT is a bad thing.

So I invite you to Laugh. Relate. Think. 'Cos we're more than hair and beauty.