I fell in love with a black woman

I have prepared myself for this year’s Notting Hill Carnival phisically, mentally, with two empty 35G memory cards, a very low cleavage on a black, gold sequened body, curly hair mousse and everything in between, but I could have never prepaired myself for what was about to happen to me.

 

Plus, I couldn’t wait to finally try some of the street foods – flavours of the Carribean – the famous jerk chicken with rice (which, after hours of walking along with the dancers in a desperate attempt to keep up with them seemed as necessary as a bottle of water which I abstained from drinking because of the permanent horror of temporary toilets which the mear thought of using makes my skin crawl), to get inspiration for next year from all the colourful costumes, the personal styles, the apparent randomness in choosing outfits, the caravans, interractions, hats, dreads, some of the african hair braiding styles – which I have been very interested in lately – and all the more or less famous characters I was about to recognize – or not (I did spot some “V” masks in the crowd but, hey, they keep poppin’ up at every respectable event since that wonderful movie’s been released).

I already knew that my participation was going to be pretty much through the camera’s eye…

 

…and it was absolutely fine.

There were going to be so many beautiful, interesting people covered in feathers and Soca rhythm, glitter and smiles, Calypso music and fishnet stockings to later become some of our most treasured memories and if not, at least future references.

Two million people were to be expected again, so all the energy I came with, turned to exhaustment before the day ended for having continuously power walked and turned my head around in owl like movements to try and capture everyting, everyone, everywhere.

I couldn’t, of course. But I got a few glimpses of exotic beauty, learned something new, had a lot of fun, danced a little, got rained on, drank a little wine, had the satisfaction of smoking a joint right next to two policemen who intentionally ignored me and admired those kind of bodies you only get to see in Usher or Kanye’s videos.

 

 

But I wanted to get an even closer sniff, as it were:

observing, listening, photographing everything from gestures, fixations, that cocktail of slang, cockney accent and jamaican patois, the hair texture, the social behaviour (the way women respond to provocations is EXACTLY as in movies) mannerisms in young people, how they party, the look on their face that says “I’m wasted, out of control and proud of it”, the extremely sexual and even vulgar, but hypnotising body language.

(I met an incredibly beautiful police woman who actually turned out to be an amazing person as well. And since we’ve come to this part, the 7000 Met police officers from the Violent Crime Task Force who kept us all safe and sound, making sure that no one got injured whilst enjoying the end of summer are definitely worth mentioning and being grateful to. Also…the person on the right…is that a man….is that a woman? No one knows for sure and the party continues)

(A gorgeous woman spreading her wings in a japanese inspired costume)

(Bird-men showing their colourful feathers in ritualic dances of courtship)

(A little girl, the oldest of four sisters, enjoys being part of the parade, having her photos taken, dancing and looking absolutely beautiful, not knowing that this is an initiation into womanhood)

Bosoms everywhere. Small, large, extra large, melon sized, pierced, or suffocated by too small yet festive and glittery bras,they are everywhere you turn and nothing is left to imagination. Not that I’m complaining or anything, but maybe – just maybe – there is a little too much sexual objectification at events such as these and the saddest part is that women don’t seem to mind it at all. On the contrary – most of it is not only permitted, but self induced.

Their dance style will most certainly take you by surprise, as a female in the crowd starts to move her body in a very subtle way only to almost immediately look like she is about to reenact a porn movie scene. She stops in the middle of the street and assume the position: bended knees, head to the side, frantic ass shakes, lip-syncing on the whatever loud song the dj is playing. She knows all lyrics by heart anyway, no exception.

Everyone around her stops and stares. They have to. It’s on. It can’t be ignored. She bends lower and lower – apparently, the lower you bend, the better you are at this twerking dance. Out of nowhere, a man (or woman) comes towards her and takes her from behind. Their moves become simultaneous as they slowly find their rhythm. The crowd applauds, encouraging their performance. Some are recording, others are taking pictures. Positions might be changed, to beat the routine. The dance ends as sudden as it begun, both returning to their friends as if they haven’t just shared the most sexually explicit dance I have ever seen in my life.

(At events like this and in life as well, let’s see the beauty and ignore the dirty streets, the ones who step on our foot and don’t even bother to look, the endless crowds and noisy people, the puke puddles and the general lack of care. Let’s rather observe the details that can make a difference, the tattoos, the little seashells braided in one’s hair, the smiles and the eyes. Maybe a beautiful dress from time to time because if can’t be all creators, let’s at lest be observers of beauty. It will be good for us)

(Crochet braids, cornrows, Marley ponytails, chunky bantu knots, afro puffs, faux locs, box braids, plaits, senegalese twists, twisted pompadours, braided up do’s, fauxhawks, micro braids, front buns – you name it, they had it)

Later on, in the croud, near me, a young lady takes out a small, metal box from her minuscule, otherwise glittery purse and openes it. Inside, a lipgloss, a mascara, something that looks a lot like a beautiful pair of silver earrings and two imperfectly home made joints from which she chooses one and extracts it, then puts the small container back in the purse. She lights it up and starts smoking to pass the time until the crowd spreads up and she can go look for her boyfriend. She has beautiful curly hair and a tatoo on her chest that says “Sky is the limit”. Is it?

 

Among the numerous things that we, caucasian females, coulda, woulda, shoulda be (and definitely are) envious about is that these  fierce, black voo-doo godesses seem to know what they want and are not afraid to get it, they all seem to have this hypnotising rhythm in their blood (and one can only imagine what other dangerously sexy things they can use that rhythm for), dark eyes, curves all over,  how they wear those large, round earrings of theirs and twerk like no other and one thing is for sure: few men can handle them in moments when “they can’t even”. And Lord knows that they are the only ones who can tame them.

Which brings me to the other side of the story…

 

Never ever stand in the way of a black woman when she is angry or upset, especially if you’re the reason for her being so. Run. Get out (yes, we all love Jordan Peele). And may God protect you from getting into an argument with her – you will NOT come out alive nor will you ever be able to publicly show your smile. Ever again. At least, not until you go get them teeth fixed. She will not stop at anything: hair ripping, finger breaking, wide arm movements for intimidation, mean yo momma jokes and she’ll cuss at you until you apologise for things you don’t even know you’ve said (yes, I borrowed this joke from a stand-up comedian whose name I don’t remember – it could have been Bill Burr). On your knees. Blaming yourself for having gotten into this situation in the first place.

Which brings me to the title of this story…actually no, it doesn’t. I’ll abstain myself from making any further comments and will even let you figure our on your own who she is, from all these chocolate skinned feminine presences.

Hours and a different crowd later, a tall dark skinned woman with afro textured hair, wearing a black laced blouse and a pair of Police sun glasses walks right in front of me. Her stlyle is very 1980’s and, by taking a closer look I discover an afro pick in her hair. Am I the only one who finds these details absolutely amazing?

Another funny story is that of having browsed through last year’s Carnival photos only to discover that one of the faces seemed incredibly familiar – it turns out that one of the girls I took photos of then is the same I took a bunch of photos of this year as well in an even more amazing costume, that of a slightly more Rubenesque but just as beautiful Sacagawea.

This year’s carnival has left me with an immense desire of reading some psychology texts on how to approach people on the street in order for them to allow you to take their picture. It’s harder than you imagine, especially here, a town full of freaks that come in every shape and form  and make everyone else circumspect, to say the least. There still is a lot for me to learn in this matter. Hopefully, by next year, I will have had more courage.

 

Hopefully, when next year’s carnival is over and I am browsing through photographs, my heart will melt again: I will have recognized her face.

Hopefully.

 

GreenEyed Kisses,