#185: What the fuck are you looking at?
I’ve been back in Stoke for around 4 months now.
Back in the place I spent the first 20 years of my life, a place that shaped me, a place I love, a place where many of the people I love live. A place where my family have been for 150 years.
I’m getting married in Stoke on April 9th and this weekend we went to see the venue.
We popped to Sainsbury’s after and I walked out smiling. Happy. I was eating a delicious bounce ball. I was walking tall.
I probably looked at the man approaching for a millisecond too long. He looked pale and angry and was holding a can of coke. He looked not much older than me.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
I kept walking, switched off, knew turning around and asking what his problem was would be a pointless task, maybe even a dangerous one. I just kept walking.
I got back to the car and was angry. The moment reminded me of so much.
Stoke can be a rough place. Going out on a night out at 18 and you were sure to see a fight, or more than one. Being looked at, stared out or on the receiving end of a comment like above is something me and all my mates would have experienced at some point.
It became normal. I didn’t live in fear, but a guard went up.
With intimidation, there’s a spectrum. On one hand there’s the fear of physical violence, of someone starting on you for no reason, someone wanting to a pick a fight just for the fun of it. If you’re smart you just avoid it and keep yourself out of trouble. I’ve never had a fight in my life and don’t plan to. I became invisible to confrontation.
On the other hand, there’s a look or a comment. A speculative hurl of being called “Gay” “Faggot” “Prick” or whatever insult you might pick up. “Fat Bastard” “Ginger cunt” “Speccy 4 eyes” you catch my drift.
The culture of judgement is insidious. It starts young I think, before you even notice it. It’s a raised eyebrow if someone expresses themselves a bit too much. It’s putting someone down if they get “a bit too big for their boots” It’s taking the piss out of someone rather than show them genuine affection.
The outbursts of fighting are just the tip of the iceberg. The bulk of the matter is the conversation, the low-level bullying and verbal abuse.
Growing up I felt scared to express myself. Wearing a colourful t-shirt on a night out was a risk. Even being too happy felt like a risk. I created a “them” in my head. It was “they” that would laugh at me. It was “they” that would think I’m stupid. It was “they” that would point when I failed. It was “they” that would judge me for trying something, anything new.
I felt conflicted, I wanted to belong, be part of the group, yet I wanted to be an individual, different, myself. The two needs clashed. Conformity often won.
As I write, I wonder if I’m avoiding facing up to my own lack of confidence. I doubt that the environment was that bad. I question myself, I say no, it was me that just wasn’t brave enough. I tell myself it was me that created the fear of sharing my ideas and my genuine interests.
I’m not sure if I’m writing about Stoke exclusively or about British culture more broadly. There seems to be this desire to bring people down, to not let people be too happy.
I feel sad writing this, as if I’m muddying where I’m from. At 30 years old, I can articulate what I felt as a teenager much better and see it more clearly.
I see how a city with little hope, little aspiration and one that is financially deprived can breed a culture of anger, hate and judgement.
I see too how I could pick up this culture and internalise it, place the thoughts, views and opinions of others in my head and make them my own. I see how I could adopt a mindset and worldview.
I don’t resent the place like I did when I was younger, I don’t want to run from it and never return. I see it with compassion, with sadness in my eyes and worry that another generation of young people might grow up not achieving their potential because they don’t take risks to explore who they are.
I’ve never wanted to forsake where I grew up, never wanted to forget about it. I’ve always wanted to own it as part of who I am. I’ve always known that in some way, it’s a superpower.
Reconnecting to this sense of place is healing and gives me a great sense of perspective. It helps disentangle some of those stories in my head from the ones I picked up from where I lived. That voice in my head that tells me not to smile too broad, or look too colourful. It turns out it’s not my voice, it’s someone else’s that became my own.
An industrial city that lost it’s industry, it’s economy and it’s soul. That’s been overlooked by governments and poorly managed by local leaders. Iconic buildings rotting, high rates of children in care and mostly low paying job opportunities. What the fuck are you looking at? It starts to make more sense.
This place is home and always will be. A piece of my heart is here. Personally I don’t always find that easy. I feel confused and wonder where I belong. I wonder where I might live.
One thing I know is that I feel better, more rounded and more grounded for connecting to where I’m from. If there’s a piece of my heart here, this has been my chance to reclaim it.
Cheers,
James x
Poem of the week.
A Potteries Idyll (refections on a midlands city) by David Vickers.
You have to scroll down through all the ads to read the poem, if you're from the area, the midlands or are curious. I highly highly recommend.
Me, 5/6 years old? Worshipping Alan Shearer and reading Roald Dahl, happy place.
Post rowing coffee & flapjack, happy place.
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