FAILURE
The shit bit. The bit they leave out of the MANual. A brain fart from the archive.
For some it’s an experience, an essential rite of passage en route to manhood. For my younger self, failure quietly lingered like a shadow that went to the gym too much. There’s something sinister about the prize fighter we spend our pay-per-view pennies on, in the hope they might lose. So, here’s to the unbeaten, bloated belt holder.
Failure. Fuck you.
Growing into these ears and awkwardly long arms were two of the many worries I had as a teenager. Puberty for me was mainly avoiding anything that resembled breasts due to their ability to turn me an Arsenal shade of red. I’m a black man. My people don’t blush, but boobs had the power to betray my melanin.
Outside of my unavoidable genetics, a silently building ideal began to grow. I was learning the code of manhood. Not deliberately, but socially and culturally. The man shaped armour I’d started to wear, taught me to never reveal the chink I knew existed.
London in the 90’s was the backdrop to my formative years, while my parents uprooted African culture took centre stage. The ability to be both working class London and unashamedly African caused a constant friction.
The distance between the two worlds was vast, yet some beliefs were shared. In both cultures, being a man did not include weakness or failure while being a good man was all I wanted to be.
My first run in with failure played a part in finding myself on a therapist’s couch. Session one was a master class in what I knew to be true, bumping into its harder scarier self. Of course, I wasn’t going to cry and of course the therapist agreed. A statement contradicted by him nudging the tissue box closer.