Superiority complex

August 8, 2008

My personal privileges as a white middle class UK citizen were brought to light this week by two very different encounters. The first was when a large group of black teenage boys wanted to get on the bus, weren’t allowed, then one of them sabotaged the bus. Although sabotaging a bus is rarely the best cause of action I sympathise with the boys. They are one of the most despised groups in our society, and one that it seems socially acceptable to despise since all the press about gangs, knife and gun crime. They were probably correct when they claimed the bus driver was being racist. I can appreciate the driver was intimidated by the number of them and only wanted to admit some to reduce the chance of rowdiness, but the fact that they could see there was space for them all to fit antagonised them. Unfortunately they did get a little rowdy then, proving in the minds of the passengers what they had suspected all along.

It’s actually that part that happened after that I had most problem with. The boys were not a gang, they were a football team on their way to practice. Despite that the disruntled passengers complained the driver should have done something sooner, they shouldn’t have been allowed onto another bus, and one of them called the police. These were all middle class white people, all very annoyed that their bus had been messed with. The guy who called the police actually shouted at the rest of us for not standing up with him when he confronted one of them (he’s obviously been reading too many opinion pieces on the Independent website). No one spoke up for the kids, but I guess there could have been some secret sympathisers.

I understand why they feel safer in large groups now, with so many suspicious glances.

Not that I understand their entire lives, obviously, though I do think hating teenagers is one of the first signs of aging.

My second encounter was with my new friend Neighbour. Neighbour lives next door (duh) and gets the same bus as me in the morning, giving us the opportunity for a five minute chat before the bus arrives. He is about 60, a working class Brummie who builds staircases for shops. I, being middle class and highly educated, assumed that I was so very much more clever than Neighbour, until we had a chat about books. He is a sci-fi fanatic and loves to read at any given opportunity, though for unspecified reasons (probably since he started living in pokey bedsits) he hasn’t read a book for 3 years. I could not allow this so I lent him A Brave New World and Oryx and Crake the next day: the only sci-fi books I could find at short notice. He was most pleased, and promised to lend me a book of his when another friend returns it, about a half-human half-martian and featuring philosophical discussion on the value of marriage. That is a book I would like to read. Which surprised me. Because I do have huge prejudices in the way I see the world, and I judged Neighbour on his appearance and class and his current main hobby of drinking Carling.

I am glad Neighbour befriended me, he has helped me see flaws in myself that I can address.

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I <3 Sci-fi

May 7, 2008

I was going to write about my favourite TV shows and the strange fixation my housefolks and I have developed for watching Quantum Leap but talking about what I watched on TV last night would make me pathetic. I lie, it would make me human, but it would make me feel pathetic. More pathetic in fact that talking about my cat, because at least that would give me one more tick on the list of how many fake types of crazy I can pull off.

I do less than three Sci-fi. On the one hand I want to say that this is down to the high standard of plot and writing that has to go in just to get a prime time show aired or movie produced. But then I remember such gems as the Lost World series featuring jungle Barbie which if Battlestar Galactica was Picasso would be a crayon drawing of a stick man on the back of an envelope.

I think great Sci-fi comes from the space the genre gives to explore ideas without getting heavy handed and preachy about it. Not to say they don’t, like in last week’s episode of Dr Who when in a discussion on slavery the Doctor states “where do you think your clothes come from?” Now I heart the Doctor and I am interested in where my clothes come from but asshat writers who stomp all over BBC shows (why do you think no one watches Robin Hood) and hijacking characters to put their messages out are not welcome on my TV. I am glad they at least had the sense to have Donna tell him off but in general this was a poorly scripted episode. Fine plot (ish) but poorly executed. Shame on you BBC, you must try harder if you want a gold star.

Traumas: work has been assigned, I shall have to conclude my meandering nothingy thoughts later.