Shame. I've tried to outstep the shame of this. Even now the guilt piles high like records
wrapped on an old dance set. I was a youth lost in a bedroom mirror. My James Brown moves
flickering light bulbs, fueling hate in the building site politics of my father. For this
I became his family secret, the boy who surrendered to the funk and the darkness
of Blues and Soul magazine, the cutouts of Evelyn Champagne King sellotaped to a wall.
At after-school discos I'd be staring at Floyd, his body poured burnt treacle in a
woolen hat, the greatest dancer I have ever seen. He would beckon me around,
over to join him, to share our gyrations. I was good, but never authentic. How could I be?
Lectured in the rudiments of old Enoch, I walked away into the Basildon contradictions of 1977.
Punk rock or the National Front? A question of belonging. Confusion carried me to libraries,
from Colin McCliness to MLK.
Reciting the revolution will not be televised, I operated inside the black and white.
I routinely invaded the southern suburbs, protesting reasons for those wounded by a lack of love,
justice and connection. Some mornings, returning home, meeting their eyes, I faced down the family
I loved through blood, but never tolerating their traditions. And tonight, I am older,
in a once-industrial northern town, swooning to the music that took me, that partially unlocked a life.
I stand still from my window, gazing soft at these streets, wanting to dance with every Floyd.
To share our spins, our moments lost in mirror balls, backflips and tepid lemonade.
I can't do it. The heavy feet of our history still sink me beneath the floor.
I can't do it. The heavy feet of our history still sink me beneath the floor.

How do I share the shame of nurture? Am I late?