BlackNotBlack.com

Flags of Our Soccer Hooligans, Part 1

As my imaginary legion of readers out there have no doubt noticed by now, BlackNotBlack is about black-related subjects—social, political, pop-cultural, international—discussed by a person who escaped the United States, and the ghetto of the mind. It’s about participating in the world community and viewing events through the lens of that experience. No matter how well you think you know yourself, it is only from the outside that you see who you truly are. In a sense, it’s about getting outside your own skin. There are places in the world where your role in the social hierarchy is reversed, where you’re near the top, cops don’t pay you a bit of attention, and store owners’ eyes actually light up when you walk through the door.


Is this a revelation? No—black soldiers in WWI and WWII figured it out when they were shipped to Europe. Hundreds of black jazzmen felt it in Paris during the 50s and 60s. My favorite jazzman—Miles Davis—preferred Finland above all other countries. He said Helsinki was the only city in the world where he truly felt like a human being. The instant I read that I was ready to book a flight (and I did go to Finland a few years back, but that’s a story for a later post).

One place where you can get a 20/20 view of yourself from the outside is Iceland. I spent some time there visiting a stuntman friend during last year’s Flags of Our Fathers production. The movie is about war in the Pacific, but the only place in the world that looks like the Iwo Jima of the 40s is the Iceland of today, so Clint and the rest packed up their gear and boarded a plane. My friend is pictured above (in a scene later cut from the film) and, as you can see, one of his stunts was to play a guy who stepped in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To say blacks don’t often go to Iceland is an understatement. If it’s any measure of how much I stood out there, consider this: I ran into Bjork in a hotdog line and she stared at me more than I stared at her. Bjork, we can assume, has met hundreds of blacks—just not in Iceland. She was dressed in a long faux fur coat and bright red stiletto boots. It was strange seeing her, because I'd had contact with her camp before. When I was editor of a magazine some years back we asked her publicity firm for some potential cover shots to accompany a feature we were publishing. We wanted unique images, not the usual handouts, and so after some back and forth, they sent us several featuring her in a not-quite sheer shirt. Using the magic of Photoshop, we were able to tweak the contrast and levels enough to bring out her nipples fully, enjoyed a good laugh over the possibility of actually publishing the shot, then opted for a more conventional cover which showed only her lovely face. This whole episode went through my mind as I was looking at her. It's always the most juvenile pranks that give us the greatest pleasure, isn't it?

Icelanders like to fight. Some of them might disagree with that statement, but they’d do it by breaking your elbows. They especially like to break the elbows of foreigners, and it warms a special chamber of their hearts when the victim is American. In fact, “Go home Yankee” is the Icelandic national anthem. This sentiment is a result, I’m guessing, of the immensely unpopular American military presence there (bet you didn’t know your tax dollars are funding troops in Iceland, did you?).

American blacks travel so rarely to places like Iceland that a local’s first guess about where you’re from will invariably be England. Second most popular answer: France. Third (for me): Jamaica. So if you’re black you’re probably not American, in the Icelandic estimation. You’re just a foreigner. They still want to beat you down, but only in the getting-to-know-you way that you all laugh off later while sharing a round of Guinness.

In a little hamlet on the east coast of Iceland called Hofn some friends and I decided to go out for a drink one Wednesday night. After a stop at the harbor to watch the northern lights, we located a bar. Icelanders rarely drink during the week, but we were surprised to find the place empty. More than that, it had been closed minutes before. The owner told us he had opened only because the local football team had called and begged him for a place to party that night.

The look I exchanged with my friends at that point could best be translated as: “Oh great.”

I don’t mind being kicked out of joints. Hell, I’ve been tossed from bars on three continents. But I don’t kick myself out just because trouble is on the way. So rather than find another bar we hung around. When the footballers rumbled in the door (only six, rather than the expected eleven, plus subs) they were, let’s say, astounded by my presence.

Most Icelanders speak some English, and so the usual queries ensued: Who are you? What are you doing here? Why don’t you get your black ass out of our bar but leave the woman behind (just kidding, they were only thinking that, maybe). I escaped this situation by answering each question in Spanish. These guys’ brains were like fish on ice in a dockside market. I completely baffled them. Classically educated guys, they were probably remembering that the Queensbury Rules on combat state that you can’t kick someone’s ass if they are unable to comprehend your intentions. So while they grappled with the puzzle of how to translate "going to beat you like a mongrel dog" into something a Spanish-speaker could understand, we slipped out the door.

I don’t normally back down at such moments, but these were football players, and there were six of them to three of us (not counting my girlfriend). They were short, like mascots rather than athletes, but you saw how Zidane up and Zidaned that Materazzi bloke in the World Cup? These guys, if they had decided to headbutt me, might have hit me in the groin. Anyway, you don’t fight outnumbered six to three, even when your friend is a stuntman and a stone killer (sorry to blow your cover, Dan). We might have won, but on the other hand, one good shot on Ari (who is definitely a lover, not a fighter) and it would have instantly been six on two. Even having a killer at your side won't help you then. Real life ain't Enter the Dragon. By now most of my non-readers, I imagine, are thinking Iceland is not a country to visit, but you learn more challenging yourself in a place like that than regurgitating cherry Jell-o shots on a beach in Cancun. Call me crazy, but I loved it there.


There were also some non-violent nights in Iceland (typical sunset pictured above), but those are (you guessed it) for a later post.

Labels: bjork, iceland, travel

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 6:07 PM