JJ Bola - Mask Off : Masculinity Redefined.

Holds men accountable for the ways in which we benefit from male privilege, and liberates us from its violently toxic demands.

David Lammy, MP

JJ Bola knows that we have to find a new way forward.
This book is good for all of us.

Benjamin Zephaniah

An uncompromising, heartfelt and completely vital interrogation of this thing we call masculinity. Bubbling with new perspectives and major insights this is the book about masculinity that we ALL need.

Jeffrey Boakye, author of Black, Listed: Black British Culture Explored

Incisive, engaging, powerfully vulnerable, JJ Bola has given us an urgent and compelling examination of one of societys most pressing subjects.

Musa Okwonga

Outspoken

Series Editor: Neda Tehrani

Platforming underrepresented voices; intervening in important political issues; revealing powerful histories and giving voice to our experiences; Outspoken is a series unlike any other. Unravelling debates on sex education, masculinity, feminism, mental health, and class and inequality, Outspoken has the answers to the questions youre asking. These are books that dissent.

Also available:

Behind Closed Doors

Sex Education Transformed

Natalie Fiennes

Feminism, Interrupted

Disrupting Power

Lola Olufemi

Split

Class Divides Uncovered

Ben Tippet

Masculinity Redefined

JJ Bola

First published 2019 by Pluto Press

345 Archway Road, London N6 5AA

www.plutobooks.com

Copyright JJ Bola 2019

By Agreement with Pontas Literary & Film Agency

The right of JJ Bola to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 0 7453 3874 3 Paperback

ISBN 978 1 7868 0502 7 PDF eBook

ISBN 978 1 7868 0504 1 Kindle eBook

ISBN 978 1 7868 0503 4 EPUB eBook

This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental standards of the country of origin.

Typeset by Stanford DTP Services, Northampton, England

An acknowledgement and thanks to the Society of Authors for the grant award in support of me writing this book. For more information, please visit www.societyofauthors.org.

Thanks also to the 8 club by the Young Vic Theatre the source of the testimonies used throughout the book. For more information, please visit: www.youtube.com/user/YoungVicLondon.

One sunny Saturday afternoon during my teenage years, before touch screen and selfies, before 4G, before social media had permeated every aspect of our being, I was walking through the vibrant, often tumultuous, multicultural, dynamic Tottenham High Road in North London. I was with a large group with about ten, of my uncles. They werent really my uncles. They were not blood relatives, but the men who made up the Congolese community I had grown up in. On Saturdays, as part of their church group, they ran activities for young people in the community, which included the brass band music and other cultural activities.

After attending one of these Saturday sessions, I was invited for food at one uncles house who lived locally, just off the high street. My excitement could not be contained. It was an unexpected treat of pondu, makemba, mikate and ntaba (stew, plantain, doughnut balls also known as puff puff, and grilled goat) truly a privilege. We walked along the high street making our way to the house, chatting excitedly. I was noticeably the only teenager in the group, dressed in my tracksuit bottoms, hooded jumper and Nike Air Force 1 trainers. They were mostly dressed in the unique fashion of Congolese men: high-waisted jeans, colourful t-shirts fitted tight to unathletic, pot-belly type bodies, designer brands and eccentric designs.

As we walked, I began to feel very self-conscious and increasingly aware of the group I was with. Although I was very familiar with Tottenham I spent a lot of time there as a teenager and had walked the same streets often, though with an entirely different group and a different purpose I felt self-conscious because we were attracting a lot of attention, not just as a large group, but as a large group of eccentrically dressed men of African descent speaking loudly in Lingala. I also saw lots of other teenagers. Some began staring, pointing, and even laughing in the distance. I was certain some of them recognised me as I tried to hide by putting my hood up. In hindsight, this probably had the opposite effect.

We continued to walk through as a group, now split up in pairs or in threes, each holding their separate conversations. I walked with my uncle, holding hands. This is perfectly normal in Congolese/Francophone African culture, and I would later learn, in many other cultures around the world too. It is a way for men to bond and show affinity, as well as affection towards each other. This is the culture I had grown up in. I had often watched my father holding hands while speaking with other men in the community, or as they walked. It was normal, and in those situations I did not think twice of it. However, outside of the cultural norms of this group, it took on an alien and embarrassing quality.

Much to my relief, we turned off the high road, and walked towards the housing estate where the uncle who was hosting us lived. I had been to his house many times before. I wanted to run there on my own, ahead of the uncles, and wait there for them but the burden of explaining this behaviour would last with me much longer than I wanted or needed it too.

I was breathing a bit more relaxed and freely, though still walking hand in hand with my uncle. We were no longer in the direct gaze of all of those people on the street, particularly the teenagers. As we turned onto the estate where my uncle lived, with a renewed sense of vigour and boisterousness, a group of teenagers who were hanging out on the estate noticed us. They watched us; their eyes focussing on me and the uncle I walked hand in hand with. I could see their faces portraying a range of negative expressions, everything from confusion to disgust.

I had seen those youths on the estate before. Sometimes Id even given them the subtle head-nod, an in-group greeting that comes with respect and acceptance. On these estates and every estate, inner-city area, hood, ghetto, ends, slums, whatever the moniker respect is all about how strong you are, or at least, how strong you are perceived to be. I had participated in this faade long enough to be granted respect. I was tall and athletic looking. Having had an early introduction to press ups and weights, I appeared just intimidating enough. All of this respect earned quickly dissipated before my very eyes, as I was seen walking hand in hand with another man.

I wanted to put my hood back on and bury my face but it was too late, I had already been seen. I quickly removed my hands from my uncles, pretending to reach for something in my pocket, which he seemed non-fussed about; another futile act.