Hay, Codja, good to hear from you again. Happy birthday, by the way for last week. American legislation allows for the 'free' sale of firearms. British legislation does not. As a politics bod I hope you know more about the ins and outs of said legislation than I. You're right when you say if you want to get your hands on a gun in Britain you can quite easily do so, but acquisition is usually a criminal act. If you wan to buy a gun in the United States you go to a gun store and buy one. So you think "gun crime is a huge worry particularly in inner city areas"? You've been sucked in by the huge media panic about gun crime at the moment, propelled by the conservative print media and the Daily Mail, the mother of all non-papers. The visual media's now jumped on the bang wagon as well, in search of easy viewing figures. Sky One hastily sends Ross Kemp into London to film 'Teenage Gangs of South London'. Beware the sensationalism. Gun crime in urban centres really is not that bad. I live down Smithdown Road, Liverpool (if you know Liverpool, you know why that's significant) and gun crime is not a problem. Urbanisation is not a metaphor for degradation as the media would have us believe. Honest!
A 90 day cooling off period? Ok, so I got to Virginia, I have the constitutional right to buy a good thanks to the second amendment (more about that later). I have to wait 90 days but then I can shoot as many people as I want. Background checks? They must be really thorough: Cho Seung-hui was referred for counsilling because of disturbing writings; Professors warned the university about his behaviour; he had an obsession with his first victim; and, he was taken to a mental health facility in 2005. He was still able to get himself a gun. They must be some though background checks!
Dunblane was bad. But because of our gun laws, and subsequent action by politicians, it was and is (so far) a one off incident. Virginia Tech is another in a long line of similar incidents. The very first paragraph on the BBC website: 'the Columbine shooting was one of a spate of killings at US high schools.' Like I said. This will happen again.
"The second amendment itself is not the problem." Yes it bloody well is. It is the main contributing factor behind gun crime in the US. The second amendment is no different to the Plessy vs. Ferguson ruling. The supreme court ruling allowed segregation through the 1900's, tens, twenties, thirties, forties and early fifties. For half a decade, white people avoided black people because it was accepted, not because they wanted to (see John Howard Griffin, 'Black Like Me'). The civil rights movement did not begin with Brown, but the ruling gave it momentum. The momentum for social change came from political change: Rosa Parks, the bus boycotts, the march on Washington, the New York riots, the NoI, the Alabama marches, the LA riots, all came after the political act of courage. Repeal the second amendment and social change will follow. Sadly that will probably never happen because of conservative thinking.
Here's one last thought though: a sociology student confided in BBC hack Matt Frei that he wished he had had a gun so that he could have shot the gunman dead. Think about it. Just think about it.
Peace and love.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Saturday, April 28, 2007
A Response To A Friend Regarding The Virginia Tech Shooting
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Message For Firginia Tech: This WILL Happen Again
What happened today on campus at Virginia Tech will happen again and it will happen again soon. A lone gunman shoots 32 people dead in two and a half hours of madness. I have just watched the ABC coverage of the biggest mass murder on American soil since 9/11, and the focus is simply not broad enough. Americans are not thinking outside the box; the view of the American is morphed too much by being American. The main question posed by the ABC broadcast was why did the shootings begin at approximately 07:15 and not cease until two and a half hours later? The question is not the right question to ask. What Americans should be demanding the answer to is why was this troubled individual in possession of a firearm in the first place.
Asking this question though, would reveal deep faults in the Constitution of the United States. This document is fundamentally flawed by the Second Amendment. Until this amendment is repealed these killings will happen again. The right to bear arms effectively legalises gun crime. As soon as this is realised the United States will not be the greatest nation on Earth.
It is reported that the police on the Virginia Tech campus treated the original shootings at 07:15 as individual incidents. This is simply laughable here in the United Kingdom. I attend Liverpool John Moores University and if gun shots were heard in my campus then it is likely the whole of the city would grind to a halt. Gun crime does not happen hear in the United Kingdom. We do not have legislation like you second amendment.
The politicians, the political leaders, the social leaders, the cultural leaders, -- they can all express their 'deep sorrow' as much as they want, but it the grand scheme of these things this does not mean anything. This is meaningless. They did not know any of the victims personally. Something they could do is make legally owning a firearm an almost impossible thing. But they will not do this.
Remember the shootings in Texas in 1966? Nothing has changed since then. NOTHING. A gun can still be freely purchased and if someone wanted they could easily conduct another killing spree. I am British. I doubt there is little to stop me getting on a plane to America, buying a gun over the counter, buying some bullets and shooting as many people as I possibly could. While this can still happen, not a single American is free. No one in the United States can be truly free from the fear of being shot. This will happen again.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Aesthetics Of Cricket
What follows is a pure romanticisation of the game of cricket, for which I shall not apologise, highlighting my underlying passion for the noble game.
The Field
At times, where the fieldsman stand strikes fear into the heart of the gentleman trying to do the striking. The great fast bowlers can stand at the end of their mark and, taking a sharp intake of breath, can gaze upon glorious open fields of green. Large sections of the outfield no longer require a man in whites to occupy them because of the bowlers skill and sheer speed of delivery. He is so good there is no way he can possibly be driven through mid on. He is so good that apart from a hunched figure at short leg, there is no one in front of square on the leg side. This bowler can bowl to this field. There is a man at mid-off. He is the only gentleman in white in front of square on the off side. This bowler can still bowl to this field. Everyone else is in a curve. The curve itself makes me smile as I think back to days gone by when the West Indies (and later the Australians) could set fields like this in almost every test match they played, regardless of who they were playing. The wicket-keeper stands bent, gloves on knees, waiting for the bowler to begin his take off. He himself is half way to the boundary just to manage a safe landing. Even further back is the gentleman designated first slip. An important position when setting any field, it is even more important when most of his peers are curved around to his right. Should he put one down now, the fieldsman who do not usually occupy this specialist position will almost certainly have words about how they might have taken that one. I can only think of Shane Warne on day five of the fifth test in the 2005 Ashes series at the Oval. You dropped the Ashes there, mate. For the purpose of then, had he taken Pieterson then, then the Australians might have then set this field I am describing. This field where the slips merge into the gullys, and the gullys merge into the backward point. All are crouched, waiting, hoping, as the bowler comes down. Look at this field he commands! And with such skill! Down goes the ball, down the channel, just outside off stump. The batsman is wise and there is a comfortable leave. The keeper takes the catch, ending the play. For now. Five skips, a gully, a backward point. Four slips, two gullys, a backward point. Four slips, three gullys. Call it what you will, they still wait. Ready to pounce, and send another gentleman packing to the pavilion.
The Ground
The pavilion should be the jewel in the crown. The crowning glory. The glory of glory. But there is one pavilion which stands above all others. The pavilion at Lord's Cricket Ground. Opened in 1890, it has not changed much since then. The original aesthetic qualities from the outside remain. To the lucky few who are allowed inside, it still has its charms. I am told. The exclusiveness of the Lord's pavilion is one of its qualities. Very few gentlemen can say they have watched the Saturday of the Lord's Test from the Long Room. Very few, indeed, can say they have permission to sit on the benches just in front. The benches themselves are very Lord's, in an age when the fold down plastic seat is in every sport's arena anywhere in the world. In English cricket grounds, they are white. When they are not, they are only temporary. They will soon be gone again. Only there for the big fixtures. Even the fold downs have a certain visual pleasure to them, for they emphasise the curve of the ground around the boundary better than the boundary rope does. Much is to be said for the areas around the playing surface which remains undeveloped. South Africa, it has often struck me, takes great care of the grass verges which rise up instead of man-made grandstands. On a sunny day, gentlemen and ladies can catch the rays of the sun whilst the children act out their own mimics of cricket. The people seem more relaxed on the grassy banks. They can spread out their picnics and lay out a fleece to sit on if they wish. They can make that patch of grass their own to watch the cricket from. They own that view. I myself like to sit, slightly raised, behind the bowlers arm. The view you get means you are either looking from directly in front of the stage or from behind the stage. Every other over is viewed as if you are the television camera. The desire to be a television camera. Bizarre. But that is what many of us are used to. Television coverage has made us comfortable watching from directly behind the bowler. There is a small sense of disorientation when, at the end of the over, the wicket-keeper comes down the wicket and turns his back on you. As if he is at fault. It is certainly not likely they will pause the game and let the crowd walk round to the other end of the ground.
Batting
The aggressive side of the noble game. Where sheer power can be enough to keep you in the game for one more ball. When the top bowlers come to bowl, it should be renamed battling. The duel begins, but can really only end in one way; with the fall of the wicket. But the delaying of the inevitable is a glorious aesthetic collage of movement and exquisite flows of energy. This is most noticeable when it is not there. A batsman, for example, receives a short-pitched delivery halfway down the track that he is not expecting. He leaps up, his bat rising in front of him. Now it is a tool of protection, not a weapon of venom. He looks awkward. His back bends a bit 'the other way'. His knees are well bent. He rides the delivery. That is the way to play it; by instinct. And by hope. Hope that it makes its way safely to the floor. Hope that it does not clip a bail somehow. Hope that it does not balloon to a fieldsman. And hope that it does not knock you senseless. When the right ball comes, that it when the beauty appears. The grace of an on-drive. The most technically-difficult of cricket shots. Few can execute it with precision and grace. Those who can, should, for it is a beautiful thing. The pause at the end of the stroke is glorious, as batsman can look right down the line of the shot as the ball makes its way to the boundary. Such elegance is still there is some of the more brutal shots square of the wicket. The cut through backward point off of the back foot, like the hook behind square on the leg side, is all about timing. The fast bowler is manipulated. The pace that he put on the ball has taken it to the boundary. In each cricket shot, the bat becomes a baton, as the conductor tries to get the rowdy orchestra to play in perfect harmony. Something only the best can hope to achieve. Though it should be said some achieve this before they reach the crease. Vivian Richards achieved it as he strolled across the outfield making his way to the crease. A swagger in his step, he was not cocky. Just the best. Chewing his chewing gum with his baton under his arm. As if his job were already done.
Spinning
The only bona-fide art form of cricket, this brings me the most pleasure. One delivery changed the world. The ball of the century. Shane Warne. Mike Gatting. Old Trafford. 1993. Enough said. That was the perfect delivery, and we can only dream that one day someone might repeat it. The art form itself does not rely on raw power based on physical dominance, as the paceman strives to produce. The spinner has to be cunning, and the top spinners in the game are cunning. They use the wicket in a smart way to their advantage, pitching it in the footmarks of the thundering paceman. If he puts it there, it should turn. And if it turns, you had better hope you are not batting left handed. Right arm leg spin round the wicket to a left handed batsman who also has to contend with the rough being outside his off stump. Do not expect too many boundaries here. Keep bat and pad close together, get to the pitch of the ball and just hope the short leg or silly point does not have anything to say. Yes, the field is in. A slip, a short leg, a silly point and a man at short mid wicket. And the most likely outcome? Being bowled thought the gate. There is less shame for the left hander being bowled this way than there is for the right hander who has been bowled round his legs. This can considered to be a test match dismissal. The spinner throws it up into the rough now outside the leg stump. It pitches in the rough but the batsman can kick it away. A few of them he might leave altogether. But if he does this, sooner or later one will turn enough, and hit the top of leg stump. The spinner's shorter run up increases the over rate. Two spinners bowling in tandem can get the game on the field moving along. Spinners can bowl an entire day with only a break for lunch and a break for tea. The character of English cricket is a spinner. He comes in off a hop, a skip and a trot, and bowls left arm around the wicket. He, unlike England's last spinner, is an attacking spin bowler. As soon as he gives the ball a rip, his eyes widen. He expects a wicket with every ball. And when he gets one, his eyes widen and he is off jumping down the track with joy, high fiveing the fieldsmen as he goes. He has a genuine passion for the game, and that helps the rest of the team. When I was young, I always wanted to be a spinner. If I was a spinner, I would want to be like Monty.
The Media
Cricket is a game with a proud history, but even games with long histories have to move with the times in one way or another. First came the radio, and with the radio came Test Match Special. As English as the Queen, this is certainly as much a British institution as the Proms. We cannot forget this is a medium of voices, and we cannot for this when the voices are as distinct as Henry Blofeld and Jonathan Agnew. What they say is pleasing to hear. Even when they read the batting card and England are bowled out for less than 150. To hear the bowling figures is easy on the ear, as is hearing the field. I like to picture the field in my head as they read it out. And when the game is quiet, they do anyone would do. They wander. If the test is at Old Trafford, Henry might comment that "a train has just pulled into the station and there must be about twenty or thirty people alighting, struggling to carry all their hampers and sandwiches and what as McGrath comes in and bowls outside off stump and through to Gilchrist no stroke from Vaughan England 97 for two. Yes, they're all making their way steadily round the back of the Brian Statham end towards the gate where there's a man with a rather bright yellow sun hat at the front of the queue struggling to find his ticket, which is rather worrying for him…" The idiosyncrasies of the commentary are as pleasing to hear as the standard readings. But that which has pictures tends to bring these idiosyncrasies through the lens. The commentators do not have to explain them. The cameras pan round the ground and pick out the novelties for the armchair cricketer. The former players provide the one line comment. David 'start the car' Lloyd being the best at these, making fellow commentators chuckle and making people at home smile and laugh. The media enhances the game. I like to think it enhances the playing experience as well, for it is yet to take over the running of the game as is sadly now the case in football.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Please, God. Don't Let My Numbers Come Up
At about 08:35 this morning I was wandering across to Rachel's for the ride to work. I had my wallet in my bag, along with a book to read (Claude Brown's 'Manchild In The Promised Land'), my dinner, and the all-important can of deodorant. I also had with me this morning the burden of trying to buy a lottery ticket.
The central hampering factor was ironically work. We clock on at 09:00 and we do not leave the premises until 17:30. Directly before or after work I had to make it into a shop that sold lottery tickets, quickly fill out two boards on the one ticket, and then try and convince the dopey sales assistant that I am, indeed, over the age of 15. By four years! (In my experience (and my sisters) you can never be too careful) The shop I had in mind was 'costcutter' at the crossroads. It sold food, it was a newsagent's and it was a post office -- surely it sold lottery tickets. Getting there would be at the discretion of my sister who drove to work. We passed right by the shop, but stopping could be a problem.
I knew I would have to mention it to her immediately for her to allow such break in procedure. As I am sure many are aware, procedures so early in the morning are not easily broken with. Procedures operate and happen without active human thought. I knocked on the door as I always do and waited for the shout from inside as it always came. I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Bad news. Rachel seemed a little irritated about something. I could not mention it now: I would have to leave it until we got to the car. But by the time we were sat in the car, things had taken a turn for the worst as far as my plan for buying a lottery ticket before work was concerned.
It turned out Rachel was worried about her car. First, she had not driven it for some days. There was a good chance it would not start. That would mean the jump-start procedure would have to be deployed. Fun. Second, there was no gasoline. Rachel's car never ever has any gas in it, but we would have to fill up on the way on account of the car being stationary for so long. Thankfully, after a few coughs and a few more chokes, the car started. We went up through Lymm for gas. This was highly unusual and a complete detour. Definitely no lottery ticket before work. The only hope now was Rachel would stop on the way home from work, because I sure wasn't prepared to walk down into the village after work if I could help it.
Work was busy. I have very bad toothache at the present time. I do not know how I got through the day. I sold a large piece of Bridgman furniture (our top of the range, most expensive, with all the trimmings furniture) clutching the left hand side of my jaw. Rachel tried to persuade me with great force to go see a dentist, but me and dental care is another blog entry all together! I hope to get round to writing that very soon...
As the clocked ticked onto 17:30, I was still unsure where Rachel's forceful concern (the kind I really admire her for) left our speaking relationship. As it turned out, we were fine. But I still did not ask her to pull over so I could go buy a lottery ticket. Honest reason: I forgot. The great manager gave us all iced creams for our hard work, and I was struggling to devour that in both an acceptable manner and trying my absolute best not to aggravate my severe dental problems. I remembered only when we pulled up to the traffic lights next to the shop. I was still battling with my iced cream. I had to leave the lottery ticket. I was so disappointed in myself. I hate letting anybody down, but I feel especially bad when I let my Dad down. I had told him the night before he departed for
At 21:30, I turned over to BBC One for the draw. The programme prior to the lottery draws was still churning on, pleading to viewers to phone in and burn ten pence. Eventually, the lottery draws came on and I was set the initial task of deciphering which draw I would have placed the numbers for. There are so many different draws now, it is ridiculous. Why not just increase the prize money for one really big draw? While all the other less significant draws were rumbling on, I suddenly wondered why I was watching this. I had not bought the tickets. I had not placed the bets. But I just had to know. My soul was craving for a conclusion to the madness. Would we have won anything? What if we would? What if all six of Dad’s number had come up? I’m not sure I could live with that. Knowing that my idleness was the reason my Dad (the man who raised me) was not so-many-million better off. What if my numbers had come up? I think I could just about live with that. Money is, after all, only man-made. Though the money would fix my teeth…… now I just had to know.
Soon enough, after the thinking was done, the main lotto draw commenced. The lovely Kirsty Gallagher was hosting the programme and quiz guru William G. Stewart was ‘pushing the button’. The first number out: 23. A number I had picked. Dad had not. That made me smile. At least I have not cost Dad the top prize. Then the second number: 36. You are kidding me?! 36?! Another number I had picked! I had the first two numbers and Dad had neither. This brought to mind two lines of thought. First, at least I had not cost Dad a serious amount of money. And second, all them thoughts about me not really caring if I won or not – well that felt frankly like psychological bullshit now. Something I was perhaps supposed to feel. If the other four numbers were the four numbers I had written down came up, well…..
My heart was racing. What would I do? What could I do? The third number (this for £10) was…… I can’t remember. I can’t remember because it was not one I had written down. The relief was immense. The remaining three numbers did not match any of mine or Dad’s. I thanked the Lord, and went on my way, with all my thoughts about all my thoughts, and wrote this.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Friday, April 13, 2007
My Week
This week feels though it has almost been a wasted week. But no entire week can ever be entirely wasted. I remember Ross once saying that sometimes it is good to completely burn out. Whilst I won't disagree, it is also good to take a step back. Since Good Friday, I have reverted back to old habits. I haven't really done anything. I haven't been anywhere or seen anything. I haven't acquired first hand experience of our transport system and haven't seen anything to suggest I have made a journey of any significance. All I have done is enjoyed the sunshine. I re-read James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time and am once again part-way through Claude Brown's Manchild In The Promised Land. As a first chapter, the opening section really is a baptism of fire into a world quite alien to me.
For two solid days I did very little but mess around on Facebook. This I consider to be a useless endeavour. Friends added me as a 'friend' and I added people as 'friends'. People who I haven't seen since High School (and who I truthfully hope never to see again) have listed me as 'friend'. I have pages of these 'friends' who I never even used to speak to at all at High School -- people who I am never in a million years going to actively make the effort to communicate with through Facebook.
But I spend most of the time searching the groups. I try and find humorous ones with a satirically important point: Petition To Revoke The Independence Of The United States Of America, for instance, or Virgin Media -- I Want My Sky Channels Back! or Belichick For President in 2008. Some of the groups I have joined are ridiculous: Everyone Loves A Guinness, for example. It sounds quite normal. It is, though, in the category Extreme Sports. Right, ok then.
I went up to the Church Wednesday evening and had a few drinks with the old crew. The few people from High School I actually get on quite well with. That night highlighted the false community created by Facebook. According to this 'social utility', everyone is friends. Sadly the real world does not work in such a harmonious Utopian manner. Our group was all sat together round two tables (there was not that many of us, the tables are small), talking and enjoying each other's company. I talked less than everyone else because..... I'm shy. Anyway, at the table next to us there sat another group of friends from my same year at school. At least one of them (possibly two) is/are listed as my friend(s) on Facebook. They did not bat an eyelid when I walked out there. And neither did I. I did not acknowledge there presence, and they did not acknowledge mine. The unspoken understanding of the clique was in full force Wednesday night. On the table next to them, there sat someone with whom I had a similar relationship. He was listed as a friend on Facebook, but we did not speak. The term 'friend' seems to have been redefined: friend, v. anyone from way back when who's name you vaguely remember and who you recall to be alright, though you not necessarily spoke to them way back when. Act of friendship no longer necessary. That would be a seemingly correct understanding of today's situation. Thanks, Facebook. In fact, I have just had a scary thought: if Facebook ran the world. If this was the case, we would have all been sat with each other round one large table Wednesday night. Ugh, a scary thought.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Hull Journal: Comprehensive Chronological Order
03 / 04 / 2007; 1526BST
Just settling into the hotel room after a very bizarre journey.
The 11:42 train from Piccadilly ceased running at Huddersfield. Had to board the next train and change at Leeds. One passenger said the 11:42 had run out of diesel. A large number of passengers boarded a TPExpress at Leeds terminating at Hull. Not long after the conductor had checked tickets, a man came round in a high-viz jacket selling the Big Issue magazine. He was shabbily presented but very polite. At first I was commending First for helping the homeless. Then the conductor appeared. "You don't have permission to sell things on board!" The hobo could only mutter. He stumbled passed and carried on. About twenty minutes later we pulled into Selby. The conductor announced there would be a delay in the doors opening. Great: another delay. For five minutes passengers stood, waiting, while nothing happened. Eventually British Transport Police appeared. The set of doors in my eye line opened and two officers came aboard. They handcuffed a chaved-out man roughly my age: he had assaulted the hobo as he made his way through the front carriage. The hobo was also detained by British Transport Police officers. His relationship with authority is a blurred, even confused one.
I personally think he had a great idea. He was in possession of a valid ticket and he was polite to the passengers. Train operators should consider this as something worth considering.
03 / 04 / 2007; 1633BST
I have been out and had a good wander round the city centre. The generic city centre. The same shops. The same divisions of people. As I turned a corner I found the Tourist Information Centre. Entering with the simple hope of finding a simple fold-out map of the city of Hull, I came away with an array of pamphlets and leaflets; I was also surprised by the modernity of the centre. The first leaflets were about steam railways for Paul. I think we have all been to the National Railway Museum, but I picked that one up anyway.
I could not find what I wanted! Then I noticed another display of pamphlets, but these were more general. I asked the gentleman behind the counter the quickest way to Wilberforce House. As he was giving directions I saw all the Wilberforce leaflets had pride of place on the front counter.
Banners hang from every lamp post. You notice them as you walk. You notice people noticing them as you walk. I can see three from my dirty window: "Pride. Freedom. Belief. Change."
I have also gained admiration for the simplicity offered by New York's grid system. There, you have to walk just a single block and you know where you are going and where you should be going. Here, it is all down to luck. If you do not have a good map. I am off to the bar for a pint of Guinness and a studying of the acquired literature.
04 / 04 / 2007; 0828BST
Last night's trip to the bar was a success as far as the leaflets were concerned -- but the Guinness was off! At 19:45 the European football took over.
There were only five other gentlemen in the bar last night. My thoughts then that the hotel is almost empty were confirmed this morning at breakfast. I was the only one there. Still, I would prefer the hotel to be very quiet to very busy.
After the bar, I came back to base to wash my hair. I burnt myself getting the shower to work. My right shoulder is bright red! Showers, bath s and toilets should be universal around the world!! God Bless the Starbucks effect!
Anyway, the day which lies ahead is focused on Wilberforce House. Hull's museums do not open until 10:00, so I shall plan to arrive there 10:15, not wanting to seem to keen. And then I shall stay there for the rest of the day...!
Also, whilst in the bar last night I enjoyed watching what the Americans call 'the intersection'. I have finally put my finger on why British junctions are so different: we have made them more complex to make them easier. Easier for motorists. What we have been left with are small islands for pedestrians to stand on while traffic rushes past either side of them. A closer study of this might be very revealing.
04 / 04 / 2007; 1412BST
Just finished dinner and have saved a great deal many photographs to Paul's drive. Wilberforce House was nothing I expected. Its function as a home has been entirely disposed with -- only the shell remains. The only homely room is Wilberforce's personal library, but even this is presented in glass cabinets cursed by modernity. Coincidentally this is what I was most exited about seeing. To see so many open spaces disappointed me. If it was that room which was designated as a library by the Wilberforce family, then I am of the opinion that it would have been absolutely full during the lifetime of Mr. Wilberforce. I was nevertheless warmed to see a book entitled 'Browne's Travels': it brought a smile to my face. he had numerous other books detailing other individuals travels; I can only assume Mr. Wilberforce would have therefore greatly enjoyed 'How I Found Livingstone' had he lived long enough to witness it's publication.
The rest of the building told me a great many things I was already aware of. But it did no harm to learn them again. The first floor had very little direct connection to the gentleman who once lived there. I picked up a good leaflet entitled 'Slavery: Past, Present & Future'.
Wilberforce House is serving as a good starting point for learning about the slave trade, slavery, and Mr. William Wilberforce. But I am far beyond the starting point. i have read the works of Frederick Douglass, Harriet Jacobs, Booker Taliaferro Washington, Sojourner Truth, Olaudah Equiano, James Weldon Johnson, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, John Howard Griffin, William Edward Burghardt Du Bois, Malcolm X, Harriet Beecher Stowe . . . but I was not isolated form all the other persons observing the displays. We were all still chained together by the unspoken understanding that what happened was wrong. Yes, it really is that simple: what happened was wrong.
In retrospect today has been a most successful day. My pilgrimage to Hull (and the refurbished Wilberforce House) serves as my own celebration of the bicentenary of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act 1807. But you and I know that the country is celebrating two hundred years of freedom two hundred years too soon. Thanks Jim.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Hull Journal: 04 / 04 / 2007; 1412BST
Just finished dinner and have saved a great deal many photographs to Paul's drive. Wilberforce House was nothing I expected. Its function as a home has been entirely disposed with -- only the shell remains. The only homely room is Wilberforce's personal library, but even this is presented in glass cabinets cursed by modernity. Coincidentally this is what I was most exited about seeing. To see so many open spaces disappointed me. If it was that room which was designated as a library by the Wilberforce family, then I am of the opinion that it would have been absolutely full during the lifetime of Mr. Wilberforce. I was nevertheless warmed to see a book entitled 'Browne's Travels': it brought a smile to my face. he had numerous other books detailing other individuals travels; I can only assume Mr. Wilberforce would have therefore greatly enjoyed 'How I Found Livingstone' had he lived long enough to witness it's publication.
The rest of the building told me a great many things I was already aware of. But it did no harm to learn them again. The first floor had very little direct connection to the gentleman who once lived there. I picked up a good leaflet entitled 'Slavery: Past, Present & Future'.
Wilberforce House is serving as a good starting point for learning about the slave trade, slavery, and Mr. William Wilberforce. But I am far beyond the starting point. i have read the works of Frederick Douglass, Harriet Jacobs, Booker Taliaferro Washington, Sojourner Truth, Olaudah Equiano, James Weldon Johnson, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, John Howard Griffin, William Edward Burghardt Du Bois, Malcolm X, Harriet Beecher Stowe . . . but I was not isolated form all the other persons observing the displays. We were all still chained together by the unspoken understanding that what happened was wrong. Yes, it really is that simple: what happened was wrong.
In retrospect today has been a most successful day. My pilgrimage to Hull (and the refurbished Wilberforce House) serves as my own celebration of of the bicentenary of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act 1807. But you and I know that the country is celebrating two hundred years of freedom two hundred years too soon. Thanks Jim.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Hull Journal: 04 / 04 / 2007; 0828BST
Last night's trip to the bar was a success as far as the leaflets were concerned -- but the Guinness was off! At 19:45 the European football took over.
There were only five other gentlemen in the bar last night. My thoughts then that the hotel is almost empty were confirmed this morning at breakfast. I was the only one there. Still, I would prefer the hotel to be very quiet to very busy.
After the bar, I came back to base to wash my hair. I burnt myself getting the shower to work. My right shoulder is bright red! Showers, bath s and toilets should be universal around the world!! God Bless the Starbucks effect!
Anyway, the day which lies ahead is focused on Wilberforce House. Hull's museums do not open until 10:00, so I shall plan to arrive there 10:15, not wanting to seem to keen. And then I shall stay there for the rest of the day...!
Also, whilst in the bar last night I enjoyed watching what the Americans call 'the intersection'. I have finally put my finger on why British junctions are so different: we have made them more complex to make them easier. Easier for motorists. What we have been left with are small islands for pedestrians to stand on while traffic rushes past either side of them. A closer study of this might be very revealing.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Hull Journal: 03 / 04 / 2007; 1633BST
I have been out and had a good wander round the city centre. The generic city centre. The same shops. The same divisions of people. As I turned a corner I found the Tourist Information Centre. Entering with the simple hope of finding a simple fold-out map of the city of Hull, I came away with an array of pamphlets and leaflets; I was also surprised by the modernity of the centre. The first leaflets were about steam railways for Paul. I think we have all been to the National Railway Museum, but I picked that one up anyway.
I could not find what I wanted! Then I noticed another display of pamphlets, but these were more general. I asked the gentleman behind the counter the quickest way to Wilberforce House. As he was giving directions I saw all the Wilberforce leaflets had pride of place on the front counter.
Banners hang from every lamp post. You notice them as you walk. You notice people noticing them as you walk. I can see three from my dirty window: "Pride. Freedom. Belief. Change."
I have also gained admiration for the simplicity offered by New York's grid system. There, you have to walk just a single block and you know where you are going and where you should be going. Here, it is all down to luck. If you do not have a good map. I am off to the bar for a pint of Guinness and a studying of the acquired literature.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
Hull Journal: 03 / 04 / 2007; 1526BST
Just settling into the hotel room after a very bizarre journey.
The 11:42 train from Piccadilly ceased running at Huddersfield. Had to board the next train and change at Leeds. One passenger said the 11:42 had run out of diesel. A large number of passengers boarded a TPExpress at Leeds terminating at Hull. Not long after the conductor had checked tickets, a man came round in a high-viz jacket selling the Big Issue magazine. He was shabbily presented but very polite. At first I was commending First for helping the homeless. Then the conductor appeared. "You don't have permission to sell things on board!" The hobo could only mutter. He stumbled passed and carried on. About twenty minutes later we pulled into Selby. The conductor announced there would be a delay in the doors opening. Great: another delay. For five minutes passengers stood, waiting, while nothing happened. Eventually British Transport Police appeared. The set of doors in my eye line opened and two officers came aboard. They handcuffed a chaved-out man roughly my age: he had assaulted the hobo as he made his way through the front carriage. The hobo was also detained by British Transport Police officers. His relationship with authority is a blurred, even confused one.
I personally think he had a great idea. He was in possession of a valid ticket and he was polite to the passengers. Train operators should consider this as something worth considering.
Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright
