Bipolar Mum Journey

Where do I even begin with my stepdad? Back in the 80s and 90s, he was a white Rasta, fully immersed in Rastafarian culture. He worshiped Jah, the Rastafarian term for God, a spiritual figure rooted in Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie, whom Rastafarians revere as a messiah. My stepdad couldn’t have been more different from the gangsters he dealt drugs for. These guys were your typical Mancunians, oversized tracksuits or Levi jeans, the whole Manc vibe. But my step dad, He was in a league of his own, somewhat of a culture vulture, walking to the beat of his own drum.

He was totally in awe of Rastafarian culture and took it on wholeheartedly. Living in Hulme, Manchester, a place with a large British Jamaican community at the time, made it even more natural for him to embrace this way of life. His best friend Jerry was also a Rasta of mixed heritage, with the same euphoric love for the culture and growing up around the two of them was quite the experience.

They’d often hang out at the Zion Centre in Hulme, a community hub where rastas gathered to play dominoes and share stories. My sister and I would tag along, running off to the library nearby to play on the Acorn computer while they did their thing.

One day, my stepdad slung me over his shoulders and pushed my sister in her buggy as we headed to a local pub. There was a garden out back where steel drum players performed. I was absolutely mesmerised by the music. Afterwards, he’d always take us to a little rice van near the Zion Centre. That’s where I’d listen in awe as he spoke fluent Patois with the owner. I could never fully follow what they were saying, but I remember catching bits of their heated conversation about Bob Marley. Apparently, they thought Bob was too commercial. For them, Yellowman and Barrington Levy were the real deal.

I loved reggae growing up, including Bob Marley but my stepdad? He wouldn’t have it. Bob was banned from our abode.

Outside the Zion Centre, there was something called “snide cabs.” Basically, Rastas would use their cars as unlicensed taxis, and you’d pay them whatever you could afford. I think it used to cost us about £2 to get to Netto. No meter, no fixed fare, just vibes. We never had a clue who we were getting in a taxi with, but that was part of the charm of growing up in the 80s and 90s. It was rough-and-ready, but it worked.

The Zion Centre itself had an edgy reputation. If I remember right, it doubled as a needle exchange and offered other services. But for my stepdad and his crew, it was just the spot where a unique mix of culture, music, and camaraderie came to life.

Things took a turn in 1998. My mum, in her crack-psychosis haze, became convinced that my sister kept getting head lice because of my dad’s dreadlocks. Never mind the two “feral kids” from down the road, the ones my sister actually got the head lice from, mum decided it was all down to his dreads. Sick of my mum’s head pecking, In a fit of rage, my dad grabbed a razor blade, sawed off his beloved dreads, and flung them at her in the livingroom. Shouting “there you go, you fucking mental case”. 

I felt an overwhelming sadness for him. His dreads were a symbol of who he was, of his connection to the culture he loved so much. But the crack had royally fucked with mum’s head. She was out of her mind, and dad had no chance of reasoning with her. Those damn head lice were from the kids down the street, not from him.

Being raised by a white Rasta gave me a unique perspective on life. Even though times weren’t always easy, I’ll always look back on those moments with a mix of amusement, nostalgia, and deep love for the character my stepdad was.

Listening to hours of reggae is my sanctuary. You might judge drug users, but to me, there was a raw authenticity in them, a wealth of stories that could hold my attention for hours. Any day of the week, I’d choose a room full of drug users over drinkers.