reading room
The Real Curriculum
Wagwan, mandem.
Corridor loud with flex and bravado, gyatt rated liked JD stock, mocking bruv's stammer, skin shade spun as "banter." Disability is a punchline.
Say less? Never that.
That chat don't pause— racism dropped like background beat, sexism disguised as clout, homophobia served as dare, ableism ad-libbed till it sticks.
This is the real curriculum, no teacher needed.
TikTok tutorials in cruelty. Snapchat sermons in shame.
Algorithms feed the ends like corner-shop chicken: greasy, cheap, addictive, poison in grease.
In Stoke, boys scroll till 3am, tower blocks breathing damp through the walls, Wi-Fi stronger than the futures outside.
They learn that "safe" means silence, that manhood means no tears, that loyalty runs mandem-only, and galdem are stories, props in a punchline.
In Stoke, galdem swap truths in whispers— on buses, in toilets, on cracked screens under duvets.
They learn to walk fast, hoods up, headphones in, to mask pain with filters, to measure worth in likes, to play along or be bait.
And when you call it out?
"Bruv, allow it, man's just joking."
But jokes chain ankles. Shares sharpen knives. Likes load the clips.
Every meme is scripture, every repost a sermon, every "say less" a gag on truth.
Ends call it culture.
But it's inheritance— passed on like hand-me-down tracksuits, frayed hood pulled tighter with each new face.
Hear me, mandem. Hear me, galdem.
The road ain't freedom if the tarmac's laid with slurs.
Another language is possible: respect without mockery, strength without silence, jokes that don't wound.
The algorithm won't teach it. The block won't preach it.
But we can— right here, right now: rewrite the script, bin the banter, teach a different end.
Because culture ain't cage, unless we lock it.
And bruv— the keys are in our hands.
— Lilith