i am the one and only (things i have learnt about holiday-me part 2)

Things I have learnt about holiday-me: part 2: I used to think it was just in middle England that I felt my colour but not so, dear readers, not so

I will not bore you with the trials and tribulations of my flying fear, it has been perused far too many times before.  I am witheringly aware that the dimensions of my fear are such that I played no part in the organising of this particular holiday; a control I struggle to forsake.  I didn’t acknowledge the holiday ergo the flight did not exist. To which end I only retained the information of who (good friends we normally share tents with), what (a villa near the beach apparently), when (half term) and why (said friends and GeordieLad had enough of the tents in June).  I left where (I knew it was in Spain but that was all) and how (I knew we weren’t driving that was enough for me and my fear).

So I said I wasn’t going to write about the fear and look, a whole paragraph has passed on it.  Curse you flying tin contraption.

My childhood was not made of European holidays.  We did two trips to visit my grandparents in the Caribbean – ten years apart – and apart from that it was self-catering cottages in various counties across England’s green and pleasant land.  They were good fun and we were well aware that mum and dad had saved ridiculously hard for a week in a British coastal town.

Once past the motorway madness, country lane discombobulation, paused travelling for mum to have her cream tea in a quaint pub, we arrived at the jigsaw puzzle country house ready for adventure into forests and seaside towns unknown.  Hazy summer days on busy beaches would skim over us like smooth pebbles bouncing on a peaceful shore.

Then you notice the double-takes, the looks, a child may stare for just that little bit too long.

And there it is.  Glance left and right to the nether regions of the coastal line and we were the brownest bodies on the beach, by a country mile. I don’t know if it ever bothered mum and dad; if it did they never showed it or talked about it within their children’s earshot.  I’m sure they did notice and chose to plough on enjoying their holiday, I’m sure they saw a lot more – this was the 80’s after all – but we never stopped our adventures through the counties of England.

A life in the capital has led me to forget my status in the 4% of ethnic minorities, I have become accustomed to a city where – in the words of Depeche Mode – people are people.  But once out of London, be it a county outside the sounds of the M25 or a popular beach on the Costa del Sunny or in a busy hypermarket, I see the question mark glances.  I feel it and like a cat’s arched back raising its hair on end, I turn on my guard. 

Once I was told it’s my paranoia.  By a white person.  I would that it were.

But when writing this, I am in a different country with family and friends.  A blue sky with a pulsating sun in its belly wakes us up every morning.  I sit and write by a pool with the echoes of a Spanish gardener singing across the road.  And I am learning to walk (or sunbathe) with the air of someone who doesn’t give a hoot. 

Look upon my afro, my brown face and despair.

(read: things i have learnt about holiday-me part1)

hey na na what's my name?

In my father's home island of Grenada (and possibly the wider Caribbean) there is a long tradition of nicknames people may have acquired in their childhood which last their whole lives. The tales accompanying these nicknames are hilarious and ridiculous and usually known within the immediate community. Without revealing any of the ones I've been told for fear of betraying confidences I can safely say that after hearing such stories I longed for my own nickname.  

But that's the thing you see, you can't give yourself a nickname; one must be bestowed upon you.

I noticed that these fabled nicknames were often strange, silly, rude or way too descriptive but rarely were they denounced by the bearer.

So I looked back into my youth to see if there were any moments where a clever moniker may have been procured.  Back in the late 70s an old football buddy of my Dad's took to calling me Boney N as I struggled to coordinate my lanky frame running around the pitch sidelines akin to a baby giraffe.  

I didn't mind this so much as Boney M were a huge household favourite but hardly likely to be entirely appropriate with my post40s motherly curves. Find me someone brave enough to call me Flabby N and I'll show you an ex-friend.

So I fast forward to the early 80s, now resident in solo cultural Essex with my brown face and two afro plaits elevating my presence in primary school to exotic wonder. 

Discovering a strength in me that was able to gravitate above uncomfortable situations such as being asked if the rest of me was brown under my clothes; or playing games at birthday parties where kids were hidden under blankets with their hands sticking out for the birthday girl to guess who was who - and then being asked by an adult not to play as it was too obvious who my hands belonged to; or being surrounded in a circle in the playground with a group of children singing Brown girl in the ring.

And there they are again. Boney M. This time without the smile. Could Brown Girl have stuck as a nickname. Well it's a little obvious don't you think? Not much effort being put into that one at all. And what happens now when an old friend calls out "Brown Girl" to get my attention in a London street?  Probably a cascade of other brown females turn around in consternation at being referred to so rudely followed by a barrage of abuse. So no, that one's out.

Just sticking with that Brown Girl thing, I recently heard an old Desert Island Discs episode with Kelly Holmes and felt affinity when she chose that same record as her castaway choice. Yet she had used her experience with the song as a positive despite our stories being similar. 

So as I head to secondary school there is a vague memory of being called 'Stick' for awhile - my gangly frame now stronger and athletic but again. Without labouring the point - a moot nickname these days.

And that's it.  Could I trawl the vestibules of my ex-students memories I'm sure some interesting versions of my name would appear. 

2005 brought along the only nickname I'm pretty much stuck with. Mummy. That'll do for now.

Do you have a nickname  - how did you get it? What nickname would you choose for yourself?

This post was inspired by Post40Bloggers #writingprompt18 : Nicknames

one nation under a groove

Did you watch any of the Commonwealth Games? As a family we were hooked right from the exciting Opening Ceremony to the entertaining Closing Ceremony. What did you think? Full marks to Glasgow I reckon and two fingers to all the miserable lot who compared it with the London 2012 ceremony - come on people, get a grip - like, er think about the budget yeah? Regardless of that it was an enjoyable, funky, loud, bright, earthy, hearty performance. Okay, okay I admit my eyebrows raised in question to the appearance of John Barrowman, but my night was made by the TV heaven combo of Chris Hoy and James McAvoy on screen at the same time.  We have marvelled at some of the amazing feats of all athletes - our favourite moments being Libby Clegg winning the parasport 100m Gold Medal for Scotland, and we all nearly fell off the sofa cheering the England Men's 4 x 400m to victory. I love it that we all sit together and cheer on pole vaulters, swimmers, gymnasts, cyclists and of course rugby teams, mainly from England but often-times from other countries too. A common question from LittleE during these games has been 'Mummy who do we want to win?'; not surprising really since we are a family of nations. Lord knows we were jumping around the living room when Kirani James was sweeping round the 400m too!

But this post is not about watching sport - yes I saw you lot at the back picking up your handbags and about to leave. No, there was a moment during the athletes' parade during the Opening Ceremony when I became very despondent and confused. As I watched the cacophony of nations take their place alongside each other, dressed immaculately and waving flags as though their hearts were about to burst, I realised I had never experienced this level of national pride, ever. As a child I was a devout follower of the England football team and cheered them on to (some) victories, but during the 1980s I would not have considered myself as English, British maybe but not English. As my interest has increased I have cheered many England rugby teams on over the last few years but have only become comfortable waving the St George's cross since the birth of the 3G - half English through their father's heritage. During the Olympics in London 2012 I felt extremely proud cheering British teams on during London 2012... proud to be a Londoner that is. These monumental games were in my city of birth. So just where does that nationalistic pride come from? And is it possible for a person to develop pride in a country that may not always have welcomed their kind?

Born and bred in the UK, I have been raised with some knowledge of my parent's Caribbean home nations of Grenada and St. Lucia, yet I feel no affinity to any one country. Independence in these countries has seen many of a generation raised as British subjects and raised their own families in Britain, strengthen their allegiance to their home nations from colder shores; for some the distance and the time away is too much, and they settle in a kind of apathy to national pride. In days past watching athletes Daley Thompson or Linford Christie wrapping the Union Jack around their shoulders I used to wonder what I would do (in my youthful athletic days), would I be able to wrap a flag around me that had been synonymous with racism and the BNP? Well I never got to find that out because my athletic career waned but the question is raised again when I sit with my family during sporting events. When I see sportsmen and women grabbing their shirt emblems and inconsolable Brazilian crowds in pieces when their team gets battered, I'm gutted, jealous even, that I don't feel a burning pride or over-riding emotion for any particular country. How marvellous it must be to belt out a national anthem and mean every word, as we saw with Charlie Flynn singing 'Flower of Scotland' as he collected his medal? 

I wonder how the 3G will feel about their home nation; about the national anthem(s) that the English sing; about the countries of their ancestors? GeordieLad said he was proud to be English,and whilst it rankled a little (it's hard to wipe out a childhood of racist abuse at the hands of 'proud' English bullies) I understood - why shouldn't he have pride in the country that his forefathers have toiled in, isn't it the same reason that FantasticoDad has in Grenada? That still doesn't help me and something tells me, having reached my 40s it's unlikely I will experience unbridled patriotism, so I am resigned to enjoying the sports, marvelling at the athletes, and feeling a bit 'meh' when the anthems are sung. Are you proud of your country?

                                                      

brown girl in the ring

I spent a long time considering my blog post today. In case anyone hadn't realised I use song titles to head up my blog posts. Usually it's a bit of a music buff's challenge to find a song that reflects my posts, but today this song sprang to mind; but not with any real joy. This disco chart topper by Boney M reminds me of a time of loneliness, alienation and looking back on it now, complete trauma. 

But before I unload that story onto the psychiatrist's couch I want to draw your attention to an article I read on Lenny Henry calling for more BAME representation in the BBC. This particular comment stood out to me and surely must resonate with so many people of colour, especially from my generation - first generation black British born: "If we don't see BAME people on the TV, or in film, we become invisible". Yes, Lenny, indeed. And in my 1980's life this is exactly what happened. Growing up, I loved watching Why don't you?, all the Saturday morning shows and of course Top of the Pops and I used to think, yeah I'd love to do that. But I do remember thinking that I wouldn't be able to because I was black. Now you have to remember, I was a youngster living in an area and attending a school where no one looked like me; unless they lived in my house and had the same surname. We were a family that jumped hurdles to sit together and tune into the Cosby Show or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the Channel 4 contribution of Desmond's. Great shows - but in a span of over a decade this is all I can remember that was offered in the way of TV shows with positive black protagonists. But look at that - two of those were from the States. So yeah I didn't see much of 'me' out there. I didn't think people wanted to see 'me'. My experience growing up was that my kind were not particularly wanted anywhere, maybe in small doses; I was different and not the 'norm'.

The same was happening in the world of literature. In order to shelter from the difficulties I faced accepting who I was in my childhood world, I escaped into books. I devoured everything from the Chronicles of Narnia to Judy Blume and all her shenanigans. But there were 3 books that simply took my breath away and, I guess, were my literary awakening.

Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry by Mildred D. Taylor (the cover didn't survive the 20 odd years I have hung onto this copy!) . A story set in The South during the Depression with Cassie Logan and her family struggling through the events of a turbulent year dealing with racism and family tragedy.

Crick Crack Monkey by Merle Hodge follows Tee, who is forced to live in her Tantie's home after her father emigrates to England.  Tee discovers the discrimination of colour and class during her journey through childhood.

                                        

Philip Hall likes me. I reckon maybe by Bette Greene. Beth's drive and ambition to be the top in her class is hampered by class cutie, Philip Hall. She has some serious decisions to make including what is really important to her.

I have no memory of who bought these books for me, and I cannot tell you how different they were from anything else I had read up until that moment.  But at last, the star of the story was a young, black girl. Like me. I still have my well-loved and well-worn copies of all of these marvellous books to pass onto the 3G when the time comes. Yet it wasn't until my University Days that I started to appreciate why I needed to read the black, female experience on the page.  

These books were just the start of a new chapter in my fictional life...

The Colour Purple by Alice Walker which is still today, my favourite book ever. Celie's horrific life betrayed at the hands of those she wanted to trust pours off every page into my heart. Her discovery of the strength and love in womanhood taught me the importance of my searching for my own sisterhood.

The Unbelonging by Joan Riley telling the story of eleven year old Hyacinth who was summoned to England from Jamaica.  The racism and hostility that she endures forces her to quickly redefine who she is. I read this as I started my new solo life in London where I was referred to as 'light-skinned' and 'not really black enough' which threw my own self-perception into complete disarray.

Daughters of Africa - an international anthology of poetry and prose by women of African descent. I immersed myself in the works of women from the UK, the Caribbean, the Americas, Africa and is a book I regularly revisit. All life is here.

As my own London life moved on , I found:

Small Island by Andrea Levy; White Teeth by Zadie Smith; for coloured girls by Ntozake Shange

                                                                           

and the glorious series starting with Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman - I don't think a single student has passed through my classroom without hearing about these books.

I simply couldn't get enough, through these pages I found myself awash with learning, and laughter, and sorrow, and pain. But so much time had passed, I was now a working woman heading on the path to motherhood. Now I could see black, brown, mixed race faces on mainstream TV, on hit radio stations, presenting. That life and career path had gone, it was too late for me, I had already been so invisible and had lost confidence in what I could achieve and routes available to me.

Admittedly the situation is slightly different for my daughters' and nieces' generation; they are can find books where someone like them is leading the way. But to be honest, it's still a trudging search, and the representation of who they are in the public domain is still limited. 

I'll give you an example. Looking for books in my local, massive, superstore. 

This is what I see...

And this is what I found...

I didn't have time to count the books and work out if the ratio mirrored the ethnic population percentage. But you get my point.

Also last Saturday I was supposed to take BigL to see Malorie Blackman doing a talk at the Reading Zone Festival in Leatherhead. This is absolutely not casting blame on Ms Blackman but I received a call the day before to say the event had been cancelled due to low numbers. This is Malorie Blackman people!! The Children's Laureate for goodness sake!! How on earth did her publishers or Waterstones (sponsors of the Children's Laureate) for that matter allow that to happen. If I had told my team at my previous school of employment or the Head of English at my current one or most of the parents and teachers I know that Malorie Blackman was in my local area, she'd have been able to fill Twickenham Stadium. What's up with that, I ask you? 

So now I search for books with protagonists of colour, with brown faces to have in our home. There are all the other usual books too - the chronicles of Narnia are still here, Harry Potter and his buddies have joined them, Shakespeare for kids, and some bloody fairy stuff too. That's fine - I love it that they read so we'll take it all. But I have to make a concerted effort to get some colour on our bookshelves too. And it is out there - if you search hard enough. Letterbox Library and MixedRaceFamilies blog are usually my first port of call and I pop in every now and then to see what they have added. Then I discovered that Malorie Blackman's branches leap from YA to teen to early readers. MiddleS and LittleE have just discovered her beautiful characters Betsey Biggalow and Girl Wonder and we are always on the hunt for more.

Lately I have realised that there is a plethora of books out there for the child I once was, for the children who, today, need to see themselves on book covers solving mysteries, fighting crime, having adventures, being brave, falling out with friends, falling in love with friends. I just wish I didn't have to crawl on my hands and knees in book shops or hassle librarians to order them for me. As much as I am pro local bookstores, sometimes it is thank goodness for Amazon. So I made a list of the wonderful, exciting books - see my beige books page -  featuring diverse lead characters that I bring home to TwickersTowers, and I'll keep updating it in case you need some too. Feel free to let me know of any that you know of - for any age children and adults too.

Understand that I am not talking about every single book that I read, or my 3G reads has to have an ethnic protagonist - that is not the real world. But it's imperative that children and young people of colour read themselves in a book, see themselves surviving, making choices and succeeding. It is imperative that they are not invisible before they even step out into the world they live in.

 

Oh and Boney M. In short. Kids party. Brown Girl in the Ring is playing on the tape deck. Children form a circle around me singing and pointing. Wanted to go home. Still hurts. Sigh.