celebration day

My outfit for a Saturday night

I love St. George's Day: 23rd April. I love the fact that in a recent years high streets have become restricted to pedestrians as street parties are held.  I love that it coincides with Shakespeare's birthday so the nation is treated to a week long Look at England Fest.

Down my neck of the woods I will be able to stroll in the middle of the street under banners and bunting whilst shopkeepers and public houses do their best to create a sense of community and yesteryear, where this sort of this used to happen all the time it seems (look in a history book - there's always a street party going on!).

But it wasn't so big a deal when I was a kid. Unlike St David's Day which brought out the daffodils in our dinner ladies' button holes. Or St Patrick's Day which would see me cavorting around the streets of Kentish Town after university lectures with all my many Irish friends and taking my turn at singing a shutty-eye ballad after a few Guinness. St George's Day in the 80s seem to pass the majority of the country by without the batting of any eyelids. And as for Shakespeare...who he?

So yes I love it that there's historical, dramatical, fantastical stuff in books, the radio, and the telly about both events; St George, Shakespeare at 400 and oh look the Queen has gawn in and chucked her 90th celebrations in too. Cue a middle England combustion in sheer BBC exhilaration.

I used to be a bit reticent sharing my love of St George because of the whole flag waving thing which had always sat uncomfortably with me; as a black British child of the 70s there wasn't a lot of calling for me to join groups of marching people carrying the St George Cross. But then two things happened to change that.

 Firstly, I had created a quick starter activity on the history of St George for an English lesson and it sparked such diverse questions (like why is the saint of England if he was born in Turkey?!), discussion and theorizing about modern day 'saints' that it became a regular feature over the years (as did lessons on the other British Isles saints). I became a bit of a buff and enjoyed the mini diversion before settling back into the curriculum.

Second, having three kids who have an English heritage through their father's family. If they wanna wave a flag - know the history first , then make your choice to wave if you like.

On St George's Day we usually enjoy a good ole English roast or bag of fish n' chips (the choice usually denotes my energy levels) followed by the kids' fave of Eton Mess (or Rotten Mess as my youngest thought it was called).

Oh and another reason I love April 23rd. It's also my birthday. *Raises a glass to another year*

people are people

Lately there’s been a lot of talk about immigration, I know, when isn't there… but it got me thinking about my experience growing up in Britain.

Multiculturalism.  Man, such a heavy loaded word which people respond to either with a gagging reflex or a saintly smile and open hand gesture seen daily on politicians.

This word didn't exist when I was growing up in rural Essex.  Having fled the downtrodden of 80s west London, the parents dragged me and my black face into whiter than UKIP South Essex.  Multiculturalism?  I was black and that was that. I learned within two days in my primary school that it was sink or assimilate.  And I did. So that by the time I reached secondary school I had two me-s. The ‘me’ at home: chatty, confident, argumentative but respectful of my parents, listening to reggae alongside classical alongside soul, eating plantain one day and Yorkshire puddings then next. Then there was the me at school – still chatty, a joker to enable me to make friends, lacking in confidence, afraid of older girls, unsure as to why people thought it was ok to tell me boys didn't fancy me because I was black…and then sadly accepting this as the norm, ashamed of my Afro hair neatly braided every Saturday night by MissingMum, fearful of any newcomers to a social group as I had to gauge whether they would be ok with me being black or not, laughing at the black jokes aimed at me but burning with anger inside, gradually developing a hatred for the brown face that looked back at me every morning.

Just exactly where was this multiculturalism? My parents were showing me more of an acceptance and understanding of the wider world behind closed doors than my school life ever did. But I’m being harsh – the school itself was pretty forward thinking for an institution on the A13 corridor out of East London.  Teachers took a real interest in my talents of sport (sigh as were all black kids), music (yawn and again with the black kids), writing (nods approvingly), reading, performing, maths (jumps excitedly for joy).  I was the only black child in my entire school between 1983 and 1988 and yet these teachers took time to deal with the racist bullies, to encourage me to talk to them about what was happening, to discuss books that dealt with race in the classroom, to keep challenging me to reach above and beyond my potential.  Whether I did or not is neither here nor there, but in conjunction with my parents the teachers in my school played a huge role in my successes and achievements.  Whilst other students may have singled me out and not understood that my difference from them was so minuscule; the staff at Gable Hall Secondary School in Corringham, Essex treated me as they would any other student.  When I read that Steve McQueen believes his school days in a West London comp (bizarrely the one I cut my teacher teeth on) were difficult mainly due to his colour I amsaddened.  Saddened because decades earlier and miles away my experience was, on the whole, positive, enjoyable and rewarding.  Surely his should have been an improvement on mine?

I don’t know how I feel about the discussion about whether multiculturalism works.  Every nation, continent, indeed this Earth is full of different cultures. Britain need only turn the pages of its own history books to see how instrumental it has been in developing a country which has a variety of peoples.  These people of other cultures would not be here if the Brits hadn't have gone there.

My view is that it is about acceptance and understanding. No, don’t think I’m being wishy washy.  Me and the GeordieLad have a people in our lives from a plethora of countries, cultures, religions, cities, abilities, sexualities, genders, beliefs, counties and they are welcomed to our family as one.  Surely that’s enough. That’s what we’re teaching the 3G. 

As FantasticoDad says, there is only one race – the human race. 

Goodnight London, wherever you are.