can you see the real me?

The writing prompt - something I wanted as a child  really made me look back on childhood birthdays and Christmases to see if any disappointment had ever been registered, but I couldn't. I think the fact that we had been taught to appreciate any gifts or should I say be damn grateful for what we got, that  I can't recall any crestfallen moments upon discarding the wrapping papers twice a year.

So what then?

Well, for a while, I would say between the ages of 12 and 18, I deeply wanted something that I knew would never be attained, could never be given, was not in my power and more importantly...I never voiced. Ever. Until now.

I wanted to be white.

Whilst I store my shame about this statement in a drawer marked 'what I shouldn't say out loud', it struck me when thinking about this writing prompt that this unspoken feeling overshadowed an immense part of my formative years.

There were never any thoughts of trying to bleach or scraping off my skin - occurrences which I have read about some severely unhappy black children experiencing - no, because on the whole my homelife was a secure and supportive environment. But up until the age of 9 I was submerged in a London life where we were all just people, just kids, running around in flares and tank tops.

Moving from London to Essex in the 80s was a decision my parents didn't take lightly but I don't think anything could have prepared me for the shift of social identity.  For the first time I felt my colour - now some people may not understand what this comment means. In London I had just been nine year old me then suddenly I was nine year BLACK me - of course I knew what my face looked like but it had never reflected as a negative or highlighted fact about me. I was just ME!

Initially it wasn't really about the wanting a white face thing but as the new kid on the block I just wanted to fit in with all the other kids - who all happened to be all white kids. And at school I was experiencing regular interactions like these with other kids:

Is your skin the same colour as your face under your clothes?

Is your bum black? (This one was called through the toilet door when a bunch of us went to the loo, as girlies do)

At my party we'll play a game where we have to guess who's hands belong to the person under the blanket but you won't be able to play.

Why are you black?

You've got rubber lips.

Bemused I batted these comments away with jokes; I became a comedian thereby I made friends.

Secondary school hit hard. The comments thrown my way were not so funny. Verbal and physical abuse ensued. But you know my parents, teachers and friends supported me and so I really did enjoy school.

But something lay deep; the need to belong as I gradually became aware that I was different to my peer group and according to the world I was in, not in a good way either. I started to dislike what I saw in the mirror; my nose, my lips, my bottom, my plaited hair - no swinging wash and blow-dry for me (Saturday nights were lost to un-plaiting, untangling and re-plaiting again).  And despite the ambitious efforts of my parents to promote black role models, my TV, film and music influences were mainly white and the in-crowd girls getting all the attention in my playground were white. Things became clear when the most popular girl told me that the most popular boy in the school liked me but would never go out with me simply because I was black. Not that I was really interested in boys at this time but I guess then it suddenly hit me that my skin colour was a problem.

When I went to university and later into the working world, the underlying desire was somewhat achieved by relaxing my hair, dying it blond and wearing blue contact lenses. You must understand this was never a conscious decision to make myself white; this was a look that I believed made me attractive and accepted. For a short while anyway. Thankfully I matured into myself my life and soon discovered that I didn't recognize this version of  Me looking back in the mirror so over time these additions were removed.

I'm shutting the draw firmly back now because I do feel incredibly sad that I used to wish my beautiful childhood face away and maybe the next time I'm asked this question, I'll say a Chopper bike, that's what I wanted when I was a kid, a bright red Chopper bike.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt82 : something I wanted as a child

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.

take that look off your face

I’m hoping you have managed to catch up on the story about Samuel L Jackson being mistaken for Laurence Fishburne, live on air in the US.  A ex-colleague what'sapped it to me the other day, as he knew this situation had happened to me on numerous occasions (not being mistaken for Laurence Fishburne, or Samuel LJ for that matter, but being mistaken for other brown people), and although we used to have an incredulous laugh about it, it’s pretty damn unacceptable, really.

So back in the day my BestDamnFriend (BDF) and I used to look a tad similar, I guess – medium height, mocha brown, relaxed black hair; she however was a svelte slip of a thing, whilst my hips don’t lie – know what I’m sayin’?  And okay we used to have a little joke with the students that we were sisters.  But the adults always knew the truth.  Anyway, a decade has since passed, 5 kids between us later and I have lost the age and weight contest with BDF; I also decided to take the Afro train a year ago.  Yet still we were mistaken for each other by grown adults.  We were treated to mistaken identity extraordinaire one lunch duty when a staff member approached us, whilst we were standing together.  She started a conversation with me regarding an incident which had happened the previous day or week. During the tale she insisted that she had spoken to me before, to which I look confused.  She continued to assure me that we had spoken about the issue a number of times.  Glancing at BDF I saw a look, roughly translated as “She got us brown people mixed up”.  So I decided to help a woman out, and again repeated that I hadn't had the conversation with her before, but maybe she was getting me mixed up with someone else.  BDF jumped in and informed the staff member that it was in fact her, not me.

At this point I was okay about the mistake; people get other people confused. It happens. But then she waved her hand between the two of us as she acknowledged her mistake, meaning…well who knows... we looked similar, she thought we were twins, we were interchangeable?  It was the blasé way she felt it was acceptable that she had confused two very different looking people – whose only similarity was now the colour of their skin. No apology, nada.

And I’ve seen it happen to Asian colleagues who have repeatedly been confused with two or three other Asian woman.  Now if it’s happening to adults who have different names, jobs, offices, voices, personalities.  What on earth is happening to students all walking around in the same uniform?  Just saying…

can't hold us down

Phew! These 40 year old legs have just about managed to catch the late train home, after walking the length, breadth and height of the Southbank centre today.  Yet these forty year old fingers and this forty year old brain is ready to work, work, work.  What a day. Accompanied by collaborator, Mammaanji, the themes of race and motherhood have been listened to, discussed and tweeted on the marvellous second day of WOW.

Whilst I didn’t feel the surging empowerment of yesterday, I did feel that so many of our debates are in their infancy, and this is an exciting time to be sharing our thoughts and opinions.  But when we are sharing our stories of the past, I don’t feel we need to compare journeys to the detriment of seeking a way forward.  Obviously, in order to see the future, we must accept the past, but I felt despondent today that the lives of our young were not considered.  Labelling has and always will happen, it is what society needs to dominate and control the peoples within it. Indeed, we categorise ourselves, sometimes for ease, at times for necessity.  I have used the term ‘mixed race’ to ensure I am understood, and lately I have noticed my vocabulary changing to use ‘mixed heritage’, and today highlighted how insufficient these terms are. I grew up in a time when (is it so different?) white is good and black is bad.  Disney Princesses with their ivory skin, blond, blue, beauty was contrasted with the craggy, old, spinster witch in black.  And don’t even get me started on Noddy and his golliwog.  So I wanted to hear today what people thought about how we educate future generations? There was so much talk on half this, and half that.  As a mama to English / British / Geordie / Caribbean / Grenadian / St Lucian / Londoners where will my daughters align themselves? With their Yorkshire / English / Caribbean / Hindu / Sri Lankan / Indian / Geordie / London cousins (there are 4 children in that mix BTW)?  I doubt anyone out there has a one answer fits all solution.  This is going to run and run.

What will Alice do next?  After watching Pratibha Parmar’s film about Alice Walker, and then listening to the woman herself, I wonder whose life will be touched by her gentle yet forceful hand next.  This was an honest portrayal of her career and life delving into the writings, career, family and lovers, including the shocking revelation that she is estranged from her daughter and grandson.  My goodness this struck a chord.  The Color Purple has been my favourite book and film since I was 18.  I have a battered old copy which I refuse to update and can’t wait for the moment that I pass it onto the 3G.  My knowledge of her other works will improve after tonight.  I have learnt so much, not just about her writing, but about her role in activism, and how spiritual she is.  Yet I left with a heavy heart as Mammaanji questioned whether we have to sacrifice our role as mother in order to write.  It’s hard to appreciate why Walker made the choices she did, but the sad part is that a family is fragmented.  Speaking as a daughter estranged from her mother, whatever path I take I hope to see the 3G along the way, near or far.

This WOW weekend has been heart-warming and thought provoking.  I am exhausted and wonder where I will get the energy for class tomorrow.  This event is definitely a permanent fixture in mama elsie’s calendar.  Next year I’m taking as many of you as possible with me.

Goodnight London, wherever you are.