I feel a bit detached from reality at the moment.
A bit vacant.
Like everything is swirling around me and I can’t quite get a grip on anything.
I feel guilty.
I’ve neglected friends and family for the sake of work and it is like this little woodpecker in my brain hammering away as a reminder that I’m a shit person. I feel like a let down, like I don’t really know what I’m doing and not meeting expectations in essentially every aspect of my life.
I know we’ve been in lockdown, so everyone has been separated physically from their loved ones which has taken its toll emotionally on many. For me I feel like it’s perhaps been more of an emotional distance, I’ve prioritised work and withdrawn from relationships, channelling my time and energy into Sitting Rooms, but little else.
We have a weekly challenge suggested by a member of the group each week – this week the theme was “Trust”.
I sat an tried to write a poem, I usually find it quite easy – but this one took a while. I don’t know if it’s because my brain is so scrambled at the moment it just hard to organise my thoughts or whether it was the subject matter.
I’m so negative.
That’s what I kept thinking when writing it. There is something inherently hopeful and supportive about the concept of trust, but I really had to make a conscious effort to see that.
All I could think of were the times trust had been broken, times it had been misplaced.
I think I’m struggling with the realisation that there are so many people in the world who don’t feel the same as me about so many things. Not only that, but they are fundamental issues.
I’ve lost trust in humanity a little bit.
I know that sounds dramatic but some of the opinions I’ve heard and read on the Black Lives Matter protests have hurt my soul.
I feel bruised.
Maybe I was naïve, but I really didn’t think there were so many racists in my country, nor my city.
That is the privilege my skin lends me, although aware it existed I had rarely witnessed it myself.
What I have always had is an understanding.
An empathy.
I don’t know if that’s down to my heritage, my upbringing, or just something innate in me. Either way I haven’t been blind to the fact that my experiences in life would have been different if my skin had been darker.
With all that has happened the past few weeks I’ve been reflecting on my family, and particularly our culture. My Nan was South African, she met my Grandfather who was in the British Navy and he took her back home to the UK with him. From what I can gather he had to go back into service not long after arriving back and left my Nan with 3 kids at his parents house. Whether it was a clash of personalities or the fact that they were racist I’m not sure, but they kicked her and the children out, so they had to live in a hostel for a while.
In Cape Town she came from a fairly affluent lifestyle, her parents owned a large amount of land which they had a farmed. I used to love hearing stories from my Nan about how they used to climb on the roof of the barn and watch the horse races at the track not far from their farm. I’ve been told that land would be worth a shed load now, it was taken from our family during apartheid. That’s surprisingly a story I haven’t been told much about, my Nan was fairly selective with her stories.
My point was that coming to England was a culture shock in many ways, she had to fend for herself which I believe was a struggle. My dad always used to tell the story of when she ran out of food, so her and her mate at the hostel went out to a field and picked potato’s one night so they could feed the kids.
What is most interesting, is that my dad used to tell this story a lot.
Like it was a huge chip on his shoulder.
But he wasn’t born when that had happened, until recently I couldn’t understand why he had almost taken ownership of an experience that wasn’t technically his.
We have visited Cape Town a couple of times and despite all that Mandela fought for – racism is still rampant.
It’s different there though.
Myself and my sister have always been massively proud of our heritage, it’s something we have celebrated and almost shown off about throughout our lives.
We relish in our ethnicity.
Some of our family in Cape Town are the opposite, which is a concept we really struggled with. So they celebrate their pale skin, they feel their status is improved by their British heritage. They were telling stories of relatives using products to lighten their skin further, and wearing special sleeves on their arms when they drive so their arm doesn’t tan. I remember asking one of our Aunties over there why are they doing that?? She is amazing and as blunt as a brick and just shouted “Cause they racist!”.
As you can imagine we had some pretty interesting conversations over there. What was clear was that these opinions were ingrained, despite debating various points it often fell on deaf ears. Their experiences are completely different to ours, the caste system is still very much in force and gave an indication of why some of our family members over there championed their caucasian attributes. Things are far from black and white over there. Every colour and creed has their own label and perceived place in society. I found that aspect of life there bizarre.
So it got me thinking about our family in the UK. Have we actually retained any of our culture. With recent highlighting of natural hair being made an issue for some , it was one aspect I thought about. One of my favourite features is my hair, and it took me a long time to fall in love with it. As I’ve mentioned my generation aren’t obviously mixed race and despite having approximately 5000 cousins, there’s only a couple of us with curly hair. My Aunts and Uncles however all were blessed with Afro-ish hair. The women, including my Nan always straightened it.
Back in day it was chemical relaxing, I remember their hair looking so brittle it looked like it would snap. Their poor follicles thinking this is the least relaxing thing in the world please stop. Then tech brought them straighteners, so they now essentially iron the curls out.
Why?
So when I was growing up with curly hair I didn’t know what the hell to do with it. My mums hair is straight, the hairdressers we went to and the ones I’ve been to as an adult haven’t got a clue. And to be fair, they have all been white. I remember once going in with hair almost to my bum asking for a trim – I came out with a bob cause they hair shamed me into thinking my hair was in such bad condition it needed essentially shaving off. It’s not damaged, it’s different.
The amount of times they’ve come near me with one of those tiny combs and hacking away wondering why the fuck I still look like hagrid after an hour.
So I do it myself now.
It’s weird when you think about it but hairdressers, especially for women, seem to be segregated.
I spent years straightening my hair too, it was only stumbling across the Curly Girl Method that gave me the info I needed to know how to care for my curls. It is a game changer and I haven’t straightened my hair since, anyone reading who struggles with theirs I would check it out.
Anyways my point was – this was one aspect of our culture we not only lost , but our family forced it out. When describing their natural hair was always negative. It was “unruly” “messy” “frizzy” “unmanageable”.
The next thing I really wish we had retained was the language.
Unfortunately my Nan only taught us grandkids a few jokey insults, even my aunts and uncles apart from one is unable to speak more than a few words. I know more french and spanish, than I do Africaans.
To me that’s a shame, and a missed opportunity.
Maybe my Nan didn’t think it was relevant to pass that down when they lived here?
I know there is has been opinions banded around about “foreigners” and comments like “why they over here speaking their language?”
Now I get that in order to function in another country it’s handy to be able to converse in their language , but is it necessary to deny them to ever speak their own language in public again?
The irony of comments like these is they are made by people who are likely to go abroad and expect everyone to speak English. The hypocrisy of stating the high street is being “taken over” and destroying British culture, yet will be in the Irish Bar every trip abroad and plan to retire in Benidorm. I’m massively digressing, this has turned into a bit of a brain vom – but I think I needed it.
So why are we so proud of our heritage?
Particularly my sister and I.
So this chip on my dads shoulder, the potato picking, these stories were always framed as a tale to understand him better.
But actually they helped me understand the world a bit better:
You’ve got to look back to move forward sometimes. That education from a young age helps you to build your moral compass.
Both of my parents suffered racism throughout their lives, my mum really only when they were a couple. Her anger whilst recalling these memories at times was tangible, the injustice still ringing. She has only ever seen the human in people, so when they would get abuse for being an interracial couple, I don’t think she could really understand it.
I’m talking about the 90’s now, so not that long ago and a story my dad told me a couple of weeks ago. He was a fireman and I can remember him being redeployed years ago, he was stationed at one place and he moved to another. I was a kid at the time so I don’t think I thought much of it. He told me the other day why he moved. He was basically bullied out – due to racism.
He had been at this particular station for a few years, got on alright with everyone, but there were a few who thought it was funny to slip in some not so casual racism now and again.
This came to a head one day when someone called him a “Black Bastard”.
From what I can gather this was a nail in the coffin type moment, the digs had taken their toll, and the fact the rest of his watch laughed along and didn’t challenge it really got to him. Their silence rendered them complicit in his eyes, something to think about for those who say they aren’t racist but they will happily ignore it when they witness it.
So these were they days when the Fire Service had bars in every station, they would basically sit around getting pissed and play table tennis.
No joke.
Anyways this night they are sat around in the bar and this colleague of his drops the “BB” bomb and and my dad hatches a little plan. He rings up basically anyone he knew of colour, and invited them for a drink. Not only that but these were big guys who weren’t afraid of a bit of a scrap now and again.
Once a load of them were there he stood up and faced the bloke who’d found being racist so hilarious before, and said to him and the rest of the room “Call me a Black Bastard again now”
They never did.
But he moved to a different station which wasn’t full of racists.
What a treat. It’s
just a shame they moved him rather than dealing with the actual problem. A problem that his managers knew about prior to this incident, but left my dad to deal with himself.
What did it take for change?
Intimidation.
Essentially the threat of violence.
My Dad and his mates forced to take on the stereotype of “angry black man” in order to end the abuse of a racist white man. Before that nobody was listening.
Any bells ringing here?
Those chastising the actions of BLM protesters, they can’t see it’s a reaction, without racism nobody would need to be out breaking lockdown.
This story made me realise how much my Dad has had to fight all his life, the challenge of being accepted and treated like everyone else. To know that for some people he meets, to them there will only ever be that one thing that defines him. The concept of that, well, It’s just fucking ridiculous to be honest.