Early experiences of racism
Firstly, this is a list of event I wrote down to help me process some of what was happening last year. I wanted to validate my own experiences and acknowledge why I was finding conversations on racism difficult. They were difficult, but that’s not to say they shouldn’t happen. Its just that in some spaces, people forgot that this is about each one of us as individuals, our life experiences. Having people compete in terms of who had worst experiences was unhelpful and it’s taken over a year to finally get this out. Below is a collection of experiences I shared with some people last year.
The Playground
I don’t fully recall living in Ashton-Under-Lyne, but I remember it being the first time that I felt different. I’d forgotten about some of these memories until I was due to start college and that created its own problems.
They say your brain makes you forget things when you can’t cope, and memories come back when you can deal with them. I thank God I had a small number of friends that have pulled me up, not only during college but later too. I consider myself fortunate in many ways though I do not know if I’d go as far as describing myself as ‘privileged’.
On this incident, (there are enough to write a book), I was a scrawny five-year-old walking through the playground, holding my friend’s hand. Being a shy kid, I often looked at the floor more than ahead, besides, people often missed flora, fauna and insects when they looked up all the time. It was break time and other kids were out, we literally bumped into older kids. We tried to turn back but they all surrounded us and then separated us, both of us screaming for each other. I think my friend ran to get help, but it was me they wanted.
They formed a circle around me, arms and legs star shaped. I tried to run and get out; they would push me back in the circle and laugh. They kept doing this and I was scared and crying. I thought I saw the teacher looking from out of the window, they always say ‘kids will be kids’ and she quickly put the blind back.
Then the name calling started and I knew it was a bad word, spitting, hitting, kicking, stamping. I had barely been at that school long enough to have had any grudge, made any enemies but the colour of my skin was enough. It was enough for one of the older girls to come to the middle and pick up what seemed like a twig but not one of those breakable ones, much like willow, threads, like rope, it may even have been rope, I just remember the feel around my neck… she stood behind me, wrapping it around my neck whilst others chanted. She twisted it tight around my neck and kept on until another boy told her I’d had enough, and the bell rang.
I don’t remember much after that, not until I was 16 and I kept getting anxious about starting college. My mother said I didn’t speak when I got home, I wasn’t able to. I had similar experiences but not quite as violent in years to follow. I learned to keep myself to myself and stay in public, following my gut instinct. You start to notice people’s eyes and try to read if they are safe. I’m not sure that ever leaves you, that internal checking of everyone you meet, and whether they’d be the person in the circle, the friend, the girl with the ‘rope’. It took a number of years but I am pleased to say, the nightmares stopped.
New School
Prior to the playground incident, I remember my first day at school. Dad had dropped me off, gave me an apple, one with a leaf on it. I liked to think dad had picked it for me and that’s why it still had the leaf on it. He did odd jobs, door to door selling, picking fruit & veg in farms, anything he could get. One time he’d picked bags of dirty potatoes and threw them into the bath for mum to wash, scrub and re-bag — that’s how you’d get the wages. My mum was not happy to say the least, not only were there so many potatoes but the state of the bath afterwards!
The teacher seemed nice. I could understand what she was saying but I just could not respond. My mum spoke Gujarati, we all spoke Gujarati at home. Miss knelt and gathered the children.
‘This is Lilu,… and she’s from… where are you from Lilu? Pakistan’
I didn’t actually know how to correct her, just nodded my head, it was close enough. Not that my parents agreed ‘why didn’t you say! We’re not Pakistanis, we’re Indian — jeez, they think we’re all the same’.
What’s Christmas?
In class one time, Miss was explaining something, she drew pretty holly on around the board and wrote a list. I didn’t know at the time that this was a Christmas wish list, I didn’t know what that was. Instead I very carefully copied what she had done and then started to draw the holly and berries, making the berries all different colours, all neat and inside the lines. I was feeling really proud of myself until a girl next to me shouted;
‘Miss!! Miss, she’s done it wrong…. Miss look, she’s copied your writing Miss’.
Miss wasn’t impressed. I got called to the front, hand out, and felt the ruler. I realised I done wrong. I realised then that I was clumsy and always making mistakes. I didn’t realise till much later that I had dyspraxia and auditory problems.
Kiss chase
Your experiences shape every part of you, and relationships, including sexual are no different. I recall one day looking for people I could join to play with. I saw girls and boys running around, I asked what they were playing ‘kiss chase!’ shouted one. I noticed the girls running, so I started running too — I didn’t know what this game was, but it looked fun from all the screams and commotion. As I ran, one of the kids said, ‘I don’t know why you’re running, it’s not like anyone is going to chase YOU.’ I was stunned, wasn’t sure what she meant. Stood there and the boys all ran past. That’s what she meant. I was different.
It meant for years; I was completely clueless to interest that came my way in later years. I just assumed I wasn’t attractive, especially not to anyone who was not Asian.
Leaving the area
It was the first and only ever council property we ever had. A neighbour had taken insult to being told not to climb through the balcony, into the flat whilst mum was alone. Early afternoon there was a knock at the door. Dad opened it gently to find a group of angry white men, they came charging through the door, breaking the door chain, dad unsuccessfully trying to close the door on them. They shouted, ‘drag the p*ki out’. Mum said it was easier to kill someone on the streets than in the house.
He realised it was too late, shouted to my mum to take us upstairs. I could see the look of horror on her face as she rushed through the bedroom door. Dad ran upstairs, the men chasing after. Whilst mum was holding the youngest, she opened the window, screaming for help. I went to the door, saw dad struggling and ran to him. He got upset at me shouted to mum to come and take me away, but I wanted to go back and help him. The men didn’t stop.
I’d like to tell you how like the Bollywood movies, he flew up into the air, picking up a random hockey stick and beat the racists back to their hellhole. I wish I could tell you that, but that didn’t happen. Again, perhaps for the best, my memory is hazy. Police arrived; someone had heard mum scream.
The police asked if there was somewhere, we could stay, the door was broken, blood everywhere. Mum told me the Sikh shop owner came to pick us up, we didn’t have anywhere to go. No one trusted that the police would protect, they hadn’t on other occasions. The shop owner lived above the shop with his family and we ended up living there for considerable amount of time, two families sharing, one kitchen in the middle, before moving back to Birmingham.
Final reflections
In all the discussions from last year, from systemic racism to institutional racism, we forget that when people talk about racism, they often talk about their own life experiences. It is these early life experiences that shape our thinking for many years. Over the years I have sought therapy to help with some of the events; bearing in mind, this was only the first 7 years or so. Later, I was to experience problems with access to support around education, early diagnosis, and lack of networks to get into work. My work history was patchy and not linear. I had some awful experiences that left me at least a decade behind where I ought to be in my career but I also know I’m a better person for it. I am very lucky that I had good support from friends, family and strangers. My experiences did not stop me from making friends with people who were different to me or getting married to a White man. In fact, my desire to understand and process what had happened in early childhood, led to an interest in people and behaviours. I do however think that there is a need for therapy that is specifically tailored to work with people who have experiences of racism that may benefit early support to process their feelings of hate from others. To my knowledge, I have not seen this therapy but if it is out there, then better access is needed.
