The little things

The media seems to be filled to bursting with images, essays and opinions on the Black Lives Matter issue, and quite rightly so. I was considering this competition prompt and something came to mind that for me demonstrates how sub-consciously ingrained racism actually can be.

Let me begin by telling you a little about me. I am a white, fifty-something, British woman, born and raised on the south-east coast of England. My career as a Civil Servant started in HM Immigration Service in Dover and meandered through HM Prison Service HQ in London to HM Courts and Tribunal Services in Dover and Additional Educational Needs in secondary education, also locally. In London I spent the best part of a decade working in the department dealing with the building of new prisons and the refurbishment of the old. It was hard work but rewarding. I met so many interesting people at work and socially. And I have often said, since then, some of the people I met in prisons were more decent than some of the congregation at my local churches. I learned that you should never judge a book by its cover and that everyone has a back story.

So, London is also the place where I met the father of my son. He had been born in England but his parents were Burmese. I discovered that the Myanmar people are a very kind and gentle, mixed bag of people with a variety of religions, cultures and traditions passed down through generations. My ‘in-laws’ spoke to me of their homesickness but, as we all know, Myanmar has been an unsafe place to live for decades and they knew that they would never go home. They had arrived in England in the early sixties and I recall my partner telling me how, when he was a young boy, he would be walking out with his mother and people would hurl racist insults at them. His mother’s attitude was to ignore them but my partner told me that he had wished that his mother had been more reactive and retaliated because then he would have felt more protected. That was a memory that came forth quite often I noticed. I also became aware of his responses to certain questions. When we were out, if he was asked if he was Burmese, he would emphasise the fact that he was Anglo-Burmese. Yet, if he was asked if he was Spanish or Italian (because of the colour of his complexion) he was quick to confirm that he was Burmese (no Anglo). I still wonder how he truly felt about his roots and how his past experiences had affected him psychologically and emotionally.

At first the news of my very unexpected pregnancy was received with joy but very quickly it became apparent that my partner was ill-equipped to deal with fatherhood. When I was four months pregnant he left, never to be seen again. So, when my maternity leave began I moved back to south-east England, with my parents, until my baby had been born. I was expecting my child to have black hair and brown eyes like his father since they are dominant genes. As it turned out my son has brown hair and blue eyes. When he was a toddler though, around two years old, he looked very much as his father did at that age. And now I’m coming to the thought that prompted me to write this.

When my son was around two years old, I used to take him to our local gymnastics club. Every Tuesday they had a baby session with bouncy floors and foam pits etc. He loved it, a typical toddler, throwing himself about, exploring tunnels and tubes. One day, I was sitting on the side of the play area watching my son when another mum came and sat beside me. We were having one of those general conversations about the weather, how great this baby gym was and so on when she turned to me and asked “Is it me, or is your son a little bit Chinese-y?” I suddenly felt on guard but decided to inform her that he was not Chinese-y but had Burmese family. She touched my arm, leaned into me conspiratorially and, as if to re-assure me, patronisingly said “Don’t worry. It doesn’t really show.” Her response has stayed with me ever since. I asked her why I would worry and I suppose the look on my face or the tone of my voice caused her to back off saying “No, no, quite right, absolutely....” I suppose I could have forgiven her for living in an area of the country where it is predominantly white and the only ‘foreigners’ provide us with take-away food. But, I couldn’t. She was educated and, because no-one is born with racist blinkers on, she must have put them on herself.

I think having had the career that I had gave me a much more realistic view of people. I was fortunate to have the opportunities that opened my eyes, widened my horizons and taught me to be unafraid to stand up for what I know intrinsically is right. It’s obviously rubbed off on my son because he seems to have the same attitude. Sadly, as we all know, there are many people who do not have the same principles. Where I live the issue of refugees and asylum seekers is a big subject of debate. It’s been twenty years since the ‘is your son a little bit Chinese-y’ incident and still I have friends or acquaintances (who know me and my family well enough) who have been ranting about the refugees coming into Dover. They use disgusting language, promote ridiculously hideous actions and yet, when I remind them that my son’s grandparents were refugees they all answer in the same way “Ah, but that’s different.” And I always tell them “No. It isn’t.”