My RACIST nan.

“My Nan’s racist,” I’d say casually, dropping it into conversation if the conversation led to it. Some people’s reactions were to downplay it or avoid the topic of conversation completely because it made them feel uncomfortable or they did not understand. Others would be shocked and apologetic for such abysmal behaviour. Either way, my nonchalant attitude towards it was always a defence mechanism, a way of guarding myself against something that I would never completely come to terms with myself.

Rewind to around 23 years ago when I was between 10-11 years old, I remember my mum and godmother coming into the living room together and joining me on the sofa. They both had a look in their eyes that told me it was something serious they were about to tell me. The bombshell came from my mother's mouth, along the lines of this; “Delisha, I need to explain to you why you don’t see your nan. She doesn’t want to get to know you or see you because she’s racist. This is because of the colour of your skin. She’s sick in the head and that’s why I have nothing to do with her. My own mother rejected me and you because of the colour of your skin. I’m ashamed of her and at the end of the day Delisha, it’s her loss.” The walls went up quickly and I replied back “I can’t miss what I never had I guess.” Not realising that this generic and submissive statement would stay with me way into my adulthood. Deep down it hurt and with further explanation I understood that it was because I was mixed race and that my dad was black. This was the reason why she refused to see me. The insecurity had begun.

I’d always wondered why at school I had friends who would talk about their wonderful nana’s. How they’d go visit them on the weekends. How they’d bake them cakes, spoil them when mum wasn’t looking. It sounded really lovely and I’d always thought, why don’t I have that? Where’s my nan at? Well now I knew. My nan on my dads side lived in Nigeria and died when I was young and the other was a racist. That bombshell had quickly woken me up to the harsh reality that I was different. I was a different colour to my mum, my baby sister, 90% of my primary school peers and my community. I’d grown up in Woodford all my life which was always (and still is) a predominantly white area. My mum and dad separated when I was young and my dad was living in Bow/Mile End which was known to be a lot more diverse than Woodford. Growing up with my mum and sister was what I wanted, unbeknownst at the time that the community and schools I had committed to would have a huge impact on my cultural acceptance, awareness and understanding.

Cue school. So, who did I belong with? Did I belong with the small handful of black, mixed and asian children in my class or did I belong with the white children? Being of mixed white and black African ethnicity I just remember being confused. Primary school wasn’t as discriminating because young children were a lot nicer and more accepting at the time, however this didn’t stop me from discriminating myself. I remember the most difficult thing to come to terms with for me personally was my hair. It was so obviously different. It was a big ball of uncontrollable, fuzzy, frizz. I wanted the princess hair and growing up a Disney fanatic didn’t help my case either. I was so jealous of the girls in my class who had beautiful, long and luscious blonde locks down to their bottoms. Why was I so unlucky? Why wasn’t I pretty? I don’t look like them, so this definitely means I’m ugly I thought. I was beginning to reject myself.

Secondary school. By year 8 I’d discovered straighteners and make up. And guess what I wasn’t as ugly as I’d once thought I was! Ignoring the fact that the damage had already been done and all I was doing was masking it with false aesthetics to make me feel better on the outside. But what about the inside? I wasn’t truly accepting myself was I? I was trying to fit into a false culture because I wanted people to like me. I didn’t want to be rejected over and over again like I did by my nan. I was so determined not to experience that pain again, I lost myself entirely in the process. But who cared, I had friends, I had attention from boys, I was desirable so to me that meant I was accepted.

One day I remember something quite unexpected happening to me in the canteen. At the time I was in year 8 and I was dating a white guy, (I’d mainly grown up seeing relationships and men around me who were white) and for me this was just the norm. I’d finished my lunch and had emptied my tray returning it to the dinner lady and proceeded towards the exit into the playground. As I walked past the year 10’s I tried not to make eye contact. They were known as the “rowdy” black kids who everyone was afraid of. One of the pretty mixed raced girls with curly hair (funny I accepted her as being pretty) shouted out to me, “This girl only dates white guys, she’s a disgrace to her own race!” Again, what was my race I thought? Because when I last checked I was equal measures of white and black. Equal measures of my mum and dad. Cue, more confusion.

15 years old and I discovered The Sun newspaper. It was always left out on the dinner table at my ex-boyfriend's house. Page 3 and puberty already raised a lot of questions for me, but the main thing I couldn’t get my head around was the nipples. Yep, nipples. Why were every pair of boobs in this daily rotation of newspapers white with the trademark pink areolas. Mine were brown, so again what was wrong with me? I’d never seen anyone else with brown nipples so did that make me ugly? More insecurities developed.

It wasn’t until I’d gotten to my late 20’s that I started to realise that these small and seemingly insignificant incidents were really just reinforcing the idea that my nan was right. I’d never be accepted for the colour of my skin. I was different and would always be seen as different. I lived in denial for a very long time. It took until the beginning of my 30’s to comfortably wear my hair naturally and embrace my beautiful curls. How sad that the actions of one bitter, ignorant and racist woman would have on me.

Spirituality was the first step in accepting myself. I had to do a lot of internal work to get to where I am today. Talking to close friends and family members, counselling and CBT also helped. I am now at a place where I am comfortable in my own skin and I can embrace my uniqueness.

To this day my nan continues to have nothing to do with me even though she still lives in Woodford Green. The day me, my mum and sister bumped into her in South Woodford Sainsbury’s when I was 16-17 at the checkout and she couldn’t even look at me. The way she disowned my mum because she had a baby with a black man. In the end, I feel sorry for her because she is uneducated and has truly missed out on having the best granddaughter ever. Anyway, it will always continue to be her loss and never mine. I hope Black Lives Matter is making her as uncomfortable now as she made me back then.