Race

I was about five years old, and on a train with my mother on our way home from visiting someone in London.  In the same carriage as us was another little girl about the same age and height as me;  I have always been exceptionally tall so this was unusual.  She was fascinating to me- with a huge sparkly smile and loads of energy.  Her joy was compelling, intoxicating my world and we ran up and down the train jumping on seats and swinging on railings, celebrating our new friendship.  She was black with very dark smooth skin and bright shiny eyes.  Her hair was short, with tight afro curls twisted with colourful ties- about the opposite of my long, dead straight hair and pale skin.   Where I lived everyone was pasty white and anally retentive, swallowing their anger until everyone was wrong.   She was like fresh, spiky wind- blowing away all the dark clouds.

When it came time to go, I made my embarrassed mother get her embarrassed mother’s telephone number, and made them promise to be in touch so we could see each other again.  It never happened.  I never met my friend again. 

I never saw much difference between dark and light skin- except that dark skin was prettier to me. 

I remember the shock of realising the anger of this difference.   I was about seventeen, and I was at a ‘free party’.  This was what we called illegal parties with dirty underground jungle beats.  Usually in a basement or warehouse somewhere, or in the summer it might be a field.  We’d take ecstasy and speed and dance all night.  This particular party was on a pier, it had gone quickly and was ending too soon for me. I was in the bathroom high as a kite, and completely spaced out.  There was a girl fixing her face in the mirror and I went over to join her and tried to start a conversation.  It wasn’t easy- she was not particularly friendly, but after a few minutes she started to soften.  I looked for my lip-balm and realise I couldn’t find my wallet.  I turned to her concerned, hoping she would offer help, but her face changed dramatically.  With her pretty face all twisted up she exclaimed to her friends that I had accused her of stealing my wallet “because she’s black”.  I’m shocked and wordless.  My new friend threatens to hit me and squares up to me.  I just stand there, unsure how to react to this situation; my face must have been a picture of disappointment.  Then she was gone. 

When I went to University, my house was a racial mix and there was one black girl, a very sweet and shy, innocent girl who worked hard and had probably never been outside London in her whole life.  I tried to make friends but she and her friends always kept me outside of the group.  One day I asked her why, and she told me it was because they were all in the Black African Society and I was not.  I asked if I could join and they reacted like I was mad.  Of course I couldn’t join, I was white.  “But”, I protested, “I’ve been to Africa, and I have close relatives who live in Botswana, most of you have never been to Africa and don’t know anyone there”.  They never spoke to me again.

I always envied their sense of belonging to a group labelled: Exotic and beautiful and full of energy, with wonderful music, rhythmic dancing and a right to be angry.  

When I was in Asia I experienced racism like nowhere else: I was white therefore I was rich, and because I was a white woman I was a slut.  Women hated me and men thought they could do as they pleased with me.  I sought solitude, simplicity and celibacy.  The greedy smiles of the people I met drove me away with a bad taste.   In the end I stopped trying to make them see me, and just spent my time with other foreigners. 

This is how identities are conditioned.   I know I’m not white, I’m not tall, I don’t have a country or an identity.  I wear the labels that are appropriate for this time and place for the sake of the image other people see when they meet me.

This story keeps on running.  I suppose that’s why we call it ‘race’.