Two racially charged things happened to me in the week before I wrote this. Firstly, in the spirit of understanding a white woman asked, when did I first know that I was Black. The second thing also from a white woman I’ll come to shortly. In response to these events, I wanted to share a few vignettes of everyday systemic racism that have helped me to know that I am Black.
In answer to the first question, when did I know? At my first school Christmas fare, I was excited to choose a toy from the lucky dip. As I wiggled my fingers in the sawdust the kind grownup supervising the stall told me not to pull out a toy as she had something special for me. I was given a hair bobble. I was 4 years old and I liked the hair bobbles. I was sad not to have chosen my own toy. I felt special, I felt different. Throughout my childhood my hair was trimmed like a hedge, so I looked like I had a brown dandelion clock on my head. There were no Black hairdressers in town and no Black haircare products, even our Afro comb had been bought in London as we couldn’t buy them in town. Nothing has changed. I still have to drive 45 minutes to buy shampoo and I have someone who cuts my hair that hasn’t been trained to do so and I bring my own shampoo with me. Black haircare is optional on hairdressing courses.
One birthday in mid-childhood, my mum’s friend of who lived in London, sent me a birthday card with a pencil drawing of a cute Black girl. I have never before, or since, had a birthday card picturing someone who looked like me. Cards with Black girls on do exist but you have to search for them, they’re not ‘mainstream.’ Black people are not ‘mainstream’.
My partner and I have been denied entry into gay venues whilst straight white friends danced happily away inside. My white partner lashed out at the man who punched me and called me Black Bitch one morning on the way to the supermarket. I have had to learn that white people can protect and support me.
In my first social work job I worked for a mental health project for African-Caribbean men with mental health problems. At ward rounds it was common for me not to be invited into the room. I was assumed to be a relative, not the social worker.
My second job was supporting children who lived and euphemistically worked on the streets, their ‘work’ was sexual exploitation. During my induction, one colleague told me, an Irish Lesbian had been expected to get the job as she worked in a very similar project. By the way, “Did you know our manager is a ‘dyke’? She must have fancied you, plus a Black Lesbian looks better for equal opportunities.” I was the one who bought the Black hair and skin care products for the young people we worked with.
I joined the international development sector as a VSO volunteer. I looked around Harborne Hall during the pre-departure training and didn’t see people who looked like me. Twenty-one years later, what has changed?
I am disturbed that the voices of diverse identities are ignored, whilst at the same time independent safeguarding reviews tell us diversity is important and that those with diverse identities are at increased risk from their colleagues and organisations. I feel sad and invisible when aid workers say in front of me, “As white people we…”, I wonder if they haven’t seen me, or if they just don’t think that I am important. I am angered by the colonial notions of white saviours and the ‘othering’ poor Black beneficiaries, my Black family potentially being the latter. Some of my family are actual or potential beneficiaries whilst others who have more wealth and status than many of you reading this post.
Even as I use the word ‘angered’, I am conscious that Black women’s anger is considered, aggressive, dangerous and I want to check my use of this word.
When I enter offices, meetings, training rooms etc. I look around and note the lack of Black faces. When there are Black faces, we give each other ‘the nod’ to acknowledge our mutual presence. In 2019, I was delighted to find myself in a guesthouse in Afghanistan with five Black women and one white gay man. After the white man left the dinner table, we spontaneously and excitedly regaled each other with stories of the casual racism we encounter. We enjoyed this unexpectedly safe space.
My stories include, being on a plane to The Gambia and after noticing that the white man in the seat next to me had been editing a report on healthcare, I asked him about his work. In return he asked if I was visiting family, the assumption being that I couldn’t be going for tourism or work. Sometimes, I see faces fall as I am introduced as the Consultant and I know that those I am there to work with expected a ‘proper’ white aid worker. Conversely, sometimes, I see faces light up as the national staff feel some connection with this non-white person. I find myself tidying the training room at the end of the training whilst my white colleagues are talking to the leader planning the next day, or indeed has finished for the day. Stereotypes of the low status role of Black women are internalised and played out.
I am not married, I am not a mother and in many countries this impacts on my status and I suspect contributes to the frequent but low-level experiences of sexual harassment on missions from teams I am working with, from communities, from hotel staff and guests. My white colleagues are surprised when I tell them, we laugh it off. They don’t offer support. Sometimes I feel afraid. I have chronic and life limiting respiratory conditions so I can’t run away if I feel this low-level sexual harassment were to escalate.
The government has recently defined me as extremely clinically vulnerable due to my respiratory conditions. An email exchange with my medical consultant told me that my respiratory issues may not be as high risk as previously thought but being half BAME increases my risk of COVID-19. This risk is not known to be genetic but BAME communities are at greater risk due to racialised poverty impacting on health indicators, access to health care and their jobs on the so-called COVID front-line. The degree of my breathing impairment can’t be measured accurately because calculations of lung capacity are based on Caucasian lung capacity. That brings me back to what has reignited discussions on race and the now familiarly tragic refrain, “I can’t breathe”.
Race, gender, health, sexuality, class, education, profession, survivor, marital and parental status are intersecting identities which impact on my life and my work. Every day, I am alert, every day I am conscious. So back to the question, every day know that I am Black.