Below is a post my brilliant wife Elaine has done up explaining her personal perspective on growing up and living in Britain as a black person.
For those who had the misfortune of meeting me, you’ll know I’m shy and retiring and like to keep quiet! Okay, maybe not, but despite the fact that I could quite happily talk the hind legs off a donkey, one of the things I rarely talk about is race.
When it comes to race, I’ve often been quiet, never wanting to provoke conversations that might make people uncomfortable or defensive. I’m a big fan of avoiding conflict, just ask himself. I was raised to be uber polite. Ghanaian’s are obsessed with politeness. If it were an Olympic sport, we’d be in with a strong chance of winning gold. No, after you. No, please kindly, I beg of you, after you.
However, since the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Ahmaud Aubrey and George Floyd along with the antics of Amy Cooper, I’ve realised that being silent isn’t really a choice anymore, which is why I’m contributing to this newsletter.
As a child, my parents encouraged me to assimilate. I don’t speak their language Twi particularly well (despite understanding it fluently) as they didn’t want my English to suffer. Like a lot of other black children raised in countries where they are in the minority, I was also taught that I had to work twice as hard and be twice as good, to get half as far as my white counterparts. “Blend in, work hard, keep your head down and try not to draw too much attention” they said. They wanted to protect me from experiencing what they had been through and thought this was how to best do it.
My parents came to the U.K. from Ghana in the early 1960s. My Dad was a solicitor in Ghana and was liaising on a case with a British firm. They took a shine to him and asked him to come and work for them in London as a solicitor’s clerk. Despite it being a step down, he jumped at the chance (I inherited my love of getting on a plane and seeking out adventure from him). He worked his way up to becoming a solicitor and for most of his career, he was the only black man working in what is now one of the world’s largest legal firms.
My dad kept rather quiet about his experiences at work and what he went through. It was only after he had passed away, I was reading the biography that he’d written and some of the letters he kept from his family, that I became aware of what he had experienced. People wouldn’t speak to him or when they would, it would be to make derogatory remarks. They’d refuse to sit anywhere near him just in case, you know, they’d catch his blackness! Thankfully, he saw gradual change over the 30 years he worked there, but that change was not enough for him to deter me from law as “you’ll face too many obstacles when it comes to the Bar and Pupillage. You’re a black female – that’s a double penalty” I’m not normally one to be talked out of things when I’ve made my mind up, but my dad’s words hit home. For those of you in the UK, you only need to look at the MP Diane Abbott and the levels of horrific racist and sexist abuse directed at her to begin to gain some idea of what my dad believed I had in store.
In comparison to my parents, I consider myself to be pretty fortunate. I grew up in a London suburb and we were the only black family in the area at the time. Even though my parents had taught me to try and ‘blend in’ the fact that we were the only black family meant I stuck out like a sore thumb. My love of grunge didn’t help either. I was the black girl that liked rock and grunge (who knew that was a thing? People seemed truly horrified when they discovered that I wasn’t exclusively about rap, RnB or soul). I remain eternally grateful to Living Colour and Skin from Skunk Anansie for making me feel ‘normal’.
I have happy memories of my childhood. I worked hard, I even become the first black head girl in a school of 900 odd-girls where I was one of only eight black girls. Looking back, if I had a pound/dollar for every time a teacher called me one of the seven other black girl’s names, or encouraged me to gain qualifications in sport, I would have already retired. Or for each time a well-intentioned person told me, “You and your family are alright, it’s the others that I worry about.” Or for hearing “you’d be pretty if you weren’t black” (gee thanks) or when random strangers touched my hair, just because. Or for the occasions that I would see my dad scrubbing a swastika or some other offensive graffiti from our door or car, or when drivers thought it would be fun to drive past yelling abuse or throwing things out of the window at me. I’d be pretty damn wealthy.
But as I said, I’m rather fortunate. My experiences are different to those of my brother and sister who were teenagers in the late 70s, they had it considerably harder than I. They, along with my parents, recall the ‘ No dogs, No blacks, No Irish’ signs. Being called Kunte Kinte was the latest in a long line of nicknames after Roots was shown on TV.
My sister really struggled when she first started working as a chef as she was frequently encountered racial prejudice and was passed up for promotion due to this. My brother joined the British Army at the age of 18 and fought for his country on the frontline as an army medic. He loved cars and saved his earnings to invest in them; from his first purchase – an orange VW Beetle in the 80s to his Toyota Supra in the 90s. As a result, when he returned home he’d regularly get pulled over by the police as surely the car couldn’t belong to a young black man. Now, as a retired Captain in his 50s he drives a Volvo Estate, perfect for ferrying his son to football practice or loading up his daughter’s belongings to take her to university, but that doesn’t stop him being pulled over from time to time.
I’d like to think that things have changed for the better since my parents arrived. I now live in a house with an Irishman and a dog and no one really seems to mind. While I still, on occasion, get referred to by my black (or sometimes Mexican) colleagues’ name, I no longer get things thrown at me or abuse shouted at me in the street – instead I get the odd tell-tale look, the ‘what are you doing here’ look. It’s a very distinctive glare.
Today, I find microaggressions prevail. Comments about how well I speak English (well I have a degree in it, so that helps) or the assumption that I’m going to be a great singer (hey I can hold a tune, but I’m no Beyoncé) or thinking that I’m going to be great at sports.
In meetings I’m acutely aware that if I’m assertive, I might be perceived as the stereotypical angry, aggressive black woman, so I’m constantly having to wield that Olympic standard politeness to ensure that I get my point across, but I’m diplomatic enough not to invoke that stereotype. It seems to bother men more and I remember a male colleague starting to counter a statement I’d made with “You’re pretty confident for a …” before tailing off as he realised just how inappropriate his line of thinking had been.
As I said earlier, I’m fortunate. I have a seat at the table of certain conversations and in general my opinions are respected at work. I know other black and ethnic minority people who experience high levels of racism in the workplace or struggle to progress into more senior roles, despite being over-qualified both academically and in terms of experience.
While the microaggressions and stereotypes are frustrating and tiring to endure, they’re not life-threatening. What is, however, are the disparities that exist within society. From not getting interviews for jobs that you’re qualified for due to having a ‘black sounding’ name, poor treatment outcomes in healthcare to lack of access to home ownership, lower educational attainment and being more likely to be arrested. These disparities are real and impact lives.
The Black Lives Matter movement seeks to challenge the systemic oppression that black people, both in the US and the UK, have experienced for centuries. Current data, be that healthcare, education, poverty and crime, shows that black lives don’t matter and until that changes, there isn’t a level playing field.
Racism and police brutality aren’t new. Our phones and social media have given us the opportunity to highlight the injustices that occur. I remember being shocked by the beating of Rodney King in 1991. I hoped at the time that things would change. Since then, I’ve continued to be shocked by the countless other incidences that have emerged. The last 8.46 minutes of George Floyd’s life has understandably shocked society and provoked reaction. This time I hope it leads to real change.
And that’s why I can no longer remain silent. I’m increasingly embracing the ZOUD (Zone of Uncomfortable Debate) to challenge those who make glib statements about race and to educate both others and myself. I’m trying to encourage others to do the same. It’s only when we can start having these uncomfortable conversations that things can start to change.
So what else can we do to effect change? We can listen without judgement and educate ourselves. We can learn from what is going on around us and through other people’s experiences. We can be advocates for true equality, enter the ZOUD and refuse to let fear keep us silent. Only when we start to question or challenge what is not right can we start to move towards a society in which black lives matter and where policy is put in place to create a more egalitarian society where all lives truly matter.