Me, Myself and My Skin Colour (Part I)
Welcome to International Blog Against Racism Week!
If you would like to participate, here's what to do:
1. Announce the week in your blog.
2. Switch your default icon to either an official IBAR icon, or one which you feel is appropriate. To get an official IBAR icon, you may modify one of yours yourself or ask someone to do so.
3. Post about race and/or racism: in media, in life, in the news, personal experiences, writing characters of a race that isn't yours, portrayals of race in fiction, review a book on the subject, etc.
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Hi. My name is Amelia, and my surname is equally English, probably somewhere amongst the top ten most common surnames in the country. I am twenty-two years old, have only ever been to Catholic state schools and have been middle class all my life. I was born near London, lived in Oxford for a few years and then moved to affluent Hampshire, eventually going to university in the north of England. I am currently studying Japanese, but, as is typical of English people, failed to learn any language but pidgin French until I began my degree. My town is predominantly Caucasian, most of my friends are Caucasian, and I am unlikely to travel to parts of the world that are significantly less privileged than my own.
But let's face it, I can identify myself for you all I like, but a picture says a thousand words.
Hi. My name is Amelia, and I have a complicated relationship with race.
For many people, the above description of myself would have seemed incomplete at best and fraudulent at worst without adding, "By the way, I'm not white." For many who meet me in person as a stranger, my English accent and vocabulary just don't match with my over-large eyes, wide nose and yellow-brown skin. I must be from another country, or practise a different lifestyle at home, or speak at least two languages fluently... As soon as those assumptions are formed, usually on first sight, "Where are you from?" becomes an automatic question, and "I'm English" an insufficient answer.
Race is a complicated concept. I learned this on paper for the first time in AS level Sociology, aged seventeen, and again in Japanese Studies, aged twenty-one, but I've known it in my mind for as long as race has been a conscious part of my life - which, incidentally, is not for as long as I've been alive. When I was as old as six, I used to colour pictures of myself in with a peachy-pink pencil, or what we called "the flesh-coloured crayon." It was flesh-coloured. I had flesh. This logic was enough for me until the age of seven, when I twigged that my flesh was not the same as everyone else's, and resolved to be more accurate in the future. When my first class as an eight-year-old involved drawing a self-portrait, I picked up the brown felt-tip, which turned out to be a beautiful chocolate colour, and coloured away to my heart's content. Afterwards I looked at the picture and felt nothing. The girl on the paper no longer looked like me. Years later, and I've not yet found a crayon that I could happily have called 'flesh-coloured'.
On the one hand, I cherish this memory, because it shows just how blissfully ignorant I was able to be about issues that plagued the lives of others growing up in the same time and country. On the other hand, I have never stopped being frustrated about being unable to find the flesh-coloured crayon, especially since becoming old and vain enough to want to daub over the imperfections of my face with just that. On another hand entirely, it's also pretty bad that this crayon was acknowledged as the flesh-coloured one by everyone I knew, and yet it simply never occurred to me to point out to the other children that my skin was not the same as theirs. My parents are legally, linguistically and culturally English, and my awareness of race, living in my predominantly Caucasian, middle class world, was minimal. Well, I'm happy to say that it got a whole lot less minimal when I was sixteen and seventeen, and has just increased ever since.
There have been three incidents of racism towards me in my life. In what is probably a very good sign, I can only remember two of them. When I was fifteen years old, we had a 'racial incident' in my classroom. Someone had taken the class picture pinned to the wall and scribbled over the three non-Caucasian faces with pen. My teacher took me aside and explained what had happened, but all I remember thinking is "Why is she making a big deal about this? I know it's just some idiot with a biro and that it doesn't really matter." End of incident. Seriously, that was it, and it has made absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, beyond being one of the few in the class who knew exactly why our class picture was a photocopy for the rest of the year.
The second incident was different. There's a big park between the town centre and my house, and my mother always tells me to walk on the pavement outside it, for safety's sake. Well, so much for that. The only time I've ever been really shaken up in that area is when I was sixteen, walking home in winter at about eight o' clock at night, and a car slowed down as it was going past. Wall on one side, road on the other, the lads in that car came just close enough that they could yell "Fucking Asian bitch!" and be sure I'd heard before they sped up again and went past. Eight seconds, tops, but I was looking at my feet and powermarching home for many months after.
But I said I had a complicated relationship with race, and there's nothing complicated about those situations. That's just background. I started this life without connecting my skin colour with my identity in any way whatsoever, became gradually aware that I was not the same as anyone around me, and from sixteen I walked into minefield after minefield as I discovered exactly what views I held about race, learned to put them in context and opened my eyes to the world around me. That point made, I'll say now that race is not the only issue I became more aware about during that time, and the young and stupid self I'm about to present was young and stupid and tactless in a whole lot more situations than those I'm about to lay out, so I trust that nobody will assume the tunnel vision I had then remains even now, or that the ignorance I showcase here is indicative of a higher level of ignorance than it really is. I'm going to confess to some things I have never told anyone, and I hope that everyone reading will believe me when I say that they now number amongst the things I am most ashamed of in my life. Because 'complicated' here isn't simply being on the receiving end of racism: it's perpetrating it too, and coming to terms with that.
So hi. My name is Amelia, and I have in the past both stated that I am incapable of racism and self-identified as a racist. Let the complication begin...
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Read Part 2 and Part 3
If you would like to participate, here's what to do:
1. Announce the week in your blog.
2. Switch your default icon to either an official IBAR icon, or one which you feel is appropriate. To get an official IBAR icon, you may modify one of yours yourself or ask someone to do so.
3. Post about race and/or racism: in media, in life, in the news, personal experiences, writing characters of a race that isn't yours, portrayals of race in fiction, review a book on the subject, etc.
-------
Hi. My name is Amelia, and my surname is equally English, probably somewhere amongst the top ten most common surnames in the country. I am twenty-two years old, have only ever been to Catholic state schools and have been middle class all my life. I was born near London, lived in Oxford for a few years and then moved to affluent Hampshire, eventually going to university in the north of England. I am currently studying Japanese, but, as is typical of English people, failed to learn any language but pidgin French until I began my degree. My town is predominantly Caucasian, most of my friends are Caucasian, and I am unlikely to travel to parts of the world that are significantly less privileged than my own.
But let's face it, I can identify myself for you all I like, but a picture says a thousand words.
Hi. My name is Amelia, and I have a complicated relationship with race.
For many people, the above description of myself would have seemed incomplete at best and fraudulent at worst without adding, "By the way, I'm not white." For many who meet me in person as a stranger, my English accent and vocabulary just don't match with my over-large eyes, wide nose and yellow-brown skin. I must be from another country, or practise a different lifestyle at home, or speak at least two languages fluently... As soon as those assumptions are formed, usually on first sight, "Where are you from?" becomes an automatic question, and "I'm English" an insufficient answer.
Race is a complicated concept. I learned this on paper for the first time in AS level Sociology, aged seventeen, and again in Japanese Studies, aged twenty-one, but I've known it in my mind for as long as race has been a conscious part of my life - which, incidentally, is not for as long as I've been alive. When I was as old as six, I used to colour pictures of myself in with a peachy-pink pencil, or what we called "the flesh-coloured crayon." It was flesh-coloured. I had flesh. This logic was enough for me until the age of seven, when I twigged that my flesh was not the same as everyone else's, and resolved to be more accurate in the future. When my first class as an eight-year-old involved drawing a self-portrait, I picked up the brown felt-tip, which turned out to be a beautiful chocolate colour, and coloured away to my heart's content. Afterwards I looked at the picture and felt nothing. The girl on the paper no longer looked like me. Years later, and I've not yet found a crayon that I could happily have called 'flesh-coloured'.
On the one hand, I cherish this memory, because it shows just how blissfully ignorant I was able to be about issues that plagued the lives of others growing up in the same time and country. On the other hand, I have never stopped being frustrated about being unable to find the flesh-coloured crayon, especially since becoming old and vain enough to want to daub over the imperfections of my face with just that. On another hand entirely, it's also pretty bad that this crayon was acknowledged as the flesh-coloured one by everyone I knew, and yet it simply never occurred to me to point out to the other children that my skin was not the same as theirs. My parents are legally, linguistically and culturally English, and my awareness of race, living in my predominantly Caucasian, middle class world, was minimal. Well, I'm happy to say that it got a whole lot less minimal when I was sixteen and seventeen, and has just increased ever since.
There have been three incidents of racism towards me in my life. In what is probably a very good sign, I can only remember two of them. When I was fifteen years old, we had a 'racial incident' in my classroom. Someone had taken the class picture pinned to the wall and scribbled over the three non-Caucasian faces with pen. My teacher took me aside and explained what had happened, but all I remember thinking is "Why is she making a big deal about this? I know it's just some idiot with a biro and that it doesn't really matter." End of incident. Seriously, that was it, and it has made absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, beyond being one of the few in the class who knew exactly why our class picture was a photocopy for the rest of the year.
The second incident was different. There's a big park between the town centre and my house, and my mother always tells me to walk on the pavement outside it, for safety's sake. Well, so much for that. The only time I've ever been really shaken up in that area is when I was sixteen, walking home in winter at about eight o' clock at night, and a car slowed down as it was going past. Wall on one side, road on the other, the lads in that car came just close enough that they could yell "Fucking Asian bitch!" and be sure I'd heard before they sped up again and went past. Eight seconds, tops, but I was looking at my feet and powermarching home for many months after.
But I said I had a complicated relationship with race, and there's nothing complicated about those situations. That's just background. I started this life without connecting my skin colour with my identity in any way whatsoever, became gradually aware that I was not the same as anyone around me, and from sixteen I walked into minefield after minefield as I discovered exactly what views I held about race, learned to put them in context and opened my eyes to the world around me. That point made, I'll say now that race is not the only issue I became more aware about during that time, and the young and stupid self I'm about to present was young and stupid and tactless in a whole lot more situations than those I'm about to lay out, so I trust that nobody will assume the tunnel vision I had then remains even now, or that the ignorance I showcase here is indicative of a higher level of ignorance than it really is. I'm going to confess to some things I have never told anyone, and I hope that everyone reading will believe me when I say that they now number amongst the things I am most ashamed of in my life. Because 'complicated' here isn't simply being on the receiving end of racism: it's perpetrating it too, and coming to terms with that.
So hi. My name is Amelia, and I have in the past both stated that I am incapable of racism and self-identified as a racist. Let the complication begin...
-------
Read Part 2 and Part 3