Читать книгу No Win Race. A Story of Belonging, Britishness and Sport онлайн

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‘Why?’ my mother replied calmly, although startled by my confession. ‘People don’t like us,’ I replied. I was too scared to say white people through fear they might be listening. She replied, ‘Listen, your skin is beautiful, dark and smooth. You must always be proud of your skin and who you are.’

I listened. I took note. But I was entering a phase when racism would become part of my daily reality.

For some time after the Brixton ‘riots’, I could not sleep. Paranoid, I would listen for sirens. Couldn’t hear much. But the slightest sound would make me shiver as if someone had been breaking into our house. Walking to school, I inspected nearby shops, trying to detect any visible signs of damage. My eyes flickered constantly as if someone had been waving a sword an inch from my face. My skin terrified me. Everyday experiences of racism, the period when rumour turned to reality, made me even more cagey, even more withdrawn, never quite knowing where I stood, never quite knowing how people perceived me. What did white folks really think of me? Didn’t know. But my skin tone made me feel apologetic, guilty, watched, scrutinised, as if a constant Spotlight had been covering my every move.