Chapter 54 - Perpetual Hatred
Helen, June 2005
I concede, ideals and attitudes are changing within the wider society of twenty-first century Britain —slower amongst some, quicker amongst others, but steadfast within my present place of work. Yet, many of us within this organisation, whether Asian or black, were born, or came to Britain in or around the time of Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech, and the Commonwealth Immigrants Acts. So, it is disheartening to see the aspirations and opportunities of others being quashed by people who have a similar history. I keep thinking of the sacked black Caribbean mother, whose objective was to keep her children alive. What are her family’s life chances now? For many of us, I feel the chances of future employment have diminished.
Why are black people employed in this organisation in the first place? I suspect the organisation has to be seen to be diverse, but the length of time in which people stay in post is less of a priority. There must be a name or phrase, exclusive to those who administer this display of appearing to be inclusive, in the short-term. For I am sure this is not the first time this approach has been used.
"She's useless. We need to remove her," a senior manager said to a colleague in a meeting that I was minuting one day. "Make sure you take note of that," he said to me. All management agree that this girl, a student, perhaps in her mid-twenties, performed poorly. And the latter may be true, but I sense that this particular student, another black Caribbean female, the only black female on the course, has had difficulty integrating with her peers, and has been taunted by some of them. Loneliness and stigmatisation can lead to depression, and consequently inertia.
These frank comments made by staff, have been incessant over a period of two years. The derogatory remarks never appear to be about me. Although, I suspect that they are purposely aired in my presence. Comments like, “They’re lazy people, never get anything done. Perhaps it is because they’re not as intelligent as us.” I do not have the courage to tell my managers that curtailing the livelihood of individuals who are physically different to them, is contributing to their misery, reducing their life chances. Instead, I watch and wait for my turn to be removed from employment. My breeze block body sits behind a computer, or television, if at home, waiting for the moment; waiting to be publicly disgraced.
The magical box in the corner of the living-room still has hypnotic powers. It removes me from the reality of what I feel is pending. I can gawp at the television with a packet of crisps in one hand, and a remote control in the other, watching Caucasian beauties laugh and make love together. The television provides escapism, protecting me from my ugliness and the ugliness around me.
Food plays an important role in my life. It has always taken the place of contact with others, and a friendly substitute it is. The food I consume, aids in dulling my appetite to be understood and interact with people. It is clear that most white people do not want to hear me. When I try to interact, I sense they are sometimes uncomfortable about having to speak to me. Their body language indicates that they would rather not have anything to do with me. A subtle form of racism, perhaps a consequence of a fear of the unknown. I have seen this when other black people try to talk to non-black people too. Sometimes, non-black people do not appear to understand a word we are saying, and other times they talk or shout over us, whilst we try to communicate. It feels like there is a pane of glass between me and my intended audience. I start mouthing my words and then give up and start mumbling. I become despondent. Do non-blacks want to listen to us? I sense this is not so.
Fatalism is not peculiar to me, I think. I sense every other black employee within this organisation feels this way. We are fatalists, not through volition. It has been imposed upon us.
Note Jane Eyre’s perception of the foreigner. A viewpoint presented to the listener, the reader, the television viewer or the victim.
"...British peasantry the best taught, best mannered, most self-respecting of any in Europe: since those days I have seen paysannes and Bäuerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls."
This may be an oversimplification, and other factors may contribute, but the consequences of negative assessments of individuals, particularly the young, can result in the individual accepting a negative label, leading to a lack of confidence. And if assigned in childhood, this acceptance can —not always— continue in adulthood.
Labelling people, particularly the young and vulnerable, on a daily basis, perhaps negatively affecting their chances of gaining a livelihood, is a form of fascism. Poor communities in particular, are subjected to this more than most; to the extent that we begin to believe that we innately possess these traits. We believe we are non-achievers, and welfare spongers. Labels assigned to us from an early age, before we can read Peter and Jane. Labelling and purporting that a group has lower levels of intelligence than other groups, as a result of their genetic make-up, is harmful to the victims of such comments and to the progression of modern society.
I remember my mother telling me that members of her family would say, "Never play near the shanty towns. The people that live there are different to us.” How odd, I thought. There is no physical distinction between my mother and the impoverished people of Jamaica. The families of the shanty towns struggled for freedom, as did my ancestors. To be distinct from another group — what purpose does it serve? I do not think it has helped my mother. And such a perspective must have a detrimental effect on the Jamaican economy. Across the world there are many religions and castes, created to distinguish one group from another, and I truly do not know why. It feels like the slow removal of the unwanted.
I struggle to converse with those that have preconceived ideas about other people, particularly groups of people that they have never met. Some of these myths, these labels, are less detrimental but they are still labels, that can lead to a self-belief that we are these stereotypes: the musical, rhythmical and sporty black person, the clever Jewish person, or the efficient German. It seems to be lazy to judge and make generalisations.
Father has introduced me to a few discreet, or perhaps not so discreet, racists over the years. Sylvia, his ex-girlfriend and before her, there was Vivian and Bianca. None of these individuals fitted the stereotypical image of the National Front supporter, an image embedded in my mind. Father’s friends were not the type to change their dress code. Sylvia kept her power-suits, Vivian kept his shoulder length hair, brown flared trousers and stayed away from bovver boots. And I don't think Bianca would have been prepared to lose her beautiful hair for a skinhead. They were never the identifiable racists, adept at covertly ignoring those that were different.
Views on immigration are greatly influenced by certain media; continually stating that there is a tsunami of immigrants entering the British Isles, taking jobs that allegedly rightfully belong to British people. Some media state immigrants are taking advantage of the welfare system. The recourse for those who believe that these statements are true, is to bemoan to those that listen, preferably those that they believe are taking their jobs and allegedly relying on welfare. These perspectives are similar to the views of many of the people I work with. My employers have become ‘the new fascists’. Yet, their families were subjected to the hostility of the political immigration laws of the last quarter of the twentieth century. Fascism and racism seem to be cyclical and contagious.
This perpetual hatred —because that is what racism is, to those of us who are subjected to it— lures me into insurmountable depression. Many of us have been on the receiving end of some form of hatred. Slaves, indentured labourers, the millworkers of industrial Britain, coal miners, sweatshop workers, Molly and my mum.
I struggle to sleep, and I am beginning to think this is my employer’s motive.
