Chapter 65 - Forget-Me-Nots in Abundance

Mum talks about the Forget-Me-Nots that are growing in abundance near the hospital. She has always been fond of them. I cannot leave my room to see them. “I will sneak some in for you,” she whispers. 

In the company of my depression, my mother and the nurse who tends to me, I communicate my last words, for my mind is filled with a sense of urgency. The few words that come from my mouth cannot afford the frivolity of description…for there is not much time. 

For as long as I can remember, I have been told that I am out of touch, and that the level of racism, intolerance and contempt to difference has reduced in multi-cultural Britain. Well, my observations of white Britain are admittedly historical, but when I encountered racism within non-white people, it spurred me to recount my uncomfortable life as a mixed-race child growing up in certain parts of twentieth century Northern Britain. 

I have been criticised for likening Britain to the United States of America, for I sense many believe they are quite different. I do hope that my critics are right. Yet, Britain is one of many countries that has contributed to the formation of the Americas as it exists today. 

I expect my examination of human interaction and the conclusions I have drawn, could be viewed as reductionist and even racist by those who have established the definition of racism. However, I do not believe that everyone, particularly the privileged, have the knowledge or the experience to determine what is racist, and what is not. 

There will soon be an end to my story. I will not see the next instalment in Western politics. I had hoped to have ensured that all black women were able to vanquish labels like troublesome, stupid, masculine and aggressive, but I have failed. I now realise that it is difficult, as an individual, to insist on the cessation of the struggle of the marginalised, or to end prejudice towards difference. This challenge must be successfully completed by more than just one woman; an abundance of women, who refuse to be forgotten or excluded, but instead become pervasive, just like my mother’s favoured flowers. 

Forgive me for I am preaching, but it is because I believe this is all the marginalised, the different have left — all I have left. But if you happen to stumble on this short story, and are perhaps in a more privileged position than I am. Then I must beg you not to be silent, not to maintain persistent indifference, for this could be interpreted as endorsing discrimination and persecution.