White people just really don’t get it.
The sense of displacement, the feeling of isolation and anger, to know that my ancestors, my grandparents, my parents and then my sister and I were lied to and white people continue to lie to us. The constant lies and abuse on social media that white people throw at me is unreal, because white supremacy is so insidious that white people in 2017 believe that they are intellectually superior to all Black people, regardless of levels of education.
I’ve also become passionate about the idea of segregation, because the education system, in particular is so psychologically damaging to people of colour.
For example, as a Learning Support Assistant, I learnt and taught students that the slave trade was abolished by Britain. Not true. It was the slaves rioting and striking, which forced the Government into a corner. So don’t you EVER tell a Black person that we owe you our freedom, because it’s not true.
And Freedom! What Freedom? During the Windrush, you “invited” my grandparents over to Britain as migrants, promising milk, honey and glory after the War – you gave them shit. They couldn’t even afford to return home, so they died here in this country that doesn’t even accept their granddaughter as a British citizen, let alone them.
Why do you even keep calling them migrants? To make you feel less guilty?
In school, I learnt that Africans were complicit in capturing and selling Black people in exchange for gold, guns, tobacco and superiority. Not true. European Traders psychologically manipulated Africans for their own gain, to force them into inferiority and to help the Slave Traders chase and beat their own people into slavery. They even physically mutilated Africans “because it made them smarter”. The Europeans saw tribes of people who were intellectually superior, with their own cultures, religion, languages, education and manipulated them into passivity. African people didn’t need guns and gold. Those are lies that have been written into history books to make them look like greedy savages and feed the narrative that we’ve been trying to shake off ever since.
I was born here and I don’t want to be here, because the “hunters’ continue to glorify themselves. All through my teacher training career, I was never allowed to take credit for my work because privileged white people would take credit or constantly insult me by accusing me of plagarising my work, because a black person couldn’t possibly be so intellectual. I still suffer from the nightmares now – those privileged ghouls just keep popping up in my dreams.
People have no idea of the damage that racism does. Slavery didn’t end in the 19th century. Black people are still subjected to slavery mentally in Britain. Native Americans have their own education system because America acknowledges the damage they’ve done psychologically. Why can’t we have that?
In my studies in Cultural Psychology, I came across this article: Psychology in the English-speaking Caribbean, which I would definitely recommend for further reading.
What breaks my heart the most, is the disdain that white British people feel – not for the system, but for the feeling of betrayal Black people feel and for us speaking up: “How dare you?” they say. “We freed you, you’re so ungrateful!” they cry. “Oh stop using the race card”, “Stop talking about race”, “I don’t see race / colour, so why do you?” Do you realise these are racial microaggressions? And cannot be dismissed.
So I went to this “exhibition” this afternoon, in Poplar, for Black History Month marketed as an exhibition for the stories of migrants during the Windrush. This was it:
I’m not going to give too much away, as I want to speak to the photographer first, but I was upset. So much so, that I had to sit down to compose myself.
I’ve spoken to my nan about the Windrush and I was looking forward to this, because her story really touched me and I was intrigued to see how others’ compared. I was pissed off that this was it for Black Caribbeans, with a piece of A4 about the photographer and in fact, there was more about the photographer than my people on that piece of paper. But “just some photos on a board” – which is actually how the librarian described it herself when I asked for directions, does not tell a story, nor does it do justice for my grandmother…. But anyway, let me not get into it, until I’ve spoken to her about her intentions.