The Atmospheric Location: I first became aware of any conflict between black and white when I was seven. I remember standing on the veranda of William Kent Crescent with my mother.
Seven tall high-rise flats were grouped in the distance, yet close to my home. They were locally named after the constellation of cosmic stars, the Seven Sisters.
**The National Front**
At the time of modern seventies buildings, they had character and stood tall, elegant, and proud on the Trafford side of Greater Manchester. From behind the flats, a crowd appeared, marching in an uproar and approaching where I lived.
I could see hundreds of white people holding banners, getting closer to the crescent, marching down Stretford Road, and shouting abusive, racist language.
It was a hot summer’s day; out of fear, all of the parents on our crescent called their kids in from the fields and the park. When I asked my mother, ‘What’s going on?’
Looking worried, a concerned expression on my mother’s face explained, ‘The march was from a group called the National Front. They do not like the fact that black people were living in England.’
That made me wonder and ask, ‘Where are you from, mum, if not England?’
My mother answered proudly with her loving, warm brown eyes and a glowing smile, ‘I was born in Jamaica.’
A few evenings later, after watching the march, I was deep in slumber when my mother woke me up to watch a TV drama, Roots. The drama documents the history of the first black member of the family tree enslaved in 1750 to the present day.
His name was Kunta Kinte. He was always trying to escape from his enslaver. Finally, the enslaver was tired of playing cat and mouse.
He offered Kunta Kinte an option, ‘Which one do you want to be chopped off, your penis or your foot?’
They chopped off Kunta Kinte’s left foot.
I found it very educational, horrifying, and somewhat upsetting. Watching a black man lose his foot because he ran from his enslaver was very demeaning.
But now, I see it as a subliminal message from the collective subconscious mind. It was a good job, but I didn’t have many white friends then.
The morning after watching the show made me very angry towards white people. It was a feeling I was not particularly eager to express. I hated myself for hating them.
At an early age, I knew one couldn’t tar everyone with the same brush. Racism is very inconspicuous in England today. Marching on the same issues as the National Front is not socially accepted today.
Nevertheless, racism, if not in your face, is very much discreet and is the main reason why young black people cannot achieve their goals.
Things seemed standard as a kid. I went to school, did okay, was appointed a leader in secondary school, and did not get into trouble. It was about this time, having been a long time since my first encounter with racism, that it showed its ugly self.
We were playing a school football match in North Manchester. It was the first time I’d been to Moston.
At fourteen years old, being on the football team allowed me to see Manchester without my mother. In the changing rooms, on the wall in a mainly white-populated school, was written, ‘There are three million unemployed, not one million niggers.’
The team exited the changing room, fired up and ready for a brutal football game. Every player on their side came off injured, and we won 13 nil.
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