Once again, one faces issues around race, privilege, power, deprivation and denial. The best I can come up with is that there are times to speak out and there are times to listen. I can relate to the weariness of having to enter “that” conversation for the umpteenth time, but I am privileged that a minority to which I belong is not immediately apparent if I, a gay white man, pass you in the street. You will pass gay men every time you step foot outside without knowing it. I can wear a metaphorical mask and avoid confrontation or conversation if I’m not in the mood. I understand the exhaustion of remaining on high alert in public situations, but again there are ways I can mitigate this. Albeit these are at a cost of something most people can take for granted. For example, I cannot hold hands with my partner or share a kiss without running the risk that someone will make a comment, when the same person would not say anything to a straight couple. What I cannot imagine, though, is the effect of having to be on high alert all day every day, if I looked different from most of the other people around me. That has to take its toll. It would inevitably affect how I live in this world.
I think often of how ill-prepared I was for my first teaching job in the late 1970s. I am ashamed to remember that I fell into all the traps of stereotyping the “difficult” kids in my class, the ones who came from minority ethnic backgrounds; the ones who came to school with “chips on their shoulders” and were disruptive to my world, the bubble in which I was expected to operate and instructed to maintain order. In my class of thirty eleven year-olds, six would these days tick the white British box in a questionnaire. That meant that most of the class wouldn't. Jaswinder and Mohammed found a way to connect with me. They insisted that, because I taught them English, they should teach me “Indian”. I remember those times fondly, I let them have a few minutes each day just after morning registration. I was a poor student though. I am ashamed to admit that all I learned was to count to ten in Punjabi. Conversely, Leon, Rose, and Caleb had no such way of approaching me. After all, their mother tongue may have been English, but their families were from Jamaica. I didn’t understand why some of the Afro-Caribbean pupils in the school had to be so difficult. I was only trying to do a job and help them learn. I particularly remember spending extra time with Caleb, Rose and Leon. They all found school work so hard. We didn’t make the kind of progress I thought they needed to make. They were great kids, but I didn’t value them enough to work out how to help them.
I had a fleeting moment of success with fifteen year-old Trevor in my next school. I had found him pretty unapproachable and full of fury. I heard him rehearse a shout I'd heard many times in my previous school, "You're only picking on me because I'm black!" There seemed no point in pursuing that discussion. As in every other case I was required to apply warnings and sanctions when the rules and the norms of acceptable behaviour were being tested. Despite his quick temper, he was the best table-tennis player I have ever seen. It was a residential school and all the boys were there through unfortunate and usually very sad circumstances. One evening Trevor was the only pupil who wanted to go to the "boot room" where the table tennis table was kept. I was widely considered a “weak” member of staff and the duty leader that evening made clear it was down to me whether I thought I could cope with Trevor. My decision would determine whether he was allowed his activity of choice that night. Of course I couldn’t deny him that, but it meant his only way of getting a game would be if I played too. I was a little anxious that he could explode with frustration at my inexperience and I had no idea how I would cope. As we both expected, I was rubbish and although he went easy on me, he still thrashed me. We talked some, we played some. Much to my surprise, I really enjoyed that shift. For the next two days Trevor was an extraordinary supporter of my miserable attempts to keep order in my classes, but peer pressure forced him to give up on me and things went back to normal. I still imagine I see the disappointment in his expression as I failed to meet his expectation of how a teacher should be able to keep order.
Fast forward to the late 1980s and yet another job. I had the good fortune to meet the composer, Michael Henry who was one of the workshop leaders at a course I was attending. I was really keen to bring him to Norfolk for a music project. He was an early pioneer of computer-based composition and worked in dance music as well as in more traditional composer modes. I heard some of his work on Radio 3. I thought it would be great to see him work in some of our whiter than white secondary schools. Up to that point all the black musicians I had seen in our schools sang, danced or played drums. This was all well, good and very enjoyable, but hardly dispelled stereotype. Unfortunately the project failed to materialise because there was not sufficient interest. Most of the teachers I approached couldn't see the point of the project and it would have interrupted the tight timetabling for teaching the exam syllabus. I couldn’t raise the necessary funding either whereby I might have been able to make them an offer they couldn't refuse. I even had Norwich Arts Centre on board to host a “club night” where pupil compositions would be highlighted. It promised to be a most exciting project, but I failed to pull it off. That failure aside, my abiding memory of working with Michael was a planning meeting at his house. These were preliminary talks to discuss what we could offer to the schools, but we both had our priorities and consequently a lot of negotiating to do. I really liked him and respected his work. I was learning a lot and we were getting to grips with some very complicated planning. Then, in the middle of a conversation, he informed me that I was a racist. This came right out of the blue. I thought my past experience had taught me to leave my white privilege in my (leased!) car. I’d not considered the racist charge a possibility and his accusation hurt a lot. I asked him to expound and began to see that white privilege had got me to this point and that being stung with his insight was still a luxury in the context of his own experience. However, being irked by someone dismissing my attempts to bring diversity to Norfolk has not been enough. I have needed to have that conversation over many years and on many occasions to begin to pick at the seams of what white privilege means. The more I find out, the less I seem to know. I’m trying, but somehow we need to keep the conversations alive. We are all products of our experiences. It is easy to retreat into entrenched positions claiming we’ve done what we can and now it’s up to someone else.
What I've tried to record so far is part of my personal journey. The following link is to an old and well-travelled blog essay. If you have the energy I commend it to you. Unusually, many of the comments that follow it are also worth reading.
http://renieddolodge.co.uk/why-im-no-longer-talking-to-white-people-about-race/
If you've had enough reading already, Reni Eddo Lodge reads it for you and discusses the background to her essay in this talk:
The reason for this, my own essay, is to try and put a number of points of view into one easily accessible source for a member of my family who was asking in all seriousness her social network contacts for context and background about the controversy surrounding the recent death of George Floyd. If you have lived in a bunker during lockdown and are unfamiliar with the events that led to his death in the USA look on YouTube. I shall not link the video of those events here. Unfortunately, but sadly not unexpectedly, several people attempted to shut down her enquiry. I know her well-enough to understand that she has a genuine intellectual curiosity. Other people thought she was being "racist" or putting herself in danger. They demanded she remove her request from Facebook.
The death of George Floyd has been followed by a massive response in peaceful protest, but also in unrest, violence, rioting and looting. There is a lot of discussion about "black lives matter", "all lives matter" and who gets to say what. This morning I saw a video of a songwriter performing a song about Mr Floyd's death. For me it pushed all the wrong buttons. It was a flagrant example of a white man attempting to turn a many times convicted criminal into some sort of folk hero. As a songwriter myself, I feel if I am writing from anything other than personal experience I need to do due diligence. This songwriter, as ably as he performed his song, lost every shred of credibility as far as I am concerned. I suspect that just as no one else can fairly comment on my personal experiences of being a gay man in this place at this time, my first port of call must be to listen to the people of colour who can articulate their own experiences.
However, I'll start from the outside. This video is a report by Anna Slatz, who was going about her lawful business as a journalist reporting on the unrest and looting in her home city of New York.
Here is an early response to the situation by Brandon Tatum, an ex-police officer who now has his own YouTube channel. He has added other videos on the topic. While I am not particularly in accord with his religious and political convictions he clearly has a contribution to make to this discussion:
I've already mentioned that I don't know the answers. We all have a journey of our own to undertake. I don't know the situation in the USA apart from what I see in reports. So many aspects of life there are very different. A few days ago I encountered a very articulate British voice, Akala. I found this whole interview quite riveting and have bought his book, "Natives: Race and Class in the Ruins of Empire", for further enlightenment. Sit down for an hour and have a listen to this:
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