As far back as I can remember, whenever I spoke up about racial experiences, it was all my fault, always wrong of me to say anything, and I was and continue to be the problem. I was the “troublemaker,” “divisive,” and should always be excluded. It’s quite draining when the victim becomes victimized as the problem. It’s conditioned me now to become used to being profiled, my reputation preceding me, and always being perceived as the villain rather than the victim. It’s actually made me comfortable with all the extra attention and effort to try to shut me down to get things sorted. I’m so used to it that when someone genuinely wants to help, I can’t distinguish if they’re genuine or they just want to shut me down and get rid of me. It’s not great to always be viewed from a deficit perspective, but it’s a cycle I can’t seem to break because I can never give in to racism. This is my experience, this is my life.
I was only five when it began; I was the first girl of Colour at my very white primary school. English was my mother tongue, but even then, I was different by default. I spoke my English well, but despite this, I was sent to a small resource cupboard and made to sit there with one other child of Colour, where we would have to repeat our alphabet and numbers regularly. I already knew all of this from nursery, but even then, it wasn’t good enough. After a few sessions, I told them I knew English and didn’t need these lessons. I didn’t want to go and be away from my peers and my class, whom I was so desperately trying to be a part of. I remember being dragged to this cupboard by my arm, and it really hurt; I protested that I did not want to be there. I cried, and I was grabbed by the arm very tightly, which was even more painful, but I was told to be quiet and get on with my work, or else I would be punished. I cried and refused to parrot off the basic English that I had already known for so long. So there I was, marched down to the Headmaster’s office and told to place my hands together, palms upwards above my knees, and like the good old 1980s style, the ruler was smacked on my palms until they turned red and I had learned my lesson. After that, there was no return to practicing my English, but the pain of being shut down never left.
There was no concept or awareness of autism or ADHD from what I remember in my primary school days. My burning quest for right and wrong, good and bad, justice and injustice, especially in terms of racism, never really made sense other than it had to be that way. The closest to identifying how I was feeling was growing up to the news of the murder of Stephen Lawrence, the young Black man who was brutally murdered at a bus stop because of his skin colour. The investigation, the campaign for justice by the family, and the Macpherson Inquiry really impacted me as they dealt with standing up for justice and standing up to racism, which for some reason resonated with every little bit of me. There was a brutal injustice, questions raised in an assertive way, and an inquiry that called out racism in all its forms in that particular case. The impact of a mother, a lawyer, and a judge has never quite left me, as together they formed an understanding of what racism was and how society should deal with it. There were meaningful definitions of direct racism, indirect racism, institutional racism, and harassment, but the one that really etched into my existence was “victimisation.” The term was originally defined in legislation in the Race Relations Act 1976 and is now part of the Equality Act 2010 and can mean:
“Victimisation is when someone is treated less favourably as a result of being involved with a discrimination or harassment complaint. Ways someone could be victimised include: being labelled a troublemaker, being left out.”
This recognition of the treatment of those who stood up to racism and other discrimination really meant something to me. How effective the law has been in tackling victimisation within the limited scope of employment and services is another topic for another day, but for my mind, at least it was there—in the law, in the rules somewhere—that uncomfortable truth that when we stand up against injustice, the wrong, the bad, we can be treated negatively. It highlights the disbelief, the denial, the attack on someone’s character, and furthers racism, discrimination, injustice, and wrongdoing even more.
So here comes the loop: racism occurs, you or someone who witnessed it can stand up to it, and then you and that someone will be targeted, humiliated, mentally violated, and ultimately shut down. “All eyes on you” syndrome serves as a way to cover up and hide the racism rather than change the environment that allowed it in the first place.
My loop after primary just carried on—the cycle of trying to move on, but every time racism in its systemic nature occurred, it was never easy to turn away and bury my head. Every time I tried to deal with it through a different approach—a conversation, a chat, a coffee, a complaint, a survey, feedback, a request for more information—it was always the same response. The looks, the silence, the awkward statements, threats of defamation, the fragility and privilege, the isolation, the whispers, the rumors, the problems caused for my loved ones—all for the price of speaking up. A price that I am now used to and have learned to live with as a normality, my life. It’s my issue, my problem, my mental health, and maybe I just need to be more compassionate, as a clinical psychologist once told me. I need to stop wanting victimhood—but if I’m conditioned by constant victimisation, why is it my responsibility now to think of the others perpetrating and protecting racism as humans, to show them compassion, while also demonstrating compassion to myself in the process?
So where has this left me now? I don’t know how to trust or participate effectively in society. After Black Lives Matter in 2020, I recognized all the experiences of racism and the trauma that came with them. There was a case and a narrative again that spoke to me, helping to define all the anguish I had carried for decades as the “other.” I now realize that the color of my skin was never my fault, and I have stopped apologizing for my existence. Understanding racial trauma and keeping myself safe is important. However, the quest for justice against racism remains, and the special treatment I receive when I raise my head still persists. It has now become my strength and my place of comfort. All the hostility and negativity feel more real than any EDI initiative, policy, or antiracism effort professing to make change. It’s my cycle, and it’s the only way I know how to deal with racism.