I am racist

CW: Everyday racism and xenophobia, homophobia

Over the last ten days there has been much said and broadcast on the subject of racism, and rightly so. Nobody should die in the manner of George Floyd, or Breanna Taylor, or so many more. But this post isn’t about adding to that.

I’m 43 years old and this is the first time I’ve admitted that I’m racist. And, weirdly, it almost feels good. Liberating. Like I’m owning my truth.

I take no pleasure in this.

Honestly, it’s a wonder it took me so long. I grew up in a part of the UK that is 98.2% White and where schooling is highly segregated. In the 14 years I spent in primary and secondary education there was literally one non-White person, a pupil from Kuwait, and his family moved after one year. My town was — still is — overwhelmingly White. Sure, we had two or three ethnically Chinese families but none of their children went to my school, so I didn’t know them socially. The only contact we had with these families was collecting a food order from their takeaway, inevitably and invariably referred to as “the chinky”.

I grew up in a part of the country where, in 2020, White people have their windows smashed or homes graffitied because their surnames have too many Ws or Zs. A part of the country which elected the UK’s first Chinese-born parliamentarian, Anna Lo, and which then subjected her to such abuse she stood down. I, a White man, am a product of a system designed by and for White men. It should be no surprise to anyone that I’m racist, least of all me. I’ve been taught to be by the society I live in.

Trust me, I am disappointed and disgusted. I do my best to not be racist but I find I constantly fail myself. I’ve breathed a small sigh of relief after the Asian man with the big beard and backpack got off the Tube, I’ve given a wide berth to the two Black teens walking down the street towards me.

And I hate myself for it.

I mean, for the love of $deity, I’m gay and have an accent that for most of the 1980s and 1990s was enough to attract suspicious glances in English public places. I’ve been questioned by the police just because I was boarding a flight to Belfast, I’ve had the odd bit of homophobic abuse (verbal, and not a lot, but still). I should have at least some idea of what it’s like to be othered, to be marginalised, for something that is part of me and cannot be changed.

I sometimes wonder if it’s situational. I put unquestioning faith and trust in my Asian GP, my Black cardiologist. I’ve learned so much from Black and Asian colleagues about how to do my job better or to see things in a different light. I have Black role models, I’ve had a Black educator (shamefully only one — and not until my fifth year in tertiary education).

But situational racism is still racism.

And I’m sorry. And it’s time to change. If any of my friends read this, please call me out if I do or say something I shouldn't, because that’s how I’ll learn.