My Family’s Old Convenience Store in Finchley, London
*Note: In the midst of a pandemic, I began having an identity crisis. The rise of hate crimes against AAPI brothers and sisters left me feeling heartbroken and powerless. I turned to the writing community for a sense of comfort, and to help me take my power back. Writing has always reminded me that I still have a duty to document and tell our stories. I will be publishing excerpts from my unpublished memoir throughout the month. Happy Asian Pacific American Heritage Month! #APAHM
When my dad moved to London, England, in the 1970s, my grandfather (dada) found it difficult to find a steady job to support his family.
A family friend had suggested my dada should consider purchasing a corner grocery shop in London. My dada was initially worried about the lack of funds after uprooting his family from Tanzania and having very little savings left. His friends were happy to loan him some money to help my dada get his feet out the door and start a new life in London. He was forever grateful for that kind gesture.
The small convenience store was located in the Finchley district in London, and was described to me by my dad as a “mom and pop shop.” The shop sold newspapers, candy bars, sodas, cigarettes, produce, and even kerosene which was safely secured in the back of the store.
The family shop was called J.S. Timms, named after the owner, Mr. Timms. My dada kept much of the original architecture, the signage of the shop, and the original green paint as well.
Dada purchased the store from a British couple that had owned the store for several years, but had been preparing for retirement. The shop was sold for around 8,000 pounds at that time, including the upstairs living arrangements, according to an interview with my dad.
My dad and his family resided in the upstairs living area of the shop. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen above the shop. The store was located near a Catholic school as well.
“We were not Catholic, so we were not able to apply to that school. So we had to go to another school which was a little bit further. Of course when we first came to London, I hardly spoke English,” recalled my dad.
When my dad was in high school, he’d rush to my dada’s shop and would work during the evenings after school to help his dad for a few hours.
“Sometimes I would eat a couple of candies and he’d joke and say, ‘you eat my profits of the store every time you work for a couple of hours.’”
My dad had also worked for a few hours at another grocery store where he’d lift and stock potato bags and get paid a few pounds for his hard work. “I would maybe make close to 8 or 9 pounds for those two days and I would give most of it to my dad,” my dad recalled in the interview.
Shortly after dada took ownership of the store, my dad noticed that some of the regular and loyal customers of Mr. Timms wouldn’t come as often to buy their groceries.
“Initially, they came to our store but after a few weeks, they saw the change of ownership of my dad, who was British Indian. Some people started not coming to our shop and instead they went to a different store and walked a mile further to get the stuff from there,” my dad said. “We could see them carrying groceries from another store rather than our store. We had the same prices yet they would do that intentionally and we knew why.”
Because of the sudden decline in customers, dada worried about the store’s profitability and whether it would survive.
“Although some people would come to our store, some people…I guess they didn’t like the idea of a person of color running and owning a shop in that particular conservative area,” my dad recalled in the interview.
With added stress and few loyal customers, dada often wondered how he would pay the bills to feed his family. When students at the nearby Catholic school were dismissed, many of the kids would flock to the shop by the dozens and overwhelm my dada with inquiries or racist names. Some would start stealing, and dada wouldn’t do anything about it because he didn’t think it was worth reporting petty crimes or causing a commotion. He didn’t want to get on anyone’s bad side.
A few of the kids would deliberately steal from the shop and call my dada “Paki” and demand he give candies, cigarettes, and other items for free, my dad shared in the interview. Some of the kids just gave him a hard time because they knew he wasn’t the type of person to say anything or report to the police, my dad said in our interview.
“My dad eventually went and complained to the school so they sent one of the teachers to stand there after school to make sure the kids behaved and didn’t swear at my dad or call him, ‘Paki,’” said my dad.
Running a shop also came with its share of anxiety, uncertainty, and long hours. Dada would work 7 days a week and would end his work duties at 10 p.m. every night and have a late dinner at around 11 p.m. Then he would go to bed, and wake up at 4 a.m. and repeat the routine the next day.
The next morning, he’d prepare and display new products. He’d gather all the newspapers, restock items, and would get ready to open the store at 6 a.m. sharp.
During the winter, one night my dad and dada heard a loud bang and the sound of glass shattering downstairs. Dada quickly turned the lights on in the bedroom and ran downstairs to go check what had happened at 2 a.m. in the morning.
“The front facade glass was broken and a brick was inside our store and that was a cost that we couldn’t afford. The next day we had to board it up,” dad recalled.
For the next few weeks, the family lived in fear of having a brick thrown at the storefront window again, or worse — being targeted for being British Indian and called names.
Dada grew increasingly concerned about the safety of his family because they had also been selling kerosene at the shop.
“We always feared that maybe someone would smoke and throw their cigarettes intentionally towards the tank where we kept gallons of kerosene and it would set on fire,” recalled dad, who said there were many nights when he would sleep in fear, worried about the whole place burning down.
“Of course we worried about that, but thank god that never happened.”
-Written by Monica Luhar (an excerpt from my unpublished memoir).
