Blacks and Whites, yet No One is Grey?
I was born in Bosnia and Herzegovina, or just Bosnia. Back then, Bosnia was one of the republics of Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia was a socialistic, communist country that never had slaves. This should explain why we did not have any black people living there before the fall of Yugoslavia — we didn’t force them to come, and we were not the type of a country where people chose to migrate to.
You know the saying (Albert Einstein) that everything’s relative. Well, back home, before the war, I was called ‘black’ (crnka — literally a black woman) — I have brown hair and brown eyes, so by our standards, I was ‘dark’ or ‘black’ — the word for dark is ‘tamna’, it doesn’t have the same flow.
I don’t remember the first time I saw a black person. In my defence, it’s not exactly a memorable event, plus, it was probably when we first moved to the UK as refugees in the 1990s. I.e. there was a war going on, my family was torn apart, so I had other issues to worry about.
However, I do remember, very clearly, the first time someone thought I was a racist. It was in March 1994, West Yorkshire.
I went to an all-girls school in a small place called Batley. I played flute and piano before the war, so I took lessons in my new school in my new country — in case this makes me sound posh, please remember that I was a refugee. NOT posh. It just sounds like it. I was soon asked to join a woodwind orchestra, which took place in a nearby all-boys school.
We met once a week, so eventually, I got to know some of the other kids there.
One day, it was really sunny, I stood with some girls from my school, chatting away as we waited for our rehearsal to start. One of the boys in our orchestra was related to one of the girls in our school, and I knew which one — he stood in a group of identically dressed kids; the school for boys had strict uniforms policy.
“The blond one to the right of the black guy,” I said naively, trying to point to the boy who was related to the girl.
This was my racist comment. It was met with gasps, angry looks and distance, as in physical distance from me. All the girls around me reacted like I said the worst thing in the world.
I spent days trying to figure it out. What did I say that was so wrong? I couldn’t then, and I will not now or ever accept that calling someone black is an insult. That doesn’t make any sense. And, yes, I DO see your colour. And I know you see mine. Please do NOT insult my intelligence by claiming that you don’t. In fact, I’m sure you see the many flaws on my skin, not just the colour of my skin.
Eventually, I managed to move away from this event. I told myself that the girls had no idea what they’re talking about. However, the issue of racism bugged me even after I asked my mum what she’d do or say if I came with a back guy and told her I want to marry him.
“Does he love you?” She frowned at me.
I said that he does (in this hypothetical example). She shook her head, like I’m wasting her time with stupid questions, and went back to arranging food we were packing into boxes and sending to our family in war-torn Bosnia.
I brought up the issue later, while we were watching TV, she told me how I better finish university before I even think about getting married. Third time I asked I realised she does not know what I’m asking. She completely missed the point, so I stopped. It’s not like I could explain.
It’s been over 25 years since the event where I was told that I am being a racist, and I am no closer to understanding the issue, the problem. I know a lot more about it, but all that knowledge did not give me a logical, reasonable explanation, so I still do not understand it. I’m being forced to conclude that many people are just irrational and lack basic thought.
Recently, I met a guy from a very mixed background. He, very casually, said how, when he was a kid, everyone thought his mother was his babysitter because she was too dark to be his mother. ‘Too light for your mother’ — this sentence keeps repeating in my mind. I don’t even know what to make of it. But it also struck a very personal nerve.
My brother married a woman ‘darker than us’ — my sister-in-law is a mix of Asian and African-American. My niece is gorgeous. I’m not kidding, the ‘Beyoncé, step aside, queen A is in town’ kind of gorgeous. AND, her name starts with an A.
I love that kid to bits. Recently I started picturing her growing up (she just started school, bless her heart) and I thought about things she’s very likely to achieve (this thought kept me occupied for weeks, the kid has potential), but then I thought about problems she could face. Racism?!
Is she going to grow up, face this enormous problem, and think that I can’t possibly understand, so she won’t even ask for my help? Oh dear God! No! If she has a problem, she MUST feel like she can come to me. I am that kind of aunt. I am that kind of aunt to my other brother’s kids.
I have thought about this a lot lately. Is my niece going to feel detached from me because her skin is a little darker than mine? Do we really live in a society where some psycho will drive a wedge between me and my amazing niece? I can’t make peace with that. I mean, life will inevitably bring issues I will struggle to understand (the story of ‘generational gap’ is as old as time) but I can’t let one of her biggest problems be her difference in physical appearance to me.
A thought occurred: If her father is white and her mother is black, how come my niece is not grey? Black and white make grey. Instead, she’s a little darker than her father, and a little lighter than her mother. So… Maybe there are no whites or blacks? Maybe we’re all brown, just different shades of brown? That would explain how there are no grey kids/people in the world, right?
But this doesn’t solve the problem. It might help sometime in the future, but it’ll be too late for me and my niece, for our relationship.
So here’s what I’m thinking now:
When we allow those who cause problems to dictate what’s important and what’s not, we are allowing them the upper hand. The victims of discrimination, injustice and/or abuse have a lot more in common than perpetrators of discrimination, injustice and/or abuse. Perpetrators find different reasons for their actions, yet the victims suffer almost the same.
So, while I cannot talk about what it’s like to be black, and I am unlikely to understand my niece, I do know about discrimination, injustice and inequality. I do know what it’s like to face a wall behind every door. Perhaps that will be enough for my niece to feel free to come to me should society treat her the way it treated me at times.
And, most of all, I hope she’ll always know how much I love her, and that she’ll always have me.
