Being a representative of My Race
I once tried to organise an assembly amongst the form groups in my year at school. Each form group were assigned a notable black individual and they'd give a presentation on that individual to the rest of the year. I presented the idea to my head of year who praised me, but not before telling me there wouldn't be enough time in assemblies for such an idea. The faculty found time for pop performances from 'X Factor Rejects' but a presentation during Black History Month didn't seem ideal.
I gave up trying to evoke change after that incident. No one could really grasp the importance of talking about black culture and black history in my school – the majority of students and faculty where indeed white. At the time, it seemed I was the only minority who was willing to talk about what it was actually like to be a minority. As I prided myself on my eagerness to talk about black history and what it meant for me, I became a representative of my race. I wanted so much more inclusivity. It’s tiring opening up a textbook and only ever seeing black people in shackles and chains. It’s tiring being the face people would turn to during any topic of race. In response to me wanting more diversity in the school, the faculty made me ‘culture leader’ in my final year. I was given a badge, a photo on a wall and no say in anything remotely ‘culture related’. Why? Because nothing changed.
Being in the rural area of Huddersfield, though quite diverse, different communities are only expressed in events curated by them. Whilst in college, I was aware of the double standards faced by minorities. It seemed when it came to events like ‘Trans Day of Visibility’ and ‘Rainbow Day in celebration of LGBT+ History Month’, my college held week long events in support of these. They invited people in to hold talks in the main hall, played music celebrating LGBT+ pride and even painted rainbows on students’ faces. And as quickly as Black History Month came, it was gone. Five different posters featuring famous black individual's plastered randomly round the building was all that was done by the college in the entirety of the month. No talks, no presentations, no festivities. Posters. This was done in both of my years at college, the same posters were used.
It’s always hard to know your place in a world that constantly shares with you the ideology that you’ll never amount to the successes of your white counterparts. Especially when this exact mindset is indoctrinated into the minds of minorities at such a young age. Growing up I knew I had to be fearless. I had to be strong and I had to be willing. It was never easy wanting to share my story and my heritage because there was never anyone immediately around me willing to listen. I wanted to see myself in an environment that just didn't want to see me, that didn’t want to hear me.
I became a representative of my race because I was reprimanded for being my unapologetic self – an incident which replays heavily on mind even to this day. My friend and I were sat quietly talking amongst ourselves in our school’s study centre and the topic of racism came up in our work. We began taking about racial slurs and opened a discourse on the ever-frequent use of ‘the ‘n’ word’ in rap music and society alone. Our head of year approached us and asked if we could come outside. She told us that we shouldn’t say that word (and then proceeded to say it regardless) because it makes people uncomfortable. Two black students were reprimanded for saying ‘nigga’ because of the discomfort it caused white people listening in on our barely audible conversation.
For the most part of my time in education, I was filled with desperation of wanting to break away from the stigma of black students in Huddersfield. I didn’t want to be one of the names of the black students my headteacher would read out that were kicked out of school and I certainly didn’t want people to think I was a slacker and that I wouldn’t amount to anything. I simply wanted to be able to tell my teachers my career aspirations without reading shock and humour on their faces. A face that reads ‘Are you sure you’re capable?’ or ‘Are you sure that’s the route you want to go down?’. I had so little belief in myself and my capability because no one tells the black kid to ‘go for it’. It’s hard to break people’s preconceptions of you, especially when they think you won’t do well, you’ll fail or will turn to a life of crime. It was almost too easy for me to give up because no one believed in me.
There’s seemingly never any acknowledgement of black creators, academics, innovators in public media and certainly not in the school curriculum. To neglect a child of learning about black history and black culture, in my opinion, is detrimental to the way they’ll grow up and view themselves and others alike. However, it’s not just essential for young black kids to learn about their history, but young white kids as well. Children of any race or background. It teaches kids to be aware of people’s backgrounds. To be aware and appreciative of other cultures.
Article by Selorm Torkornoo
#teachukblackhistory