A memory:
Itās Friday night and Iām at home getting ready to go meet my friends Molly and Amelia for a celebratory drink. Molly has just passed her driving test. As the three of us ping messages back and forth, it transpires that some of Mollyās friends from work will also be joining us. My heart sinks. Iāve never actually met her colleagues before, but she works at a creative agency in east London, so I know pretty much what to expect, having myself once worked at a creative agency in east London: white people who consider themselves socially progressive because they have mildly countercultural tastes and have been to G-A-Y a few times.
āFor people of colour, some aspect of friendship with white people involves an awareness that you could be dropped through a trapdoor of racism at any moment, by a slip of the tongue, or at a campus party, or in a legislative campaign. But itās not always anticipated.ā[7] These are the words of the journalist Wesley Morris, which to me feel like the truest description of the Black experience when navigating white spaces (although I personally would extend his definition beyond the boundaries of just friendship and apply it to ābeing around white peopleā in general). The older I get, the more on edge I feel in these sorts of situations, having learned that a slip of the tongue is never that far away, no matter how progressive the company.
At the pub now, Iām queuing to buy a drink, ending up in conversation with Mollyās boss while weāre both waiting to be served. Iād been on a shoot run by a Swedish production crew a few days earlier and in telling him about it I make the obvious joke, about how good-looking Swedish people are, especially in comparison to us trollish, sun-starved and rain-soaked Brits.
āYeah, I know,ā he replies, continuing, āand theyāre all beautiful in that really, like, Aryan-looking way as well,ā as though dreamily invoking a beauty standard popularised by a regime that murdered six million Jews in part because they didnāt conform to it is an entirely normal thing to say. I am lost for words, and the conversation moves on while Iām still processing his comment.
Later that evening, I am in conversation with another of Mollyās colleagues, who proceeds to tell me in far too much detail about a messy break up heās just been through, and the ex-girlfriend who is now dragging her feet over repaying him the Ā£20,000 he (foolishly, in my opinion) lent her. I ask lots of questions, polite but ultimately bemused, and we speculate about the potential legal recourse he might be able to take.
āSheās also half Jamaican, half Guyanese,ā he comments, before moving on to another detail of what is becoming clear is an incredibly bizarre situation.
āWait, what? I donāt understand,ā I say, the back of my neck suddenly hot and tight. I know where this is headed, and that I should spare myself the discomfort, but I prod him anyway.
āWhat?ā he replies.
āYou just mentioned that sheās half Jamaican, half Guyanese. I donāt understand. How is that relevant?ā I say neutrally, feigning confusion.
āOh just ā¦ā he tails off, trying to change the subject, but I press.
āWell Iām like, from the countryside,ā he elaborates, a non sequitur if ever I heard one. āIād literally never met a Black person before I moved to London. I didnāt know any Black people.ā
āRight ā¦ā I say blankly. āI still donāt get it,ā even though I do, but I want him to say plainly what he had only been brave enough to insinuate.
āOh nothing,ā he says. āI just learned a lot from the situation, thatās all.ā
āLike what?ā
āJust not to trust people, yāknow?ā
āBlack people?ā
āNo! No, no, no, no. Thatās not what I meant. I donāt know why I brought up her race, itās not relevant.ā
I give him an icy smile and abruptly end the conversation, turning to speak to someone else, and he leaves almost immediately after, avoiding my gaze as he waves goodbye to the table. I am reminded that no matter how carefully I choose my own friends, I cannot control for or vet the white people they bring into my life.
The next day I go to a Black friendās birthday party, and I am pathetically grateful for its timing, and to be surrounded by other Black people, Black joy, Black children, Black food. It feels almost baptismal, like I am being washed clean of what happened the night before.
There are other examples, too many to count or remember. Here are a few:
During freshersā week I am at one of the many cheesy, drunken nights of organised fun that define the British university experience. On this particular night we have been instructed to dress up in school uniform, which seems like an odd and fairly unimaginative choice of fancy dress to impose on a group of people who not that long ago had no choice but to wear school uniforms. I am standing in a corner with a newly acquired friend, the two of us quietly entertaining ourselves by taking it in turns to gently mock othersā efforts on the dance floor, when out of the blue he turns to me and jokes, āoh, youāre just jealous of them because youāre not white!ā It is as shocking as a punch, and my enthusiasm for the party evaporates instantly. Not long after, I leave and go to bed, lying awake and wondering if Iāve made a mistake in coming to Oxford.
A few weeks later I am at a house party and, feeling bold, decide to commandeer the sound system, putting on a rap album Iāve been listening to on repeat. O.D.B. comes blaring out of the speakers and almost immediately one of the second years (whose house it is) drunkenly yells at me to play something else, telling me my music is ātoo Blackā. I am mortified and do as instructed, cowed.
Another time, a boy in my year group confidently informs me that he doesnāt know any Nigerians who were educated at Harrow (specifically, Harrow) whose parents werenāt in some way āinvolved in corruptionā. Irritated, I ask him for proof, though of course he has no...
