The Personal Cost of Racism

Hello {{ first name | friends}},

When I wrote recently about BAFTA-gate, it brought to mind a question. If you recall, the BBC apologised for anyone who "might" have been offended by hearing John Davidson utter the N-word during the BAFTAs broadcast (you can read my full take on it here). At the time I pointed out that anyone Black who heard the word definitely WAS offended and hurt and traumatised and, and, and...

And it got me to thinking about a common question: how does racism affect people? I can only answer based on my own experience and experiences from my nearest and dearest, but here's the overview: it affects people in different ways at different times, depending on what the experience is (slurs, microaggressions, trolling, systemic obstacles, pay gaps, housing difficulties, finance and education setbacks to name just a few) and where you are emotionally and personally when it happens. Let me give you a few examples.

As many of you know, the first time I heard the N-word I was around 7. I remember it feeling hurtful because I knew it was said with intent to wound, but it didn't have the full force it would years later. That was only the first instance, and I had my family to shelter me from its worst impacts. I know for a fact, though, that my parents were incensed, because they were at the stage I'd be at much later where they had experienced so much racism that it really hurt them (Plus as parents, what hurt their child definitely hurt them.)

During my childhood, I felt the wound of colourism. As a dark-skinned child, I was somehow less favoured in the eyes of older Caribbean society (not my family, but others), and I felt that deeply. I didn't believe I was inferior, but I was very hurt that others did. As a child, I didn't know what to do with those feelings. Interestingly, my sister, who was deemed "the pretty one", has always been hurt that people assumed that meant she wasn't that smart, when she's ferociously brilliant. (The latest example of her brilliance is her multi-awarded book, Space to Exhale.)

The year that I spent in France was my first experience of daily racism in experiences big and small, from being underestimated, to sexual fetishisation, to racist remarks, to being followed, to numerous micro-invalidations. I felt that viscerally, in my body. I felt the dread of not knowing what particular form of racism I'd face that day, the discomfort verging on nausea in the pit of my stomach when I actually experienced it; the weariness of having to explain to well meaning white friends why certain things bothered me.

In France, I heard the N-word in multiple languages, and it skewered my heart in every single one. And even though I came out of that year determined not to treat others that way, I was not unaffected - not at all. And every new instance of racism can send me back into that remembered pain.

In Barbados, applying for a job, I realised that even in a majority Black country, who and how I was wasn't good enough for everyone - in fact, some workplaces wanted me to change my hair and demeanour to be more palatable to their Eurocentric norms.