Many people in England have a self image in respect of their behaviour that does not meet with reality because they never get a reflection back. For most of them, they can define their relationship with ‘others’ in society. ‘Living on the Hill’ is a series aimed at putting up a mirror of sorts. Did I say unbiased mirror? No! Hopefully, it will be full of my own quirks and the devil’s humour. But a mirror nonetheless.
In this episode, I want to talk about children. When I look in the eyes of my well-bred English colleagues, they seem to think of themselves as kind to children. Really?
I used to love taking my son to the parks. Surrounded by Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park and Holland Park one was spoilt. As a baby he would be pushchaired around the parks. I would even let him choose where we went. When he was old enough he learnt to cycle with ‘training wheels’ in Holland Park. I remember teaching him to climb trees, only to see him go too far… I forgot to teach him how to come down! I never thought he would simply not stop. All ended well.
One day when he had a real cycle he was in Kensington Gardens and there is a turn from the main thoroughfare that leads to Kensington Palace Gardens, aka Embassy Row. As my son turned at that spot, there is also a drop in level, an incline, so he would inevitably gain speed. Coming the other way was a group of English men taking up the whole breadth of the path about 8 abreast. They saw my young son coming on his bike. He assumed that they would make a path for him to ride past. They did not. In order to avoid crashing into them he had to suddenly swerve violently and fell off his bike. I had watched from a distance and began running to help my son. Only when I arrived did one of the Englishmen make a token effort to help my son get up. All the remaining 7 men showed no sign of embarrassment or concern.
Another event arose when one day I was returning home. A mother with several children was crossing Campden Hill Rd. By misadventure, she left one child behind in the middle of the road. She obviously assumed the child would continue walking but the girl had stopped in the middle of the road. I rushed to protect the child. This was potentially complicated. White women and their children. Particularly American women and their children. I had noticed her accent. First rule is DO NOT TOUCH. The second rule is ‘keep your distance’, and the final rule is ‘do not socially engage without their permission’. You might think these rules are pretty obvious except that most English people ignore them when dealing with my son. So much so that I had to occasionally shout at Englishmen to stop patting my son. ‘He is not your dog’ I would shout.
Returning to this little girl standing in the middle of a busy road—Campden Hill Road—I rushed forward and stood between her and the traffic, keeping about a three foot distance. Eventually, the mother looked for her child and then franticly came running back. Gratitude? No. She looked absolute daggers at me. I was protecting her child, and she was cursing me silently.
My understanding of this situation was simple: she was unable to express gratitude because she would not have done the same for me. In her imagination under no circumstance should she ever rely on a non-white for anything because she would never do anything for them. So be it. I leave it to karma or life to teach people.
Having always lived in a privileged environment I had never before been on the receiving end of this behaviour. I am assuming she did not realise I was a neighbour and thought her child was being protected by the unwashed. But that is not good enough as an explanation. Even the unwashed can be thanked.
In contrast, I was once in the children’s area of Holland Park watching my son play. I was sitting beside a Caribbean lady and her daughter. The lady sought to tie the shoelaces of her daughter only to receive a resounding smack. ‘I can tie my own laces,’ her daughter said. Mother accepted her punishment. A few minutes later, she asked if I would look after her daughter as she went to the toilet. We had known each other for 45 minutes.
One day I was driving in a BMW and a Black child was left behind on a zebra crossing. The father in panic frantically ran to collect his child. I had in any case slammed on my brakes. I could see from the look in his eyes that he thought I would run over his child. He looked at me as one would look at a cold killer – in deep fear, until he could see my face. Clearly, his assumption was that the driver of the BMW would be white. And would behave like a psychopathic killer.
I had earlier briefly gone out with a young Indian girl. When we walked around St James’s in London, she would cross the road in terror. Quite clearly, she assumed the posh people there would behave like psychopaths once behind a wheel. It took me some effort to calm her down. There were too many cameras, and the police would not tolerate dangerous driving in an area where top politicians, senior civil servants and big business people go to play, I told her. I cannot say I always understood what was going on as one day, I dropped a friend off at Victoria on their way to Jamaica. This was at 6am. I drove innocently on my way home only for another driver in a SUV to begin trying to edge me off the road. I am in a BMW, he is in a SUV. What is the problem? Was he trying to say ‘you may be in a more expensive car than me but …’. Fortunately for me, his behaviour was witnessed by a traffic cop who stopped both of us and forced him to apologise to me. I still do not understand.
Finally, I am one day on the underground and changing at South Kensington Station. This can be busy especially in summer months as there are many museums nearby. I am walking gently along when as the train moves out I notice that a mother has left one of her children behind. It is the youngest. I can see the anxiety in the mother ‘s face and the terror in the eyes of her child. I grab the child, hold her firmly and in a silent signal with her mother, eye to eye, I let her know I have her child. The child is in terror but I hold her firmly and she accepts my strong embrace, calms down and is reassured. My silent understanding with the mother was that I would not move an inch from where she saw us last. ’Come back for your child, we will be here’. An English woman noticed the transaction and came over to me and asked me to hand over the child. She must be joking, I thought. I had this child in a sacred trust. This lady went off to find a transport officer who came along and asked me to hand over the child. I refused. A standoff. He then said we should all of us go to the returning platform and wait for the mother. Though this broke my understanding with the mother, I felt I had to oblige. We went to the other platform and quite inevitably the mother missed us. (It was a stupid idea but the transport officer was seeking to take control.) As it happened when the mother began moving around I saw her and waved. The English lady and the transport officer were all relieved and began smiling waiting to speak to the mother.
THEN!!!
As many know the skin tones in a family can be a devil, and some children of mixed families can ‘take the sun’ in the summer and others can be simply quite different. As the mother came closer it was quite obvious her older daughter was Black. The younger daughter could pass as white until a closer inspection. It was in American terms a mixed family. At the very moment when it was clear that the family was mixed race the English lady and the transport officer simply disappeared without even a word. I still do not understand this transaction. Why did they think they had an obligation to protect a white girl from being helped by a Black man, but not a Black girl. Why disappear without a word?
I rode along with the mother for a few stops. To reassure her that I did not have any negative evaluations, I told her the story about when we lost our son. Our 7 year old decided to play hide and seek in Disney, Paris. For 40 minutes we were in complete terror. I dreaded having to report we had lost a boy. ‘Excuse me sir, there are several thousand little boys here’. Eventually, our son found us again. I was seeking to let her know I had experienced that terror too.