I wrote this piece a while ago as part of a project for a Reflective Practice course I was doing in the UK. Georgina was a classmate of mine, originally from Sierra Leone but who has lived in the UK for much of her life, who graciously told me her story and allowed me to put it into narrative. Hope you enjoy!
I twirl my new braids around my finger as I waited to climb aboard. I always feel good after getting my hair done, more human, more worthy, somehow. I remove my sunglasses and walk to the back of the bus, which is largely empty on a Saturday morning. Three older ladies sit in the second-to-last row, white hair neat and tidy, scarves around their shoulders and handbags on their laps, real prim and proper, chatting away, probably on their way to do their weekly shop.
They spot me as I walk towards them, and I can sense something change. Something intangible, like a breeze changing direction. I've always been overly sensitive to these things, these subtle changes in behaviour, and so I tell myself it's nothing, just shrug it off. I take a seat in the row behind them, and they continue chatting pleasantly about everything and nothing.
“...and so I told him that the irises needed splitting and that he needs to do it because I can't do it any more because of my back, you see,” says the one with the slightly purple hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
“I know what you mean. My garden's really suffering because my knees just can't take the bending any more,” says the one in the pink fluffy cardigan, and she surreptitiously glances my way.
“I feel so guilty when I think of my hydrangeas,” says the one wearing a pearl necklace over her peppermint blouse with the lace collar.
I play it cool, look out the window at the Lewes Road shops, while watching them out of the corner of my eye. I get the sense that they're very aware that a black woman has just sat behind them, not in a hold-onto-your-handbags kind of way, but more in an our-space-has-been-compromised kind of way. It's the subtle change in the air, you see. Something about how they hold themselves, how they become self-conscious and try not to look at you too obviously.
These kinds of situations amuse me, actually. I'm curious about these women. Having lived in Brighton for the last 20 years, I tend not to see colour anymore. I don't mean to sound pretentious or overly PC, but it just doesn't occur to me when I'm the only black person on the beach. I don't look for racial discrimination, and only really notice it when it's overt. I smile as I remember last week when a chavvy young man hurled a racist insult my way that I don't care to repeat. An old gentleman waiting at the bus stop whipped his head around, and suddenly started beating the boy with his umbrella for having such bad manners. I couldn't stop laughing! It's good to know the world is mostly made up of decent human beings.
The bus is on North Street now, and we're passing the Clocktower on our way to Churchill Square. It's been wrapped in layers of clothing, mostly shirts and tops, ranging from pastels to deep hues. It's magnificent, and reminds me of the lines upon lines of washed clothes drying in the wind back home in Sierra Leone. My heart pangs, a reflex reaction when I think of home.
“What on earth is that?!” exclaims Pink Fluffy Cardigan.
“I don't know,” replies Pearls. “It must be vandalism of somekind. You know these youngsters these days.”
“It can't all be some kind of prank? Who would go to such effort? And surely the City Council wouldn't allow it!” says Horn-rimmed Spectacles.
I hesitate for a second before I decide to explain. “Actually, it's an art installation.”
They slowly, self-conscious-casually turn their heads around.
“It's for the Brighton Festival. The City Council actually helped construct it. They had cranes and men in hardhats helping out last week.”
I could almost see the relief wash over their faces. They visibly relaxed almost as soon as I spoke and they heard my accent, which is clearly British. Their discomfort is like a heavy cloak they've shaken off. I could read their minds: It's ok. She's one of us. Nothing different or threatening or scary, it's just that her skin's a different colour, that's all.
“In my day, washing lines weren't mistaken for art!” ventures Pearls, and smiles at me tentatively.
“Speak for yourself! I was a regular Vincent van Gogh with the clothes pegs!” says Pink Cardigan, and the ladies and I break into laughter which shatters the last layers of ice.
We regale ourselves with various puns on the theme of clothes (“Bet the artist thinks she's tops!”, “Well no need to get shirty about it!, “Oh, button up!”) until we reach Palmeira Square which is my stop. I say goodbye to the ladies, and they seem almost sad to see me go. How strange, I think, to find acceptance in such an unlikely place. I wonder if I'll miss this marvellous city when I move back home to Freetown next year, and whether I'll belong there as I've come to belong here. A small part of me fears I have more in common with the octogenarian English ladies than Sierra Leonean women my age, and I sincerely hope that isn't true.
I twirl my new braids around my finger as I waited to climb aboard. I always feel good after getting my hair done, more human, more worthy, somehow. I remove my sunglasses and walk to the back of the bus, which is largely empty on a Saturday morning. Three older ladies sit in the second-to-last row, white hair neat and tidy, scarves around their shoulders and handbags on their laps, real prim and proper, chatting away, probably on their way to do their weekly shop.
They spot me as I walk towards them, and I can sense something change. Something intangible, like a breeze changing direction. I've always been overly sensitive to these things, these subtle changes in behaviour, and so I tell myself it's nothing, just shrug it off. I take a seat in the row behind them, and they continue chatting pleasantly about everything and nothing.
“...and so I told him that the irises needed splitting and that he needs to do it because I can't do it any more because of my back, you see,” says the one with the slightly purple hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
“I know what you mean. My garden's really suffering because my knees just can't take the bending any more,” says the one in the pink fluffy cardigan, and she surreptitiously glances my way.
“I feel so guilty when I think of my hydrangeas,” says the one wearing a pearl necklace over her peppermint blouse with the lace collar.
I play it cool, look out the window at the Lewes Road shops, while watching them out of the corner of my eye. I get the sense that they're very aware that a black woman has just sat behind them, not in a hold-onto-your-handbags kind of way, but more in an our-space-has-been-compromised kind of way. It's the subtle change in the air, you see. Something about how they hold themselves, how they become self-conscious and try not to look at you too obviously.
These kinds of situations amuse me, actually. I'm curious about these women. Having lived in Brighton for the last 20 years, I tend not to see colour anymore. I don't mean to sound pretentious or overly PC, but it just doesn't occur to me when I'm the only black person on the beach. I don't look for racial discrimination, and only really notice it when it's overt. I smile as I remember last week when a chavvy young man hurled a racist insult my way that I don't care to repeat. An old gentleman waiting at the bus stop whipped his head around, and suddenly started beating the boy with his umbrella for having such bad manners. I couldn't stop laughing! It's good to know the world is mostly made up of decent human beings.
The bus is on North Street now, and we're passing the Clocktower on our way to Churchill Square. It's been wrapped in layers of clothing, mostly shirts and tops, ranging from pastels to deep hues. It's magnificent, and reminds me of the lines upon lines of washed clothes drying in the wind back home in Sierra Leone. My heart pangs, a reflex reaction when I think of home.
“What on earth is that?!” exclaims Pink Fluffy Cardigan.
“I don't know,” replies Pearls. “It must be vandalism of somekind. You know these youngsters these days.”
“It can't all be some kind of prank? Who would go to such effort? And surely the City Council wouldn't allow it!” says Horn-rimmed Spectacles.
I hesitate for a second before I decide to explain. “Actually, it's an art installation.”
They slowly, self-conscious-casually turn their heads around.
“It's for the Brighton Festival. The City Council actually helped construct it. They had cranes and men in hardhats helping out last week.”
I could almost see the relief wash over their faces. They visibly relaxed almost as soon as I spoke and they heard my accent, which is clearly British. Their discomfort is like a heavy cloak they've shaken off. I could read their minds: It's ok. She's one of us. Nothing different or threatening or scary, it's just that her skin's a different colour, that's all.
“In my day, washing lines weren't mistaken for art!” ventures Pearls, and smiles at me tentatively.
“Speak for yourself! I was a regular Vincent van Gogh with the clothes pegs!” says Pink Cardigan, and the ladies and I break into laughter which shatters the last layers of ice.
We regale ourselves with various puns on the theme of clothes (“Bet the artist thinks she's tops!”, “Well no need to get shirty about it!, “Oh, button up!”) until we reach Palmeira Square which is my stop. I say goodbye to the ladies, and they seem almost sad to see me go. How strange, I think, to find acceptance in such an unlikely place. I wonder if I'll miss this marvellous city when I move back home to Freetown next year, and whether I'll belong there as I've come to belong here. A small part of me fears I have more in common with the octogenarian English ladies than Sierra Leonean women my age, and I sincerely hope that isn't true.
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