‘I’ve always felt dissonance between the jarring fractions of my identities’

I am a second-generation British Caribbean from a working-class family, raised in between the vehement choir of basses debating racial politics in an Easton barbershop.

I’m fortunate. I’m fortunate to have grown in an area of diversity. Growing up in a gated hub of racial homogeneity, the stories of workplace racism my parents had spoken of felt unfamiliar. The political talks of feeling othered over fry-ups and newspaper readings didn’t seem to concern me.

I hadn’t yet felt the hangover of nationalism and skinhead culture in St George. Or experienced the stories of abuse from Barton Hill’s white neighbours, told by newly-immigrated mothers, racism tugging away at their hijabs.

When I was slightly older, through the congestion of social media, I found ‘woke’ Tumblr accounts about racism, an echo of my parents’ accounts of workplace racism. I had opened my own Pandora’s box, demolishing the gated hub.

Surprise: racism did affect me…

But, when we speak about racism, we often talk about the obvious, explicit forms.

We speak about childhood horror stories of playground racism, things that are easily identifiable. My relationship with racism isn’t overt. It’s one that isn’t often spoken: the internal conflict birthed from living in a racist culture.

I’ve always felt a dissonance between the jarring fractions of my identities.

When I was younger, I grew to understand that I needed, for the comfort of others, to act ‘appropriately’ in different environments. I needed to act differently to feel part of ‘whiteness’ and ‘Britishness’. Like my friend Tianna, a student at City Academy, says about feeling comfortable with her blackness: “It depends on my audience. I definitely had to change who I was to fit in.”

Carmen Beckford, one of the Seven Saints of St Paul’s, a mural series honouring black people who have enriched Bristol’s culture. Photo by Alisha Thompson (@xlishaaaaaa)

Every morning before school, I’d put on a diluted version of myself, replicating my school uniform. I had formulated a set of views about how my dark skin had made me seem less approachable, scarier. I felt that I had to divert from the stereotypes I’d internalised. I never wanted to appear too ‘black’.

The black boys in the older year would rap lyrics of Bobby Shmurda, their favourite playground pastime. They’d kick chairs and slam classroom doors, unable to contain their anger. Everything I tried not to be. I needed to be calmer, presentable; I needed to talk about Sunday roast instead of the rice and peas my mum would cook. ‘Assimilation’ was my ticket to acceptance, not only to others, but to myself.

Conversely, after school, I’d come home to my Patois-speaking parents. I’d come home to breezy beats of dancehall bouncing off walls, lyrics of freedom and sexuality falling upon my ashamed and ignorant ears.

My parents are very well-known among Bristol’s Jamaican community, so we’d attend every party held. During the comedown from the highs of Coca-Cola and ice lollies, I’d find my little self lost among clean Nikes and high heels, searching for my mum to take me home, immediately.

The other kids who went to these parties didn’t hide their Jamaican backgrounds and blackness the way that I did.

I had spent so much time trying to be someone else, that when I was at these parties, or more generally when I was around people like me, I didn’t know what to do. I thought that acting ‘white’ had meant acceptance, but I realised all it really did was disconnect me from my culture, race and ethnicity.

Through osmosis, you pick up upon many things as the world around you starts to form. At the root of this dissonance is representation of blackness. Whether it’s drug-dealers patrolling council estates or whitewashed black side characters in media, representation matters; it matters so much that it creates these dissonances. It creates childhoods that try to outrun tainted representations.

Afro-Caribbean immigrants have had an instrumental impact on Britain and on Bristol. From the Notting Hill and St Paul’s Riots, and the Bristol Bus Boycott, we’ve had a rich history of resistance and innovation.

From reggae’s themes of political rebellion that captivated the lives of Britions, the Windrush generation’s presence post-war, and, more locally, trailblazers such as Paul Stephenson, one message that we’ve made clear is: blackness will not conform to white fragility.

Whether you’re an ashamed child hiding who you are, or a proud activist advocating for Black Power, it isn’t your responsibility to fit restrictive definitions.

Now, when I say ‘I am a second-generation British Caribbean immigrant’, there’s a strong sense of pride. It’s almost like a badge of honour. And in that badge of honour I’m recognising that my identities can co-exist. They don’t have to be in conflict.

Shaheim Minzie is a 15-year-old aspiring journalist, currently splitting his time between his studies and journalism.

Main image by Alisha Thompson (@xlishaaaaaa)

Read more: ‘If you’re taught that opening up will subject you to shame, why would you?’