When I accepted a job in Devon, a favourite picture from my vision board felt a little closer. It’s of a woman at the wheel of a red convertible, roof down and arms in the air in front of a sun setting over the ocean. I’ll never have her skin or her apparent freedom, but moving to the South West felt exciting, fun – liberating, even.
So my next step was to find myself the most affordable soft-top on Marketplace – my first car. It’s not fancy, but damn, is she cute. We call her Patty after tucking into a Jamaican vegetable pastry in a Sainsbury’s car park following our first spin. Though it took eight round trips from London to Devon to do it, Patty has brought me closer to my dream.
Now, I wake up each day between 05:00 and 05:45 depending on whether snoozing or swimming wins, and I head to work in a better mood because I have Patty to get me around my new home turf. Her wheel is heavy, her engine is loud, but she is familiar and safe.
Or at least she was, until the riots happened. A couple of weeks after they had settled, as headlines were moving on to other subjects, these feelings of comfort and safety were taken from me. My dream, punctured.
My girlfriend was arriving back from Sweden. I would pick her up from the station in our little Patty. We’d roll down the roof and, under the dusky sky, we’d kiss for the first time in weeks.
I left the house ten minutes ahead of schedule. I tuned into our favourite radio station. The sun was warm, my windows and roof were down. I had my shades on. I was happy.
Only 16, maybe 17 seconds later, my car jolted. I regained control.
Silver car. Bald head.
When I picked my girlfriend up, those were the first words out of my mouth.
“Silver car. Bald head.”
“What?” she asked. “Have you missed me?”
Silver car. Bald head. Silver car. Bald head.
“My right ear hurts. It’s ringing.”
“What happened, my love?”
Silver car. Bald head. Window down. Right ear hurts.
Comfort and safety were taken from me. My dream, punctured
“What happened?” she repeated.
“Someone driving on the other side of the road just pulled right close up to Patty, rolled down their window and screamed in my ear.”
“What? What did they scream?”
“The P-word.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know. He was in a silver car. And he had a bald head. My ear is ringing. I lost control of the car for a second. I could have hurt someone.”
Tears. Shaking. No kissing.
Not cute.
Not safe.
My girlfriend will do anything for me.
“We can leave. We can move. We don’t need to live on this street.”
“It’s not our street,” I answered. “It could be anywhere.”
When the rioting started, my mum told me clearly: “We must not stop living. We must not let them win.”
I’ve still gone everywhere, done everything I planned to do this summer. It’s not stopped me. But since that day, I no longer put my roof down. I no longer consider myself to drive a convertible. Patty no longer feels safe. Life no longer feels cute.
This week, when I wake up at 5:36 and drive to work for the first day back to school, my initial thought may not be our welcome meeting. Our new pupils sadly may not be the first people on my mind. I may not leave my house and immediately think about improving our Key Stage 2 or GCSE outcomes.
Silver car. Bald head.
This is how racism scars. This is the experience we live with.
Your brown and black kids, your Muslim students, your immigrant families and staff – they may smile. They may wish you a good morning or all the best for the new school year but know that a significant level of hypervigilance is now alive. Forcibly proactive.
The riots are no longer headline news, but the impact of these events will now, forever, be scarred into our lives.
