Others

Protection

How old am I – nine? ten? – when it comes to me that if I do not meet him, dad, at the top of the road as he comes home from work, he will die. Nine or ten, no older than that, and if I am not there to meet him, he will have died, I am sure of it. Do I already know he is ill? Or is it something else, a greater threat that I sense? Now it’s up to me to meet him, to hide and then surprise him and then to walk home with him.

But why? Does he really need my protection? If I do not meet him, then what? If I am not there to meet him, what will happen? But I must be there, so I am there. As if he needed my protection – from me, still a boy. As if I, still a boy, can afford him protection. But then he is the only brown man in these parts. And didn’t a girl reach out her hand in class to scratch me with her fingernails to see if I was brown underneath the surface of my skin, I who am not really brown at all? And think what my friend’s mum says about the Jews who employ her: they so greedy! We are not Jews, of course not, but if they’re in for it, so are we, that much is clear.

Us and the Jews on one side, the rest on the other. Us and the Jews on one side – and blacks, but there are no blacks here, I’ve scarcely seen anyone black since we moved out of Southall – and the whites on the others. The odds are stacked against us, that’s clear. We have to stick together, and though I don’t know any Jews, it is clear they’re on our side. Jews, us, blacks – all of us together, not like it was in Southall.

Jews, us, blacks versus the rest. There’s a Polish family up the road – on our side. And there’s my half-Egyptian friend at school – one of ours. There’s the rest, the whites, a great undifferentiated mass, the whites, hundreds and thousands of them, everywhere. All the whites! And then us!

Deaf ‘Uns

Back in Southall, whites and the blacks got along fine, but the we played by themselves. The blacks had some cachet with the whites, and the whites, who never needed to be called whites, they were still the majority, rubbed along with the blacks, but we played separately from the blacks and the whites on the concrete playground, when the others played on the school field. They broke Baraj’s arm, the blacks and the whites, but it was just rough and tumble, I knew that. His mum came in, crying, but it was just rough and tumble, boys will be boys, and so on. But we were best off avoiding the whites and the blacks, that was the lesson.

Sometimes, the whites and the blacks would together hunt down the deaf kids, the deaf ‘uns. Off they went, a great hunt for the deaf ‘uns. Summer on the playing field, hunting down the deaf ‘uns and pulling down their trousers and their pants – that was the sport. The deaf ‘uns, taught in a separate terrapin, and with boxes around their necks to help them hear – they were the Others, and they were for it. Open season on deaf ‘uns! Chase them! Pull down their skirts and their knickers, pull down their trousers and their pants! Separate one from the other and give chase, all across the field!

Paki Shops

When we moved out to the Thames Valley, it was our turn to be Others, we who never thought of ourselves as exotics, but whose names gave us away. How unfortunate, our names! How unfortunate, to be asked to explain where it is our names came from! ‘How did you get a name like that’? Now there are no blacks and only a few Asians, who run what are called paki shops. That’s what they’re called – paki shops. The mums and the dads of our friends refer to the paki shop – ‘are you going to the paki shop?’ Paki – that’s the word, that’s what they’d call us, given half the chance.

The Poles run one shop, the Asians another shop. It’s clear: the foreigners are here to serve the whites. There are whites, and there are foreigners, and the foreigners serve the whites. How unfortunate to be lumped in with the Asians at the paki shop! A morose, expressionless old lady served there, her hand cupped for our money – how unfortunate to be lumped in with her! Back in Southall, there were Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs – but out here, just an undifferentiated morass: pakis, each one the same as the rest.

The vandalism is directed at us – pakis out; NF – initials in a circle. At us. As a reminder – we were not welcome here. My friend’s mum would talk about the greedy Jews and the paki shop, so what did she say about us? We were pakis, to her, no question about that. To her: pakis, and though her son was allowed to play with me, he later joined the British National Party with her approval. ‘It’s a free country. He can do what he likes’.

Middle Class Hatred

She didn’t like the Jews. She resented them, with middle class resentment. She spoke about their greed, with middle class hatred. Quietly, but with hatred. Satirically, but with hatred. We didn’t know any Jews. Jehovah’s Witnesses we knew, but no Jews. Mormons we knew, but no Jews. True, there was the Jewish home for the handicapped, where some of the mums worked, but no Jews, or the Jews amongst us had not declared themselves.

Where were they, the Jews? I wondered what their houses were like. Back in Southall, I’d visit Indian friends and drink sweet tea from stainless steel cups. We’d sit on the floor and drink sweet, milky tea from hot cups. What would a Jewish house be like? They were greedy, said my friend’s mum, but she was not to be trusted. We had a German friend, and her house was different – a samovar and china and portraits of old barons; we were served Stollen and unfamiliar biscuits and she would speak to the children in German; and I had a half-Egyptian friend, a Copt, though there was nothing particularly Coptic about his house; his mother was Dutch, but there was nothing particularly Dutch about his house.

I knew the white middle class had a special punishment waiting for the Jews. I knew it, for they were loathed for being so similar to the whites. At least we weren’t similar to the whites, us lot. At least there were clear identifying marks to tell us apart from the white middle class. But the Jews – what trouble! They had the temerity to look like them, the white middle class! What temerity! Special punishment for them, then! Special punishment for looking so similar and being so different! We’d be up against the wall, no question, but they’d have a special torture for them, the Jews.

The Pack

Later on, at secondary school, I was moved to the back to sit with the skinheads and thugs. Truce in the classroom, but open season in the playground. Truce in form period, when they’d carve WHITE POWER into their knuckles with compass points and Indian ink and talk about skinhead bands and setting their dogs on pakis and tramps, but open season in the breaks. But outside the classroom – avoid them! Keep clear of them! They went around in packs – avoid them! Keep out of their way!

Luckily for me, there were many Others, all sorts at our school. A sprinkling of all races – just a sprinkling. There were the weaker remedials, who were taught separately from the rest of us. Plenty of Others to pick out from the herd! Plenty of Others, where weakness and victimhood is all, regardless of anything else! So was the retarded boy thrown in the river in the winter. So did they break the ice with his body. So was the brown-skinned boy chased round the school and beaten to the ground and kicked and kicked. They were on the look out for weakness. For Others. Others didn’t have a chance. They’d be found. No bolthole could hide them. They’d be driven out, exposed. It was time for a kicking. Time for a beating. For the most part, I escaped. Mostly, I was cunning enough to escape. But for the Others – no mercy.

Sometimes, they were made to fight one another, the Others. The burnt boy whose hair grew in clumps and patches around his scars was set upon the big lad with learning difficulties. Let them fight it out! Let them fight, for everyone’s entertainment! Let them scrabble for a place slightly higher than the lowest rung, for everyone’s entertainment!

Like dogs in the mud, they fought. Like dogs – fighting, and around them, the crowd, the crowd encouraging them. Fight! And they fought, pathetically, one against the other. Weak blows, weak neckholds – the Others couldn’t even fight! How pitiful! They can’t even fight! And so the crowd dispersed and turned away. The Others – they couldn’t even fight!

Later, the pack would be kept busy with dramas with their girlfriends. They stand about smoking, their arms around their girlfriends, at peace for the first time. They’ve become gentler; soon it will be time for them to leave school. We come out from our boltholes and hiding places; they’re busy, the pack-hunters, the thugs; the school is ours again to pass out the long sentence of our childhood.

The Protector

Earlier, before the rot. I am 9 or 10, long before secondary school. Dad’s coming home in the sun. Would he die on the way home? Would he be stabbed on the way home? I’ll surprise him, I think to myself. I’ll meet him at the top of the road, I tell myself.

Then, behind me, an older boy on a bike calls out: ‘what are you doing?’ – ‘Waiting’. – ‘What for?’ – ‘My dad’. He cycles away. Then, later, when I am coming home with him, my dad, who has miraculously survived another day, I see him again on his bike, the lone boy, the lone hunter. Will he turn, this boy who would sometimes kick a football around with me on the wasteground? Will he join the great pack? I can tell: he’s on the cusp. I can tell already: he’s on the cusp. Like the others, he’s waiting for a Hitler. Like the others, he’s primed and ready and waiting for a Hitler.

But money is coming to the Thames Valley, and soon new people move into the area. The motorway reaches us; the big American companies set up in new industrial estates. In truth, this is what saves the region from being mired in hatred and mediocrity. It comes, the great tide of capital, and with it, new workers from all over the world. We are not the only ones anymore, the only Others. They have come, the other Others, from all over the world. The town is changing; the region is changing, it’s beautiful. They’re coming from all over the world, and there are plenty more of them to come. The white middle class can fantasise all they like; we’re here – this is no longer pioneer country; we’re here and Hitler’s coming is infinitely deferred.

I won’t have to meet him, my dad, from work any more. He’ll survive. And now another story begins – no longer the violence of bullies and tormentors, but the slow triumph of capital. No longer discipline, but control.