Phil the Writer's Block

I do not recall most of the memories of growing up black on white bread but I try my best. The term white bread to me is a metaphorical way to help me explain and hopefully attract the understanding of my potential audience, that white bread symbolises assimilation to whiteness or the white culture through a breakfast or lunchtime ritual of eating a bacon sandwich, bacon buttie or bacon sarnie which was referred in the urban dictionary.  To some, the bacon sandwich creates controversy within Islamic spaces where bacon and other types of pork are prohibited. Unable to recall them is a form of coping mechanism which to me describes as painful and upsetting, known to psychologists or those with minds who fascinated with psychology as repression.

I was born and grew up in a predominately white town called Harlow, one of the new towns that was built under the New Town Act 1946 following the design by Sir Frederick Gibberd after the Second World War to help reduce the enormous mass of residents in London due to the Blitz (although there is continuous growth of ethnic minorities habituating at present). I wasn’t aware that I was different until I was at nursery school, where I found myself splashing about in the paddling pool with the other children. Whilst they were enjoying splashing spits of water onto the concrete, I found myself constantly peering at the front and soles of my feet and the front and palms of my hands. It struck me instantly that I was different. My hair was different from the others as it was a solid spongy mass of curls that covers every outline of my scalp. My hair was black but my skin was brown so were my eyes but when I look other people, their skin colours were light pink along with their hands and feet, but is classified as “white” and their eyes were either brown same as mine but sometimes blue, hazel or green but their hairs were straight in blond, dark brown, blackish brown or brown or orange. They could dress it in a way to suit theirs. When I tried to dress my hair like theirs, it comes back the same.

I found myself standing on the front lawn of my house facing the row of hedges in front where people would scoop litter underneath, passing by on one Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining and smiling down on me, telling me it was a lovely day for a venture out, hearing the rattling roar of the food processor away from the kitchen where mum was shredding fish for her own supper or weird scent of palm oil articulating along the corridor. Suddenly, I see a white boy with brown hair in the style of a mushroom or mullet people would say now, dressed in a pair of black t-shirt and shorts carrying his bike by his side through the gate landing his bike on the lawn before reaching the front door. As he opened the door to enter his house with his bike he looked me. I was full of excitement that he would ask: “Would’ja wanna play?” or “Would’ja wanna come in and play computer games with me?” I usually respond by shyly shrugging my shoulders. Instead, he pulled an unpleasant face sticking his tongue out.

“Packie” he spat out and closed the door behind him. When I think of the word “Packie”, I imaginatively assumed that was short for packed lunch as my imagination depicted two loaves of white bread suppressing a puddle of chocolate spread with the crust shaved off. Mother reminds me to eat the crust because it was good for me. It wasn’t good for me as that crust was brown depending on the colour complexion and is usually shaved off. All is left was two uncrusted loaves of white bread glued together by chocolate spread. It came to my senses that the chocolate spread perfectly matched the shades on colour of my skin along with the crust of the bread. That word pricked every nerve inside me. It made me felt I was a freak, abnormal and what was frustrating that I found myself with my throat clog up with humiliation and confusion unable to say something horrible to him back. I couldn’t cry or tell mother about it.

I was alone, with my throat still choked by that painful word from that half-wit. Not even a single neighbour was there to witness what happened or to tell my mother on what happened or even a kind hearted neighbour or stranger to give that boy a telling off and come to my aid asking if I was alright. Now in my imagination, the sun is covered by an unhappy grey cloud above showering heavy spits of rain like hailstones hitting my mass of black hair hard and my clothes drench sticking to my vulnerable body like glue leaving me to retreat back to the base I called home surrounded by the aromatic sizzle of fish being fried.

After the mental rainstorm, I plucked up the courage to venture out again no one was there but when I was walking through the aisle of semi detached houses, I eventually saw that same boy, the prat who spat the word “Packie” at me. My eyes focused on him looking down on his little sister at the porch who looks sad with her head looking down on the concrete of her porch. As soon as he noticed me coming towards him, I stopped to my feet stuck on concrete staring at him with my mind ready for him to call me “Packie” again as my happy go lucky mood beginning to fade.

“Wot bout him?” he asks his little sister whose face was lowered facing the ground looking upset in a firm demanding tone, glaring his beaming eyes from my direction to her. “Der black one?”

“Huh?” she questioned in a soft cry.

“Dat black one there?” glaring back at me with his spiteful pointed finger. My feet remained stuck on the concrete waiting for a response from her voice. I was beamed by the boy’s facial expression shooting directly at me. I knew from the look on his face that he wanted her to say yes. My puzzled mind spinning with the questions on what is he going to do next if she said yes: Is he gonna beat me up where I was unable to fight back, spitting hostility onto my fragile looking face again, or call me names before he returned to his focus to his little sister.

“No” she shook her head innocently.

I walked passed him with an overwhelmingly undeterred sigh of relief,  and he looked gutted. He threw an intimidating glare as if he wanted to say, “Yer lucky, cos if she said yes I’ll deck you, you Packie!” and at the same time was thumped by the phrase of  “Der  black one” or “dat black one there” especially more thumped by the word “black” itself. Black was the colour of ink which Father uses when he does his paper work at his desk in the master bedroom, and one of the two colour ink pens we use at school. Black was the colour of Charcoal that we use in art lessons at school. Black was the colour of the shoes we wore at school. Black was the colour of tar concrete we walk on. Black was the colour of food burnt in the oven when left unnoticed for a long period of time. Black was the colour of the shorts and t – shirt that boy was wearing when he called me “Packie”, and referred me to his little sister as “Der black one or dat black boy there”. That is when I instantly learnt as I grew up that the word “black” would later become the appropriate suitable “political term” to define my skin colour, even though, it was physically brown. What hurt me more was he confused me with the former. First, he called me a Packie, now he calls me the black one, or the black one there. Looking back now, I wanted to turn around and throw a witty response in my so-called fake cockney accent to that silly twerp: “Make up your mind mate, am I the Packie or am I der black one or the der one there?” throwing it all back to confuse his mean nasty mind.

Later on, I found myself wondering around the neighbourhood observing the neighbours where I am usually distracted by the roaring noise of their lawnmower ploughing onto the thick bushy green grass or watching them hoovering their cars overwhelmed by the warm weather looking down on them whilst I emerge slowly out of my base to imaginatively, find my feet stuck in a pond of humiliation by the spat of “Packie”. I have no choice but to keep shuffling through the puddle as I went the puddle goes with me. When I was returning, a pair of boys whose skin colour was brown like mine but it was lighter than mine, had the same curly hair, pedalling on a bike with one boy standing as he was pedalling and the other behind sitting on the seat with his legs dangling on the side of the bike paralleling on the ground . I mimicked the same face as that boy did to me and spat out “Packie” to them.

“Oiii!” one boy exclaimed. “Get lost” he continued. “Fuck off” joined by the other pedaling passed me, with my eyes following them as they slipped through a path to an island of houses watching disappear into the furthest end of block. I found that they were exactly hurt and cross by the same word, the boy delivered to me.

At primary school on a bright summer Tuesday, I’m sitting at a table of 4 to 6 class members including me, in a maths lesson a voice called my name: “Phillip”

I  lifted my head up from my exercise book and turn to the direction of the boy called my name out.

“You’re blackcurrant” he smirked.

“You’re cream” I snapped defensively.”

I raised my hand up to catch to attention of the class teacher that he called me blackcurrant.

“Miss he called me blackcurrant”

She gaze at him for a second and said with a disappointing look on her face: “That’s not nice. You don’t take a mickey about someone’s skin colour”.

“But he called me….” he croaked into heavy heave of sobs”.

At break-time, that boy was sitting at the bench telling everyone there sulking: “I got told off cos fff- Phillip call’me cream” he sharply said my name with so much venomous resentment. My mind was raging at him: “Cos you call’me blackcurrant!” I was more insulted by the word ‘black’ than the word “currant”. Then again to rub salt to the wound, in my eyes, looking back now I learnt if the two rs and the a or how I say it in vibrant way, if I subtract the two rhubarbs and an apple from the word “currant” it equals the naughty word that refers to the private region of the female anatomy now used as a swear word to describe someone who is a incompatible or unpleasant, so in an implicit way he inadvertently smirked: “Phillip you’re a black cunt”.

The word “Packie” came to spread in school at the end of year three through to year four. My father once told me that: “If they call you “Packie, you call them pigs”.

I took his advice. After lunch, I saw a group of girls approaching through the open space classroom where my class was assigned on the right hand side from their direction as part of academic year and was acknowledged that they were not allowed to use the exit through the open space classroom to the left hand which housed the Year 5s and instead of using the exit behind the main hall. As they were slipping down the aisle between our classroom and our sitting room to use the exit in the yr 5s classroom, I stood two feet from them and explained: You’re not allowed to come through here”.

“You’re not allowed to come through here “One girl mimic in a deep voice, with her knee stretched out like a sumo wrestler mimicking a gorilla referring to the shape of my distinctive African nose.

“Monkey face” another girl hissed. I abruptly felt her pleasure in that smirk.

“You pink pigggssss!!” I impulsively roared angrily. The laughter erupted from their mouths as they ran towards the exit. I turned right to my only to meet the angry face of my class teacher as I hear her feet slapping angrily on the ground as my outburst caught her attention.

“You think that was very nice eh?” she barked. “Is it!” with her hands slapped on her hips as she stopped to a halt.

“No” I said impulsively jumped the loud rage from her lungs. But in my mind trying make my tongue stutter to speak back  “B-b-but they were…………….”

“Are you gonna apologise then?” with her demonised eyes shooting down at my timid face.

“Yes” came in a soft timid reply.

“Go on then!”

As requested I walked into that classroom towards the exit and pushed the door open and punched out: “Sorry”. But those girls were not there but to see a group of young children look like year 2s at a  bench built in beige red bricks underneath the wooden bench at the far distance. Her barking orders sucked out the energy from me to find them and apologise. If I did apologise would I be rewarded with an unpleasant spiteful greeting of the monkey taunt or chocolate any name referring to my skin colour and my wide nose? But I ended punching sorry to the air of the hostile environment I offended and suffocated in.

“Mum” Am I a Packie?” I asked with a soft worrisome tone.

“No Phillip. You’re African” She replied. “Packie’s are those who are from Packiestan and you’re not a packie are you?

-“No” I shook my head firmly.

“Well then. If they call you Packie, just tell them you’re African and if they still call you that you tell your miss”.

During lesson time or at break time whenever I’m called horrible names, I would daydream that someone would stick up for me when one will bark out:

“Go play with your Packie friend (me) and eat his Packie food!”

“He’s no Packie, he’s African you idiot! It’s not Packie food it’s African food!” he would exclaimed! “Learn some Geography you moron!”

Later through the end of year 4 and the end of year 5, I learnt the proper spelling of that word. It was not spelt as P-a-c-k-i-e, P-a-c-k-e-e,  or P-a-c-k-y as I imagined. It was spelt as P-a-k-i, Paki. The word derived from the prefix of “Pak” attached to the suffix of “istan” equals Pakistan, a country in the Indian subcontinent or the South Asian continent along with neighbouring countries of India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Afghanistan. That instantly struck a nerve to every part of my body aching along with every lobe of my brain ached by spelling of “Paki” not  “Packie”. That word is what I always dread for whenever I step out of the house or walk through the school gates. Most of the name calling came from the innocent voices of children below my year and to the angry mature voices of children above my year so I was practically in the middle of it. It was frustrating that I couldn’t tell a teacher or in my thoughts, would beat up every one of them to a pulp. If I did then I would get the telling off leaving me crippled with fear that it would be reported to the headmaster who then would notify my mother who would then physically castigate me.

So I found myself putting up every amount of name calling to avoid being scorned by teachers who I timidly assume take their side. So I had no choice to bottle things up, ignore them and daydream to escape the unpleasant voices from the hostile environment I was in. I was not only been called a Paki as I can recall others names in detail which too played in my mind, “blackie”, “brownie”, “nigger”, “pooh”, “chocolate”, and “monkey”. But ‘Paki’ was the word my mind was able to recall most and mostly I was hurled by it. I even believed I was a Paki. Every time I look in the mirror I imagine that my afro would be straight like the white person’s hair, my nose would be smaller and my lips would be thinner like the white person’s nose and lips. On the inside I am a white boy, but to outsiders with my brown skin, I would be in their eyes, a Paki. I would imagine to find myself be subjected to a daily hobby of theirs. It is called Paki- bashing. Paki bashing was originated in the 60s to 80s which was the aftermath of the mass immigration of South Asians to Britain as a result of being invited to obtain employment within the manufacturing sector. In the case of West Africa, migration was historical. They were part of the transatlantic slave trade where they arrived in the US and UK as slaves during colonialism arriving on the plantation fields.

I do not know why they decide “Paki” was the suitable name to insult my colour although I was not born in Pakistan, India or any of the Indian subcontinents nor my parents are from those countries. In fact I was born in England and my parents were born in Ghana. But still the word for them was the perfect weapon of choice to disfigure my self – image and break my spirit. My imagination tells me that if they call me a “Nigger”, they would face expulsion or if the hands of the clock go back to the Victorian era, they would receive a cane to their backside. However if they call me a “Paki”, they would get off lightly by verbal reprimand or be demanded to give me a sincere apology. In other words, they get away with murder. One way to put it is by calling me that word is a sneaky way to call me Nigger or especially Blackie as it rhymes with “Paki”. The other explanation I could think which is understanding that “Nigger” spelt as “Nigga” to them is a cool word that is used by many black rappers and is shared as a code to symbolise brotherhood and to other cool black kids and unfortunately, I wasn’t referred as one of the “cool black kids”.

I would be greeted by the reception of “Go away you Paki”, “Fuck you, you  Paki” “Up yours you Paki”, “Get lost you Paki”, “You Paki Fucker” mostly in the school playground but also outside school. During assembly time, a girl who was in year one showed her badges she got from her local brownie club to the headmaster. Then the headmaster turned to us and asked: “Put your hands up if you know anyone who is a brownie?

Few of my classmates raised their hands up and pointed at me and my cousin as they chuckled. I was reminded that I was the “brownie” that stood out and there was no way of escaping into space or retaliating as I would be the one get the telling off. So I found myself trying to chuckle with them as on the inside I was deeply embarrassed, hurt and excluded. During lunchtime in year four,  I was sitting with pupils a year below me and a classmate told about something I cannot recall and responded from a group in year three.

“It’s Phillip and Angelo” one sniggered.

“No it’s Phillip the monkey” another sneered.

“Monkey” another voice joined. “Monkey Monkey boy Monkey” the rest joined the chanting leaving me alone, hurt, vulnerable and excluded.  The first thing in my 9 year old mind wanted was to escape by bury my head in my arms and let out a cry.

“Wot’s da matter monkey, yer gonna cry?” a newcomer joined the gloating.

I wanted to cry. I want to let out all the vulnerability, humiliation and distress only to be engulfed by anger and rage to violently retaliate. But I couldn’t let out a single tear as if I did, my common sense tell me that I would give them the satisfaction and if I resort to a violent retaliation, I’ll be in trouble and my mother be informed for her to smack me.

In the beginning of year 5 and after returning from the local swimming pool as part of the school’s curriculum, the first thing happened as I entered through the school gates, two boys stood about two feet away from me and one chanted:

“Monkey boy!”

“Errr look at his trainers” invited his friend to the ridicule as he peered down at my brand new black Cica trainers, Clarks very own sports brand which I felt comfortable wearing.

“Hahahaha monkey” his friend joined the laughter peering down at my shoes which was the derision for his mockery and I had no shame wearing them as in my 9 year old mind, I rather wear these trainers than the school shoes that mother would make me wear.

When I was walking home approaching the shops, a trio of boys gliding aggressively on their roller blades, one of them looked at me, his face snarled with anger, his teeth clenched and wielded his angry fist at me. The second he done that, the intimidation bristled my nerves sending me down to the bottom of the food chain as the powerless petrified prey whilst he was the predator looking forward to his feast of his lunch, me.

“Der’s dat Paki” he hissed through his clenched teeth. “Oi don’t stand der, get im, get dat bloody Pakiiii!!” he loudly commanded with blood thirst anger erupting from his lungs instructing one of his comrades who slides in his roller blades with his hand sticking out like a Frankenstein zombie. I swift away by his pinch of the flesh of my t shirt and looked both ways for any signs of oncoming cars driving by before I made the run for my life. As I ran I down to slope towards my house hearing: “I’ll deck ya, yer flipping Paki!!” like he was taking his last breath in an angry blood curling tone. By the time I reached home, my legs were drained of energy out of breath and my heart beating in my throat leaving a metallic taste of blood in my throat and solaced into watching TV shows on Nickelodeon.

During English in the spring of year five, we were assigned to a write an incident in our lives based on the book titles of “I’m hurt”,” I’m angry”, “I’m sad”, I’m jealous” “I’m worried” and had write how these incidents reflect those feelings. One of the titles was I managed to recall from my photographic memory was “I’m hurt” and the first thing I want to write about in my mind was when I was called a “Packie” (later spelt as Paki) stored as a piece of data in my hard drive, my memory box and I watched my pen draw words to align into a sentence of a story and as I soon found the confidence to open my timid mouth to spill my heart wrenching paragraph. I felt the mixture of upset, indignation, anger and hurt in my voice when read every word of my story to attract the audience, my classmates which left them feeling soft heartened not to a point the classroom flooded with tears but to be delivered with facial expression of pity and distraught.

Eating white bread was my refuge to escape the hostile name calling orbiting around the words referring to my skin colour through the angry and resentful bite of a sandwich at lunchtime any filling would help my mind runaway from the missiles that shoot from the nozzle of my enemies’ mouth to the comfort of my taste buds. White bread was the only true best friend I had to help get through the best times and mostly, the worst times.