To those who feel they have not one to own, there is something about finding a language that fits. This inclination for me is strange, seeing as English is the only language I’ve ever known.
Typical Brit, I left school with little more than a je m’appelle si senor, and even now feel the shame at having to mime my way through Western Europe.
Typical Brit, I left school with little more than a je m’appelle si senor, and even now feel the shame at having to mime my way through Western Europe
Yet in a sense, and without exaggeration, English, to the ‘dual-heritaged’, does present itself with a degree of foreignness, and perhaps always has.
…How can I put this?
It’s that proper English. Old money English. The Queens English. White people English.
…in a sense, English, to the ‘dual-heritaged’, does present itself with a degree of foreignness
And whilst I admit to being fluent in Benedict Cumberbatch, the reality of my ‘dual heritage’ raises something like a self-consciousness when dealing in this form.
It’s inescapable really.
Or at least it was for me. I grew up in a black Caribbean family with a dialect spoken somewhat opposed to the other parts of my life spent mostly around white British people. To give context, I was one of the few black kids in my primary school, and my secondary – a private school – you can imagine was little different.
These early years told me very clearly that, despite how I spoke, or how well I wrote, I’d never be able to pass as white (didn’t stop me trying though…).
Yet to the same degree, upon reflection it didn’t help to solely align myself with what I thought was authentically black either.
So, what happens when you rest somewhere in between, which, as black British people, I believe we all do, to an extent?
What often happens is that our experiences bring us closer to inhibit or at least identify with either/or, yet I find that what we all do do is become adaptable. We learn to speak both.
My bilingual ability I learnt early from my mother.
I suspect we’ve all been there. Listening to them put on their telephone voice for work colleagues (mine, with her jollygood’s and righty-ho’s), only to return to themselves once the receiver placed down.
And whilst I saw this as a façade she had to apply, I’ve come to see in all the ways that Britishness is a core part of my mother, despite, in certain regards, not wanting to own it. I now realise that part of my mother is the ‘righty-ho’ woman, not just a momentary act she applies to herself upon contact with white British people. And although many of us may have a desire to rid ourselves of this Englishness, it seems for many of us it’s far too late.
I know for myself it is. I went to a talk by Akala and he pointed out something I should have realised long ago: that this British-Caribbean thing is coming to an end! That in the dilution of culture to the dominant we are drifting further away from our ‘homeland’.
I’m a suitable case in point: my patios has reached the point of embarrassment whereby my conscience only allows me to speak it in jest. As a self-righteous, gluten free, soy free, everything free vegan I rarely consume Caribbean food, and five minutes of bashment or soca music is likely on bring on a speedy migraine.
And although these are somewhat superficial examples, what this means is that any children I bring into the world will be even more Englishified than my private school attending, pub frequenting, rugby playing, Marbella holidaying, Union jack-tattooed arse.
any children I bring into the world will be even more Englishified than my private school attending, pub frequenting, rugby playing, Marbella holidaying, Union jack tattooed arse.
But joking aside, how am I (or my future little Sebastian), to come to terms with this invading foreigner resident since birth? So much so that I feel myself empathising with his sentiments and even, dare I say, defending his traditions.
My answer is we don’t need to, regardless of how diluted (excuse the eugenic phrase) we’ve become.
My personal resolve to all of this is a knowing that it adds colour to our experience. For those like myself who feel themselves caught between the borders of language and identity, there’s a unique perspective to be found – and for a writer or an artist, or for any human being in fact, isn’t this what your identity really wants?
Margin Page.
P.S. This is just my long about way of saying, leave Donny alone lol.
Margins Page is a play on its very words. Stories of black people in Britain, both past and present, have often been relegated to the margins of the British canon. This platform attempts to reconfigure this position, serving as a page to help develop, curate and promote black British literature.
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