Friday was a special and horrible day for me. It was my daughter Allana's birthday she turned three. After a hectic and wonderful morning I sent an excited birthday girl to nursery for her party, whilst I sauntered of to the hairdressers. I got my hair done at Boo, Kathryn the owner works wonders with my hair and I wanted to look my best for the wedding I was attending the next day. When I left the salon I felt really positive about how I looked, going to the hairdressers does that. You feel great when you leave if you have a good hairdo.
I travelled up the arcade and I was lost in thought at the hundred small little tasks I had to do before leaving for Liverpool in the morning, when a young lad who was part of a small group of hoodies, spat on me. Some went in my face but the majority ran down the sleeve of my coat. The others laughed whilst the idiot shouted racial abuse as they carried on walking. I had nothing to clean myself with so I took my coat off until I got to the car.
So what does that do for someones confidence and well being? Well I'll tell you. It crushes it.
The act of spitting on someone is ONE of the most demeaning and insulting things that can happen to a person. There are worst things that can happen of course; but this was really bad for me as I hate spitting. At first I was shocked, I don't know why, because it's happened before. Sad to admit but it's the price I pay for being mixed race, overweight and unusual looking. To be who I am comes at a price living in a place like Carlisle. I am considered a fourth class citizen, lower down the ranks than the unemployed drug addicts. You see no one fucks with the drug addicts they are to unpredictable and you could end up with a syringe in your eye socket. Fatties are an easy target though, yet the insults are predicable and unimaginative they still get it pretty bad. Now the blacks, well they get eyed balled a lot with suspicious eyes. They are put in the category of dangerous villain, protect yourself at all cost. I actually saw a black woman being followed around Tesco's by a security guard, she bought a few groceries and left. The same security guard didn't stop the unsavory looking white male walking out with a laptop tucked under one arm and 20 bottles of Becks in the other despite the alarms going off. And then you come to me. I'm ripe as a target. I am a woman, fat and mixed race. I'm like sweetie land to the thugs and ignorant people.
All my life I have tolerated racial abuse, when I was a little girl I was the skinny bean pole, a paki, wog wog, a gypo nig nog, and a nigger. As a teenager, I was fatty, bessy bunter, Somali shagger, nigger or paki. And as a woman the abuse got worse when I put on more weight due to my PCOS and insulin resistance (Blog to follow on this topic) plus I married a white Englishman from a small city. Stephen had experienced terrible bullying in his younger years but he never had to suffer racial abuse, he never knew what it was like, until he married me.
Over time I have developed armour, I have become hardened to the abuse, I get angry and hurt because I am a person, with a voice, a heart, a mind and a soul. I am not an animal to be spat on or punched. I am not there for your own amusement to torment and ridicule. After the anger subsides then the pain starts to set in. I guess it's the knowing that even if the President is black today, I will still get spat on tomorrow, and my child will also get spat on. The feeling of worthlessness that follows is always the crippler, I'm made to feel my position in life with spit and vicious words from children. And then I get strong again, stronger than the last time. Strong enough not to worry about those people; then I think of my little pooh bear. What do I teach my little girl? How do I prepare her for the jaunts and teasing she will get at school because of how her mum looks. How do I explain to her why people spit on her mummy? I don't know. Maybe between now and the next time I get spit on I'll have figured it out.
I couldn't wait to see my Allana that evening. She had a lovely day at nursery and we ate cake, sang songs and danced before she went to sleep. A good dose of Larney cuddles and daddy cuddles was enough to remind me of my worth. I got loads and loads of comments, calls and support off friends and family that day all of whom I'd like to thank for piecing back my confidence. The older I get the less it hurts, don't get me wrong, when it happens I feel awful, but the recovery for it takes less time than it used to. I feel sad and pity for the spitters, for those are the people who will spend theier whole life seeing without looking. If they had the foresight to look beyond my shell they would see someone worth knowing.
