The White Smell
When I was little I noticed that white people’s houses all smelt the same. That familiar, faintly soapy smell permeated every single one of my white friends’ homes whenever I went to stay. My sister and I called it ‘the white smell.’
We agreed it was a good smell. Envied it even. Wished our house smelled the same. I could never smell our house, but it definitely didn’t smell like that.
A decade or so later my sister and I stayed in an Airbnb on our trip to Vancouver, Canada. It was located on the ground floor of a nice white lady’s house, converted to make a small apartment.
Lo and behold, the white smell reigned supreme. We looked at each other after our first night there. We had been smothered by the white smell all night as it covered all of the sheets, wove its way through all of the towels, snaked through the fibres of the cushions on the couch.
The white smell didn’t smell so nice after all. That oppressive smell had lost its allure.
