TW: racism, bullying, brief mention of my own ED.
A couple of days ago, I was thinking how I originally got involved in the BLM movement. I remembered this story, which was my turning point, and I wanted to share. I want to say that this is not me tooting my own horn or saying I did a great thing. I did a decent thing for family. More than anything else, this is about my insurmountable white ignorance before this happened to me.
tl;dr: Had an insight into the bias of the world that POC live in. It made me a better person. So POC, I am asking you to call me out. Iām going to work really hard on making myself better, and the burden of that is on me. But if youāve got something to say to me, say it. Youāre helping me evolve, youāre helping me to better support you. I want to be the best ally I can possibly be. It will not be taken with offence, it will be taken with thanks.
For context, I am the oldest child of all my cousins (there are eight of us), by about 6 years. One Christmas, I told one of my cousins, a girl (exactly) a decade younger than me, that I would be there for her, no matter what. I mean, they all knew that, but I really wanted to reiterate it to her. I think that every older cousin has one younger one that to them, that is their absolute baby. P was that for me. Sure, I love and adore and would happily care for (for free) all of my cousins (even the 5 y-o), but despite the age gap, we just...clicked. I knew P was having a hard time at school, and I shared my own stories of bullying and eating disorders and all sorts of other awful things. I wanted her to know she wasnāt alone. I never really expected her to take me up on it - she was beautiful (like, crazy stunning), sociable and clever. At that age, I was short and busty, had cystic acne, greasy hair, untreated endometriosis, glasses, braces, my hobby was reading and I was quick to react when provoked. Put simply, I was an unattractive nerd. But she was tall and lithe, clever and calm, blessed with perfect skin, teeth and eyesight (drat her). In my ignorance, I assumed that sheād be one of the pretty girls that succeeded in sociability, *as well as* academics. And oh fucking boy I was wrong.
P rang me about two months later from her mumās phone. Sheād stolen it, and was hiding under the bed, in her bedroom. We chatted for a bit, and then, after a moments silence, she whispered down the phone that she was being bullied. Her voice was so scared, it was awful to even listen to. As I gently asked her to talk about it, I realised why she was scared. She wasnāt being bullied like I was (I was a nerd, and I went through puberty before all my friends - meaning boobs and extra weight). Her type of bullying was so, so much worse. Her bullies were picking on her smarts, sure, but their main target was her skin.
Her mother, my Dadās sister, is a specific type of Irish white - we burn when we think about the sun.
But her dad is Indian. Heās one of the most generous, kind, and intelligent people I have ever met. But these kids had packages that down into one thing...his brown skin.
The girls from her school were telling her to āgo back to the streets where she belongedā. They were following her on her walk home after school, because they ācouldnāt believe that she lived in a houseā. They told her she was ugly and dirty because she was brown. But the worst part, was that she didnāt want to tell anyone because she was *ashamed* of her own damn skin and her own damn heritage. I was utterly heartbroken for her. I wanted to drive the 3 hours to her home just to hug her. I also wanted throw those tiny bitches out a window. I couldnāt, as I was pretty ill myself, but let me tell you, rage is a good motivator to get well. Incredibly, I was okay enough to drive to see her two weeks later.
When I eventually got there, I had a secondary quiet chat with her mum (I had called her after I had hung up with P, to give her a heads up). She had dealt with the whole situation. Personally I think she was much calmer than I ever could have been - I was seeing red. I think that she too was furious, but sheās always been good at keeping her emotions in check. The situation had been resolved with the school, and the girls were seriously reprimanded and given a weeks worth of curriculum on racism. But the whole thing stuck with me. I think it was because though we are so similar (sheās also a sarcastic asshole) my bullies had never said anything like this. No one had ever picked on my *colour* (lest I was sunburned). I realised that if I was a POC, my torment couldāve been so much worse, and thatās what my baby had to endure.
That was my wake up call. That was the day the concept of privilege hit me square in the face. The irony of the situation was, her parents are incredibly well off. More so than my own. Her dad is thrice a doctor (he graduated in India, had to retake his exams in both England, where he met my aunt, and again in Australia, where they live now) and is a highly sought after radiologist. But even that that still didnāt protect her. The day I heard her little voice break down the phone line, is the day I realised no POC was safe until we had systemic change.
Next year, theyāre moving from their town, which is three hours away, to the town my family and I live in. Iām really excited. Itāll be nice to pick the girls up from school, to treat them to McDonalds on the way home, and to look after them when their parents are away. Iāve got a little fold out bed in my tiny apartment for one of them, and the other can sleep on the sofa bed. Iāll get to shower then with love because Iāll be *present*. But mostly Iām excited because, for the first time ever, our weekly check-in chats will be face to face. Iāll be able to hug her on the spot. Iāll be able to hold her if she cries. Iāll be able to congratulate her on her achievements, rather than woo-ing down the phone line. And yeah, Iāll also be close enough to throw any prospective little turds out the schools cloisters windows.
Actively wanting to learn about racial injustice, changed my life. I canāt imagine feeling like my skin colour was a target of hatred, even in Australia. It terrifies me that one day, my babies might go to America, but I know I canāt wrap them in bubble wrap.
So hereās my pledge. I know I donāt know your pain. I certainly donāt feel your pain. I am still an outsider looking in, and I always will be. But I want to help. I want to learn. Please push me, please correct me, please call me out. I think that I am very lucky in that this is personal for me but I am so very privileged that this comes without danger to my own being.
Today, P is 14, her sister is 11, and theyāre both strong and clever and beautiful and wicked funny. Theyāre just at that age where Iām old and uncool, but thatās okay. I like being embarrassing. Even if they donāt know it, theyāve given me a gift. Iāve been given a tiny, horrible, painful insight into *every* mother and father and sister and brother and cousin and grandparent and spouse and friend and colleague who is scared for someone else in the US (and beyond) right now.
I want to be better. Help me be better. I donāt think that if I follow the usual politically correct limitations, Iām fine. I want to be more than fine. I want to be voting for women of colour and marching with the movement. I want to be more that a black tile on an Instagram page. I desperately donāt want to be the girl who assumes that bc my best friend, and cousins, are POC, Iām immune. Iām not. I want to be an ally, one who passes the mic, who steps aside, who says that āitās not about meā.
So this is my rant and this is my promise. I promise I will learn. I promise I will take criticism. I promise that I will choose from POC businesses over cheaper options. I promise that next (Australian) election, I will vote for a person of colour. I promise I will protest and make signs and send politicians letters and sign petitions. I promise will actively search out new information to educate myself with. I promise I will fight past this trend, past a black tile on social media. I promise I will not walk away. Followers, please hold me accountable, always.
Having said all of this. I truly believe in voting with your wallet. So, if anyone knows any POC run organisations, businesses, stores, political movements, protests, artists, designers or anything else, I would be forever grateful if you could link me to them. Iām a weirdly organised person, and Iāve started Christmas shopping. This year my family is only doing Christmas presents that are made/created/run by POC. I know thereās a chance that weāll all find one website and ordering from there, which is great, but I want to broaden my gift-giving horizons. If youāre a creator, I really really want to see your work. Thus far, I have one painting, by an indigenous Australian artist, for my mum.
