It’s like feeding time at the zoo

It’s dinner time at the vicar’s house in a South London town. His wife has laid the little kitchen table sparsely, instead of using the main dining room, so as not to overwhelm the timid four-and-a-half-year-old boy who has just been left with them. He gingerly climbs on to the chair as if unfamiliar with the concept of sitting at a table and the vicar’s wife lays a plate of food before him. She sits next to him and opposite her husband on the other side of the table, neither are eating. She motions to the boy to eat, he excitedly digs in, shovelling the food into his mouth…with his fingers…and chewing loudly through his open, chattering mouth. “Gosh” says the vicar’s wife, “It’s like feeding time at the zoo…”

“It’s like feeding time at the zoo…”

The little boy was me and I’d just arrived back from Hong Kong with my mum and brothers (see my blog “Three Boys, Three Suitcases and Thirty Pounds). To avoid us being put into the care of the state, or “care” as it’s known here in the UK, we had each been sent to various different people until mum could find a suitable home for us all. I’d ended up with the local vicar.

For the previous four years, with mum and dad both working in Hong Kong, I had been cared for by Chinese nannies who had pretty much adopted me as one of their own. When we ate, we did so squatting on the floor using our fingers to scoop rice and various meats into our mouths without breaking the conversation, although I mainly chattered as I didn’t really know much Chinese! I also learnt to write backwards but that’s another story for another blog! My nannies cared for me and I felt genuine love from them in the way the treated me and embraced me in their culture. I have very fond memories of colleting the little red packets with coins and other surprises during Chinese New Year. I remember being told how significant it was that children were given the gifts, despite it often being hard for adults to spare the money, because of the importance of children to the future.

So, although it took over forty years for me to realise it, that comment by the vicar’s wife was my first real introduction to racism. Her implication that, having been taught to eat with my fingers and talk while eating by my Chinese nannies, meant I was some sort of animal and, by association, so were the Chinese. Here we are nearly 50 years on and I also realise it was my first experience of white privilege. I wonder, had I come in on the Windrush from Jamacia and had coloured skin, would I have been afforded the same privilege of staying with the vicar and his wife?

It also made me realise how easy it was for me to be scripted by my parents, teachers and those who cared for me over all my younger years against those who were somehow different to me.

I’ve unpeeled my layers, I’ve got behind my scripting of subliminal racism like the comment by the vicar’s wife and I’ve closed the gap between what I deeply feel and what I show to the outside world. By doing so, I’d now like to help others to do the same.