Rainbow People

Britain is “largely at ease with our rainbow people” - according to BBC journalist George Alagiah.

I’m all for multicultural Britain, however, aside from my immediate family, I don’t actually know that many people in my existing social and work circles who are from foreign shores.  This makes me slightly uncomfortable; like I’m sitting on the fence. I’m not firmly placed in one camp, something that Second Generation offspring (as well as mixed race and first generation offspring) are familiar with. Reading the news is like watching a boxing match between two opposing forces and rooting for both sides. Or maybe it’s more like watching a scientist create a new substance with opposing elements and seeing what new qualities it will possess.

George Alagiah’s recent three-part series, Mixed Britannia, followed the journeys of many mixed race couples and  their offspring. Alaghiah stated in his BBC News Magazine article that “Early mixed race communities made it up as they went along”. I think we still are. I was particularly inspired by the women who were dubbed by Alagiah as ‘heroic pioneers’: “The determination of these women to fall in love with the man of their choice was an act of feminism...” I also found it genuinely shocking, but not surprising, that some British women who married foreign men were forced to renounce their birthright.

I would like to argue that mixed race offspring face similar points of view to Second Generation offspring. Both have two separate backgrounds, two cultural ideals, two personalities fighting to make sense of it all, desperate to come to some sort of equilibrium. Perhaps you’ve already achieved your equilibrium, or perhaps you didn’t even have to search for it – if so, then I’m happy for you.

Alagiah has done a comprehensive study on the story of different races carving out a life in Britain. But I’m still not convinced that it’s all good on the ‘rainbow people’ front. Alagiah lives in the capital of our country, where mixed race couples are common. In the bowels of Norfolk however, it’s very much a different story.

'I don't think race figures at all now for Britain's youth.' Discuss.

'I don't think race figures at all now for Britain's youth.' These are the words of BBC News Presenter, George Alagiah. I'm very much looking forward to his three-part series which starts on BBC 2 this Thursday. It's called Mixed Race Britain and examines mixed-race relationships in Britain today. There's a turgid interview about the show on the Guardian website here.

I was rather disappointed with the interview. There seemed to be conflicting views between the interviewer and George 'I'm not going to give you a sound bite' retorts George to the Guardian interviewer, all too familiar with the journo game.  Had they got on better I think George may have revealed a gem or two about why he actually decided to make the programme in the first place. The interviewer seemed more preoccupied with the concept of race. George doesn't want to get into the sensitive issues that surround race. He wants to talk about the people that the children of the 80s have become. Of course, that's me. I'm one of those children. I'm not mixed race (as far as I know that is. My family never kept something like a family tree. Admin wasn't one of their strengths, unlike farming, craftwork and cookery... anyway, I digress). However, growing up at home alongside the cultural influence of my Moroccan parents inside, outside, I was influenced by the British culture that surrounded me. I fancied Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys, listened to Indie and Britpop and ate chip butties. 

Now, the crux of the programme is that George seems to be fairly confident that race is becoming less of an issue when it comes to forming relationships. I'm not convinced... I know that mixed-race relationships have come a long way in the past 50 years. And I'm very pleased about that. But I'm not sure we're quite there yet. I think that some cultures are progressing faster than others. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to watching George's programme this Thursday, with popcorn.

Welcome to the sisterhood

The charity I work for was thrilled to be contacted directly by a Project Coordinator for a Muslim womens’ society. They wanted a representative from our charity to speak to ladies at a Welfare Centre in London about our work. As my boss was leaving her job, I was asked to go to speak to this hard-to-reach community. I’ll be honest, I was mildly apprehensive about going to a mosque to conduct a workshop about mental health. I haven’t come to terms with my spiritual beliefs and am still on the road to figuring them out, like many people are. But I was to be tested and my conceptions were to be challenged. Here’s what happened...

I spoke to the Project Coordinator over the phone to organise the visit, who came across as gentle and humble. She mentioned that there would be some second generation young girls at the workshop with their first generation mothers, so that language barriers might be a mild issue.  I casually mentioned that I was a second generation Moroccan and her voice changed. I knew that she was smiling. She was delighted that I understood the clientele. I could feel her warmth from her voice transcend from her office into mine and I felt that I was welcomed into the sisterhood. I was slightly taken aback by this ‘telephone embrace’.  People who participated in vibrant religious communities probably felt this all the time, but living in Norwich where there are only a few second generation Moroccans – and most of these are my family, meant that I rarely felt this sisterhood-type welcome. I felt like I was granted an access card into their world. In her words "the girls would be able to relate to me better" because I understood the culture that many of the girls came from.

Now, I felt slightly uncomfortable with this. I felt like a bit of a fraud. I thought about these feelings for a long time and then decided that I wasn’t a fraud – I am a second generation immigrant – I wasn’t lying. I felt like a fraud because I thought that everyone would assume I was a practising Muslim because a persons’ culture is often automatically tied to the dominant religion from that area. I felt that their pre-conceptions of me as a Moroccan woman would be skewed. I realised that I was simply being confronted with a part of my identity, my roots, that I didn’t come across very often. I thought about the etiquette I’d been taught as a child when I was in Morocco and in the company of any fellow Moroccans – that women were seen and rarely heard and covered their hair and body when in male company. Morocco isn’t as strict when it comes to these conformities though – a lot of the women in my family actually rule the roost and are quite domineering.

The day of the workshop came and I turned up at the ladies’ part of the Mosque with my volunteer, whose father is from the Middle-East and also happened to understand the Muslim way (coincidence). We took our boots and Converse off before entering. We had bought scarves with us in case our heads were required to be covered. I was unsure whether I would actually wear a headscarf however – I think I really would have felt like a fraud if I did, but I wanted to be respectful and was prepared to wear it if asked, although I did wonder if my ex-boss would have done the same.

The Project Coordinator greeted me in person with the same warmth that she presented me with over the phone. I extended my hand to the male mosque director to introduce myself then remembered that women should always wait for the man to extend his hand his hand first. I was asked where I was from and replied ‘Morocco’ because that was the answer I knew he was expecting. I smiled when he asked my volunteer where she was from and she replied ‘Brighton’ (see earlier post - Pleased to meet you... hope you guess my name?). He nodded then replied to me in Arabic to which I replied I didn’t speak the language. Awkward. The Project Coordinator smiled and carried on looking for the laptop charger.

The women in the group were mothers, daughters and grandmothers. They were school children,
volunteers and directors. The women were grateful to learn about our line of work and were respectful and non judgemental. Burkas were lifted from faces rarely seen by the steely streets of London. I was happy to hear the women ask pertinent questions, and felt honoured to be in their company and for them to share their thoughts and feelings with me. I felt connected to them through our human emotions and shared experiences. I wondered why I had felt so apprehensive. I left the Muslim Welfare Centre empowered and proud to be a second generation Moroccan with roots steeped in a religion which was peaceful, compassionate and forgiving, despite how it is often presented in the media. What I wasn't prepared for was how touched I felt to be surrounded by women who enjoyed learning, were intelligent and strong and yet whose voices still struggled to be heard in society. Some of them don't speak the same language as their doctors, social workers or local police. Some of them are oppressed, depressed and powerless. It humbles me that there are organisations out there who are listening and giving a voice to these women. People who care about education and empowering women. I hope I will get to meet more of these amazing women in the future - Inshallah.  

Meet the parents...

It was been a while since I last wrote and a great deal has been going on – I have ran a 10k for charity, been to a music festival and moved house to a stone’s throw away where I lived as a newborn baby for a year and a half. The house move has sparked off nostalgia about my early years – just as saying the name of the street used to do to me as a child. I can even see the street name from my bedroom window. My parents had the ridiculous idea that I should introduce myself to the present residents of number 72, where we lived, and ask to have a look around. I thought that this would be taking the reminiscing a bit too far. However, I might just have a wander past a bit later and have a chat to the residents if they’re outside... if I do manage to do that and to get in that will be a future blog entry!

Another significant event that has happened over the past few weeks is that after much time and anticipation, my partner has finally met my parents. I’ve been carrying around the experience in my head for a while and have scrawled some notes about it my notebook, but I’ve just been itching to exorcise myself and get the following words down...

I’d been putting off the meeting of the parents to the partner for a while – around four years or so in total. It was a lot of stress to carry around and the weight grew heavier and heavier as the months passed. My prime reason for putting it off for so long was because my parents had been rather attached to my previous beau, and the idea of them meeting someone new had been incomprehensible for some time. There is also the not-so-minor issue that my parents are Moroccan and my partner is Norfolk-born and bred and that the issue of religion always rears its head when I get involved with someone. My parents are Muslim and would rather I settled with a Muslim too. They also don’t really understand the idea of courting. My mother met my father when she was 16. She’d been told by my Grandmother to borrow a bag of sugar from my father’s Grandmother’s house, so along she went, dressed up to the nines because she was due to go to a wedding, and there stood my father, complete with a vinyl shaped afro. They exchanged pleasantries, got engaged and a year later, they were married. They were apart for the year too, as my father lived in England whilst my mother still resided in Morocco. They liked each other at first sight, were the same religion, knew the same people and had the same kind of upbringing. And almost thirty years on, and they’re still going strong. So, why mess with tradition? This is the idea I carried around with me as a child. This what I saw that ‘worked’.

In the build up to my partner meeting  my parents, my partner and I sat down to watch Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner with one of our close friends, and it got me thinking about the issues that mixed race couples face. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so. It’s set in 1960s America, and focuses on a distinguished and handsome black doctor John Prentice (Sidney Poitier), and a beautiful and wide-eyed 23 year old woman, Joanna Drayton (Katherine Hepburn). It tells the story of their love and aspiration for marriage, and what happens when they meet each others’ families, and when their families meet each other too. It’s a superb commentary on society’s prejudices and has some very insightful moments, despite the fact that it was filmed almost fifty years ago.

In one scene, John Prentice is asked what would happen if they were to have children. He responded that Joanna would want all of their kids to be president of the United States. This may have seem farfetched at the time, but consider that President Barack Obama is mixed race, and you will recognise how far society has come.

The Vicar in the film is the one person who has no problem with the couple’s decision to be together and get married. He quotes that mixed race relationships require something extra than ‘normal’ relationships do:

"I've known a good many cases of marriages between races in my time.Strangely enough, they usually work out quite well.I don't know why.Maybe because it requires some special quality of effort...more consideration and compassion...than most marriages seem to generate these days."

But what are the hardships of relationships experienced by the second generation? Sometimes, people of the second generation might choose to follow in the footsteps of where many have tread before by marrying someone of the same race and of the same religion. And sometimes, some gear themselves up for the road  less travelled. They are pioneers, and people watch them, waiting. Some are in for a bumpy ride indeed, having to contend with the views of the generations that lay before them. Some are banished from their families for their decision to love who they love. Some are welcomed with open arms, and others take years for their family to accept their choice of partner.

When my parents finally met my partner, I wandered why I had put it off for so long. My sister cooked us a wonderful meal and my parents, partner, siblings and I sat around the table and enjoyed a nice dinner. It was a wonderful feeling to sit around the table and see all the people I loved tentatively getting to know my partner. My parents were pleasant and polite (which hasn’t happened in the past) and after the visit, we were both so relieved and relaxed  - like a huge weight had been lifted. I know that my story certainly isn’t typical, and that some people have had no worries at all where as some people have endured much heartache and Romeo and Juliet style pain to be with the person they have chosen to love. Some don’t even have a choice. My story is just one of many – I’d be delighted to hear yours, if you’d let me.  And your thoughts on intercultural love too.

"Get with the lingo, Kid!" Being the 'authority' on your native country.

Many, many times, people have said to me 'Ah, you're from Morocco - I've been to Marrakesh and to Casablanca.' They're shocked when I say that I haven't been to either of these places. People often contact me for travel tips for these Moroccan cities and many others that I haven't been to like Agadir, Tetouan and Tangier. I usually do the good thing and refer them on to a friend who has been, or ask my folks for tips that I can pass on. It's the equivalent of people asking me for travel tips on going to Bristol from Norwich where I also haven't been to (and is around 240 miles way, except Marrakesh is more than 750 km from where my extended family reside).

I can't blame people for asking me for travel tips however - even I have asked my other Third Culture Kid cousins for travel tips on the countries they are from. It just seems like a natural way 'in' to a country you're not familiar with and it's a natural part of networking.

However, it got me thinking about being the all-knowing authority on the country where you're from, but have never lived in. There are things that people think you should know because your parents are from a particular country, like it's history, politics, language, food and religion. Thankfully, now that we have the internet, looking up any of these topics is easy. But back in the 80s when I was a child and into the 90s and 2000s even, finding the answers to these commanly asked questions was a lot harder.

Something that my siblings and I have struggled with is the assumption that we know the language spoken by our Berber family. When I tell people that I come from Morocco they immediately ask me if I speak Arabic. I reply that my family weren't of Arab descent, but from a disparate community called the Berbers and that the local language is Tamazight. Both of my parents families also live near Melilla, an autonomous city of Spain in Morocco so they spoke a smattering of Spanish as well. The country was also colonised by France, so French is widely spoken too, and of course, Arabic is widely taught in schools and in Mosques.

When my mother came to England, my father, who had already lived in England for many years, taught my mother English. She was learning English whilst I was a toddler, so we learned together. I was able to read English before I even started school and was in the top of my class when I began. I'll always feel blessed for having such forward thinking parents who see the value in education and the freedom that comes with being able to communicate clearly.

At home, I mostly conversed with my parents in English - as they were still learning too and we just found it easier really. There weren't any other Moroccan communities to communicate with at the time, and there isn't really any now. My parents often spoke to each other in Tamazight, and sometimes I'd participate and I'd usually be able to follow their conversations without any problems at all. I went to playschool when I was three, and would talk to the kids in the sand pit in Tamazight, who would have just looked at me in the dumbfounded way that toddlers often do. Now I have a basic understanding of the Moroccan language without actively participating in any deep and meaningful conversations when I go back - just day to day pleasantries. A friend of a friend I spoke to once called it 'passive speaking' - when you've had a lot of exposure to another language without having full command of it. Being brought up bilingual to a degree, helped me pick up languages like French and Spanish much easier though and a high school teacher dubbed me as naturally linguistic, which can't be bad at all!

My sister spoke to me the other day about some of the above issues. She had recently been on holiday to Prague and had spoken to a group of travellers. They spoke to her about where she was from and when she replied from Morocco and that she didn't speak Arabic, they looked at her in disgust. It led me to consider that as people growing up from multifaceted communities we don't naturally fall into any defined group and when you challenge people's preconceptions about you, this can disgruntle them in some way.

When this happens, one must develop a philosophical view on these issues and turn things into a positive. As individuals of the second generations, we are creating new identities for ourselves. It doesn't make us any better or any worse off than anyone else. I can't speak for everyone of course, but for me, growing up in the UK, we very often have a blessing in that we can choose which options we like best and which direction we can choose to go in. It's not always easy but we need to remember the power of choice that we have and make the best out of where we're from. It made me think about my favourite quote by Walt Whitman: "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path leading wherever I choose." Being an adult second generation individual can throw up an array of pathways. Where we choose to travel and which language we choose to speak in along the way, is ultimately down to us, and I'm grateful for that.

Pleased to meet you... hope you guess my name?

I love meeting new people. People from different walks of life. From across many different ponds. They are here to teach us new things and we can learn something new from everyone - everyone shapes us to become who we are. Meeting new people as a second generation born individual can be an interesting experience to say the least.

Speaking from personal experience, generally, the Brits are mostly very polite, wonderful people. Engaging with British people from the older (and younger generations actually) as a 'Second Generation' person can be rather amusing sometimes, and I'll go on to demonstrate why. I have learnt over the years that people have different ways in trying to establish where you are from. They can tell by your skin, accent, or whatever, that you're not a pure-bred Norfolk British farmer (or Scottish widow, or Irish-born guiness lover INSERT YOUR NATIONALITY HERE) and they proceed to ask you where you're from without even saying the simple words "So, where are you from?" It's not as straightforward as that. Here are some things that people have said to me over the years to try to gauge where I'm from:

• Your name is unusual...? (*Expectant, hopeful look*)
• So, have you lived here long? (All my life, thanks. Not a good thing to ask me!)
• Are you Spanish? (*I can see you've got dark hair which a lot of Spaniards have, but I can't tell, actually*.)
• Are you Italian? (You're waaaaay off.)
• Are you Iranian? (Getting colder.)
• Are you Moroccan? (Success rating - almost negligable - but, was asked to me first by my now-partner.)
• What a great name - did your parents name you after the Eric Clapton song? (This is proceeded by an air guitar riff, which gets very old, very fast).  

Sometimes I get asked outright where I'm from. Upon starting University 8 years ago, I was overwhelmed by the amount of second generation born students who came from densely populated second generation cities. Growing up in Norfolk, where second generation immirgrants were few and far between, I would simply answer. 'Err, I'm from Norfolk. East Anglia - do you know it?' To which I'd receive a confused, and sometimes even disgusted expression. Their response puzzled me at the time too.

Nowadays, when strangers ask me where I'm from I say that I was born in Norfolk and have lived there for most of my life. I really enjoy reading their facial expressions when I say this - I see flickers of 'DOES NOT COMPUTE' error messages going across their faces and I contemplate my next move. Do I put them out of their confusion by saying 'My parents are from Morocco'? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. It's a fun game to play.

As The Rolling Stones say in their song, Sympathy for the Devil, "pleased to meet you - hope you guessed my name?" Ok, so the meaning of the song is completely different to mine, but I often like to hum it and have a chuckle to myself and laugh at the poignancy of the words:

Hope you guessed my name, um yeah
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, um mean it, get down
Woo, who
Oh yeah, get on down
Oh yeah
Oh yeah!
Tell me baby, what's my name
Tell me honey, can ya guess my name
Tell me baby, what's my name

Rolling Stones Sympathy For The Devil Lyrics (not mine!)

I'm not taunting of course, honest. Sometimes though, I vascilate between being open with strangers about my background because I feel they have to earn it. If I warm to someone straight away I don't mind being open. It really is as simple as that! It's been a fun way to learn about the different ways that the human psyche works, anyway.

If you've got your own stories of what people have said to you in an effort to establish where you're from I'd love to hear them. They might be amusing, hilarious, or perhaps downright upsetting. I'd love to hear them in any case. Ta ta for now.

"Coming out."

I'm going to disclose something very personal. Starting this blog has felt like 'coming out'. Or, since I consider myself to be heterosexual, how I would imagine 'coming out' to feel like. For two reasons really. Firstly, no one really knows that I've fostered secret desires to write. That I have loved to write since I was a small child.

I've always been in awe of those who've made a living out of writing. Sometimes I'd critque their work, but would procrastinate about writing my own words. Someone once recommend I read a book about getting over the fear of failure and getting to work on your art, but I procrastinated about reading that too. I read books about writers who just simply felt that they had to get up in the morning and start writing, and that's what made them writers. But the very thought of it, I mean, to just start typing?! It seemed impossible and for years, I let my yearning lie dormant, afraid of what might be unleashed if I simply let myself adopt the life of a scribe. It could take me twenty years to write in a style that I'm happy with but the main thing is that the passion I have for this blog's subject matter has given me the impetus to get started.

The second reason that I feel like I've come out of the closet, is because people who know me who've read my previous blog posts will now understand how I've felt about myself for years. They'll see me in the pub and they'll know. The truth is out - I'm not trying to be someone else; I'm embracing the very idea that I'm different and that there are *gasp* others out there like me. I wondered if they hung out in clubs with funky drinks, good music and brightly coloured flags. Or perhaps not. They are likely to be lurking in a Facebook group somewhere under some conspicuous name or perhaps they've started blogs of their own, perhaps very much like this one. Starting this blog for me, is a step in the right direction - I'm out and proud, and in many ways it's the beginning of the journey. I wonder where it leads.