At high school, Eric was my best friend. He was Scottish, a rarity in our Berkshire village.
We prided ourselves on how open and liberal we were, detesting and calling out any form of prejudice that raised its ugly head.
In one of our discussions, out of the blue, I declared, “If I had kids, I’d raise them as devout Muslims with no exposure to any other culture or norm.”
There was a stunned silence from Eric. Then a torrent of invective.
“You were born a Muslim in Africa, emigrated with your single mum to England, where you were brought up as an Anglican by whites. Meanwhile, your dad remained in Africa, sending you tickets to him every holiday. You’ve always questioned each culture and ranted against the insular-minded. Why this sudden U-turn?”
I didn’t want to disappoint him by admitting mischief and answered, “How many years have I spent questioning myself and everything around me. Never coming to any conclusion of who I am. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if my kids were protected from self-doubt, brought up as bigoted. They could observe any passer-by and pigeonhole them immediately, never having to fight their conscience or doubt themselves. How happy they would be.”
Many moons later, having packed an extra hundred pounds of weight, I was bedevilled with two boys who questioned everything I told them to do for their own good. Stuck in the snowbound Canadian Rockies, I was interviewed about my forthcoming book of journeying across the world with my family, and of my exotic background.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop myself retrieving and polishing that old chestnut about my kids being too liberal and wishing they had been brought up more prejudiced.
Typically Canadian, this polite, smiling anchor of a renowned weekly radio magazine exploring arts and culture let me continue for an hour, then promptly banned my interview. He complained to my publicist that I was too bigoted for their programme.
Inexplicably, it reminded me of an incident with my boys. Alex must have been three years old. Chris had just turned one. He could barely sit independently on the kitchen floor beside his brother. Laura was baking muffins. I was in my home office in the next room.
Suddenly, I heard a loud howl, followed by a shriek. Charging into the kitchen I saw Alex hitting Chris with a wooden toy block.
“Why did you do that, Alex?”
“Because I asked Chris to give me a blue block. He gave me a red one instead.”
How do you make a three-year-old (let alone a 30-year-old anchor of a culture show, who hasn’t seen or heard of the film Lawrence of Arabia, which my book was about) comprehend the error of their ways?
