I quickly learned the art of self-deprecatory humour in my pre-teens. Thrown into an all-white, uneducated, low-income housing estate outside London, I was the only coloured inhabitant. Love playing football (soccer), I would trawl the streets on my bike searching for a scratch game. Eventually, I would find one where there were an unequal number of players and I’d wheedle myself in. It was difficult, because of my alien colour.
Someone would ask me my name.” Snow White,” I would reply and they would guffaw. Twenty minutes into the game, and having scored, someone would ask me “ What’s your real name?” That was the moment I was let into their world. Playing daily, I realized my colour didn’t matter now, I was treated as one of them. They would talk about Wogs and Paki’s “go back home” yet that was never directed at me but to other coloureds they had no rapport with. In a rough and tumble estate, I was occasionally harassed by a gang of Whites. If one of my fellow soccer players saw this, they would come to my rescue.
I never felt discriminated against.
Having gained an education and joined a profession—Accounting—I encountered what I perceived as “real” prejudice. Everyone was extraordinarily pleasant and polite. Yet, when squash sessions were held, or when there were birthday parties for colleagues, I was never invited. Their prejudice was too subtle to overcome, even with humour.
On qualifying, I emigrated to Canada. I was received openly. My colour didn’t seem to matter. Yet, that prejudice, ingrained in us all, occasionally shows itself unconsciously. Being brown, people ask me “How many languages do you speak?” expecting me, I presume, to say English and “Indian” (although there are fifty “Indian” languages).
By now, my pride has turned self-deprecatory humour into attack mode. My answer is invariably “Two—English and Canadian.” They stare back at me bewildered.
