Looking-glass Pages

A self-reflection on books, race and education

My mother pushes the door open with her back and heaves five glossy bags through the front door.  The bags are navy blue with gold lettering and brim to bursting.  I already know what’s inside.  Not food.  Or clothes.  Things my 6 year old mind considers more essential.  Books.

"there are stories about little girls who look like me...with skin the colour of rich coco-tea and faces framed by halos of afros."

Amongst Roald Dahl’s realms and Ahlberg classics, there are stories about little girls who look like me.  The protagonists of ‘Half a Moon and One Whole Star’ and Alice Walker’s ‘To Hell with Dying’ have skin the colour of rich coco-tea and faces framed by halos of afros.  I read them again and again and they quickly become my favourites for reasons I have not yet grasped, leaving an indelible print upon my consciousness. They’re not about skin colour or having hair the texture of candyfloss; they speak of dreams, love, pancakes and rabbits and skip through the landscape of magical realism where my mind already resides.

The droll narratives on offer at my primary school library had little to do with my home learning.  I sped through trite tales of flush-cheeked white children in pinafores on picnics and country walks which bore no correlation to the cultural collisions of my domestic life: pop vs calypso, turmeric-spiced Sunday roasts and recounts of 1950’s racist London.  The language lacked the fluidity of ours which slips from patois to the queen’s English and the plots did not reflect the intricacy of my family history which is peppered with migration and domino-deaths yet interwoven with ardent spirituality.

My parents knew it was time to send me to a better school when they discovered I was teaching my classmates how to read.  My form tutor spoke about the one-to-ones she had initiated proudly, as if I was a lucky volunteer who had found their calling.  I scurried through the next pages at private school in a haze of exams and navy blue, analysing literature with zest but not emotionally identifying with the hermetically-sealed worlds of novels like ‘The Go Between’ or ‘Mansfield Park’.  My attitude towards these ostracizing texts mirrored my account of nursery after the first day, “fun but I don’t want to go back there.” 

"bell hooks, Toni Morrison, Stuart Hall and Ralph Ellison offered up an angled looking-glass, helping me to understand my world more clearly in spaces where I did not feel like a tourist."

At university I finally found bell hooks, Toni Morrison, Stuart Hall and Ralph Ellison whose pages offered up an angled looking-glass, helping me to understand my world more clearly in spaces where I did not feel like a tourist.  Post-colonial London writers Zadie Smith, Sam Selvon, Louise Bennett and Hanif Kureishi who mapped their metaphors onto the city in polyglot renderings sparked something to bud in my gut that I was not yet able to articulate but felt like a fist unfurling itself.

The cacophony of education had drowned out my voice.  Bar several published articles and the odd reprimanded flamboyant email at work, I’d retired to being a broker, until 8 years later: still feeling like a jigsaw piece being rammed into the wrong part of the puzzle, I up and left for my parents native Jamaica. 

There, I listened more than I read, discovering Chronixx, Tarrus Riley, Mutaburaka and Tupac; Garveyists who punctuated their poems with beats.  In the midst of sunset silences and sticky nights, stories began tumbling out of me like books from those navy blue bags 30 years ago. JW