Looking back, I was always trying really hard to be white. Every morning, armed and extremely dangerous with industrial-strength hair spray and the kind of hairdryer that could melt your eyebrows, I attempted to straighten my dark curly hair so that it would look shiny and 'swish' in the breeze like Farah Fawcett's; by the time I got to school though, I was less 'Charlie's Angel' and more, er Mungo Jerry.
Nig nog, paki, wog, I was even called fuzzy wuzzy. Funny then, that I never actually recognised that I might be black. My family never really talked about it. Then I realised; they were trying very hard to be white too ...
It was at my grandfather's funeral that it all became clear. Papa was a tall, solid, Indian man with very dark skin. Never went anywhere without his hat and a dab or two of Old Spice.
At the 'do' afterwards, the most overwhelming feeling of relief hung in the air. Relief, yes, that he was no longer suffering the pain of his clapped out knees, or facing the indignity of spending yet another day confined to that wretched settee watching children's television... But beyond the tears and the concern, there was the shocking relief that now no-one would ever see the colour of his face again.
It hit me like a cocktail stick in the cornea that we'd all more or less been trying to 'pass' as white people. Being black was a secret I didn't even realise I was keeping. Now, notwithstanding the unpredictability of those pesky critters, genes, I suppose I was free to be white. And wouldn't you know it, at that very moment, white became the last thing I ever wanted to be.
Some family members hate me talking about it - they have blue eyes and pale skin thank you very much and they don't want me upsetting things for them. I want to tell them, it's not about taking 'sides'. It's about being yourself, about finally, absolutely, without reservation, being comfortable, as they say, in your skin. I am proud of who I am - I just wish I could tell Papa.
