We were all dressed in the checked, green gingham, but it was their bodies that moved expertly to the rhythm. They swayed their hips and shook their behinds, to Tony Matterhorn’s “Dutty Wine.” I watched from the sidelines, with a book in hand. All I could do was tap my feet. It was not in my muscle memory to jive to the steelpan beat. Our outer coating was the same—melanin rich, yet like mismatched puzzle pieces, I did not seem to fit.

***

I remember the comb’s teeth tugging at the tight, entangled coils on my head. Positioned between my mother’s knees, I would scream at the pain experienced as she attempted to glide it through. Red by the end, my scalp would be tender to the touch. And the result? Four plaits splayed out of my scalp like a plane’s propellers. I was branded the nickname spider girl. I can recall the frustration of neither my mother nor me knowing how to properly care for it. Her hair’s much looser curls are reminiscent of her mother’s; a suspected descendant of the Kalinago people (the indigenous peoples of Dominica). Taking after my Nigerian father’s side, like his mother tongue—Igbo—my hair much thicker and puffier was a language I could not understand. Although the journey to hair-acceptance had not been an easy one, by the latter stage of my teenage years, I was finally able to fully embrace it.

***

A high puff marked the start of my secondary school years. And it was here where I first had to really fight for my natural hair. Afro clouds had been replaced with box braids and extensions, weaves, relaxers, and hair straighteners. Of the few Black girls who did wear their natural hair, the majority of their hair’s curl patterns were much looser. Those with a similar texture to mine skillfully styled their afros in flat twists and cornrows. Coated in coconut oil, their creations would glisten upon their heads. I would compliment and admire their work, and they would later become my teachers. But before I would learn how to twist my own hair, I first had to wade through the thick stream of endless curiosity and ignorance. Questions I still occasionally encounter, even in adulthood.

“Does it come off?” they would ask.

This usually referred to my hair, but I have heard it being applied to people with a similar skin pigmentation as me, as their arms or hands are rubbed at.

“Does your hair grow? /Why is your hair so short? /Where is your weave?”

I would simply reply, “Does yours?” And in regard to the weave: “It flew off somewhere, around the time that you lost your manners.”

“Do you brush/wash your hair?”

This was another popular question, and if I was lucky, they would even ask before touching my hair.

“Can you wear your hair out in an afro so that I can see it better?”

This would be one of the most annoying questions that I would receive. I would quickly dismiss their request, and explain how it had taken me nearly half an hour to style.

Being in this environment, in terms of my hair, it was either sink or swim.

***

My skin had always been a mixture of my mother’s and father’s. The line dissecting my biceps, skin deep, separates a light and a dark shade. They blend into a sea of deep brown. Even as a young girl, I knew that Black came in many shades, but I did not think anything of it. What I did not yet understand was what it could or could not mean.

***

It is Parents’ Evening. Standing next to some classmates on the school terrace, we lean over the wall to peer down at the street below us. We are watching out for our parents. Our eager gleams coat a glossy sheen over our eyes. And I am up next in line to be recognized by the familiar in a scene of unfamiliar faces. My mother walks into view, her heavy work bag in one hand and the other reaching for her phone. Still staring down at the top of her head, I announce that she has arrived. Only to be blindsided by the looks of confusion across my classmates’ faces.

“Where is she?” one classmate asks.

She is the only person on the street. Though it was early evening in winter, the tall, black streetlights provided enough illumination to make her out.

“She is right there,” I reply, equally as confused.

“Where?”

I point directly at my mother.

“Oh.”

We remain silent until my mother approaches us and waves. A slightly sour taste is left in my mouth. It was not the first time that I had been denied the right to call her my mother. Being the only one of her siblings to take after their light-skinned, Jamaican father’s side, my mother’s shade stood in contrast to my father’s and my own. Despite differing to both of them, when with my father, our relation had never been questioned. In contrast, when talking about my mother, it was made to seem as if I was lying.

“Yes, she really is my mother, and no, I am not adopted.”

Or . . .

“She is Black. How many times do I have to tell you that she is not biracial?”

To put it into perspective, when out with my biracial cousin, she is always mistaken as her mother. When with me, however, it is always questioned.

***

A dated picture of Thomas the Tank Engine appears on one of the lecturer’s slides. The now adult me, sticking out like the facial expression on the guy’s face from Edvard Munch’s The Scream, is used to the scene around me and feeling out of place. One of only two Black people in the lecture hall, and usually the only one in seminars, it was clear that I had traded home comforts (multiculturalism) for a further education.

As the lecturer stamps in her nonsensical point, she plays a YouTube clip of a once beloved character from my childhood saying the N-word. While Thomas continues to berate and dehumanize Black people with his speech, the sick feeling in my stomach nearly bubbles over. The nail in the coffin is when the lecturer decides to repeat the N-word for good measure. As her eyes jab into mine and her mouth curls into a smug smile, its letters smoothly roll off her tongue. This does not seem to be her first time saying it. What makes this all the more sinister is the fact that this was not a lecture on postcolonialism. It was a subject that had no relation to the video’s content. And even if it had been, there was no reason or excuse for her to say the word in full. Clutching on to every ounce of restraint that I have, I refrain from making a scene by not flinging my body out of the lecture hall and running for the hills.

***

Making a fresh start as a postgraduate at a new university, out of the ten candidates accepted on to the course, I was the only person of Black descent to make it for that year. When questioned about where I was from by my international classmates, my Britishness was questioned when compared to my White-British counterparts. Underlying all of the roundabout statements was the question, “How can you be from the UK/London if you are Black?” Conveying a similar sentiment, “How can you be a citizen here when we are not,” shortly followed. It was clear how they viewed Black people, and therefore me. Even taking time to show them who I was would never be enough to truly be seen as a person of value to them. It was sad, but not an unfamiliar experience.

***

Being Black and British can be a complex and sometimes confusing pairing. Having such a diverse cultural background, along with my upbringing, I often struggled with my sense of belonging. It was nothing to do with being Black within myself, it was more from the expectations that were forced upon me.

During my adolescence, my Blackness was always questioned. If I dared to smile too bright, the response would be “Stop that, girl, you are acting White.” The fact that I wrote or spoke “well” could not be harmonious with me being Black. It was often highlighted, praised, or pitted against whatever Black stereotype was expected. But when I excelled in sprinting it was “because I was Black,” or “thanks to my DNA.” It was never refuted. And then, the grand finale of my identity crisis growing up. Being called an oreo. I just remember saying something in class, and a White guy whom I had known since year seven turned in his chair toward me in one of our final years to say that I was an oreo. He then proclaimed that even he was Blacker than me. I think it was because I did not know or listen to a particular Black rap artist. Regardless of the reason, this statement has haunted me, even into adulthood.

***

Although there was more diversity at the new campus than at my former university, in the town itself, it was still not the case. It was a sports university. I remember dressing in my athletics clothes before going to Tesco to pick up groceries, as I had training after. This might seem mundane, but this decision nearly cost me my freedom. I remember checking that my hood was down before entering the store.

Picking up the groceries near the entrance and exit first, I always avoided walking near it with a fuller basket. Using my phone as a calculator, I would ensure that I had the exact amount of money for what I was buying, and was never short. When approaching the self-checkout machines, my purse was always taken out of my pocket before joining the queue. Despite people not always doing this, if I needed a bag, I would make sure to scan it and I always requested a receipt. I had followed these rules the majority of my life, and yet it was still not enough to prevent the following scene.

I am next in line to be allocated a till. One becomes free in the middle. I walk over and scan through all of the items, but as I am doing this, one of the workers edges closer to me. I make the payment, and after taking my receipt, I pack my bags. Realizing that my backpack and shoulder bag are not enough, I decide to buy an extra one. And this is when I make my mistake. As my bags are on the brink of overflowing, I set one of the fragile items back onto the counter. While repacking my bags to redistribute the weight, I am not fast enough to collect the item that I have just bought from being rescanned by the counter. When all of my items are away, the screen catches my eye, and despite my two receipts as proof, I look for a staff member.

I know I am innocent, so think nothing of it when I catch the staff member who has been lurking around’s eye. I think he has seen everything and will assist in removing the rescanned item from the machine. But instead of allowing me to explain, he cuts off my speech. Drawing close to me, he whispers in my ear, “You cannot leave.” I am stunned by what his words imply, and before I can reply, he walks past me to assist another customer. As he ignores me, my personal space is invaded as he continues to walk closely past.

When I finally regain his attention, show the two receipts, and share my side of the story, he still does not believe me. As he threatens to call security, anger, sadness, and fear wash over me. If I react now, I will be arrested for stealing my own groceries. By the time this is resolved I would have missed training and who knows what would have transpired. So, I play his game and suck up to him, offering to unpack my bags. After standing my ground, he realizes that I am not in fact stupid, and that he has run out of excuses to keep me. Without another word he just walks away. No apology. No acknowledgement of what he was done or why. In the shock and humiliation of it all, I flee. Almost bursting into tears as I call my mum to say what has happened, I quickly rush home to eat and prepare to train.

This was not the first and it would not be the last time that I have been affected by perceptions of my skin color. Stereotypes had always dictated how my character, worth, and ability were judged. Being called an oreo had undermined all of the experiences and situations that I had endured for being Black. Even the positive aspects of my identity had been stripped away by that statement. Blackness or being Black is not a monolith, and it is not the only determining factor in defining who I am as a person. I am a Black p e r s o n, not just a color. I wish my teenage self was confident enough in herself to say what my adult self can now.

-Lexus Ndiwe

Lexus Ndiwe is a Creative Writing MA graduate and a Roswell Award 2021 Honorable Mention. Her radio play on the complexity of a mother-daughter relationship, “Entwined Lines,” is available on SoundCloud and was aired on the BBC. She has a blog on Medium called “Sober Confessions,” exploring life.