Tag Archives: open minded

Dear Racist … I Love You, Man

67 Replies

Nope, you read the title right. I love racists.

Now, before you start slamming tomatoes at your computer screen, just hear me out. I really do love racists, they’ve played a massive part in my life and I’ve learnt a lot from the bigoted comments sometimes casually, sometimes not so carelessly, thrown my way.

I owe many life lessons to the racist encounters I’ve lived through, and no doubt will after this post is posted. I was a late bloomer when it comes to experiencing racism, I was eight years old (at least I wasn’t in the double digits, because that would have just been embarrassing!) and I could hardly blame the twelve year old bully who let her tirade loose on me.

I mean I was obviously unaware back in the day that school benches were reserved as “White Only” at lunch time and my massive confusion only seemed to incense her more. To top it all, my British accent (gained as a result of being schooled at the British Continental School in Jeddah), my Middle Eastern upbringing till that time, my Indian heritage, and my new found status as a fresh Australian citizen would have served to do anyone’s head in, least of all a prepubescent blonde, blue eyed poster child Aussie schoolgirl.

I went home, told my mum about my unusual encounter enthused with wondrous enthusiasm at only just realising skin colour differed, and oh my gosh, actually mattered on the planet, who promptly reprimanded me for relenting and told me if I did it again, I wouldn’t be let in the front door, or the side one for that matter.

Now this set me straight because clearly no racist bashing (emotionally or physically), could ever compare to an Indian mother’s scolding which unfairly always boils down to a hunger strike and if any of you have been reading up about me, you know that there could be no possible worst punishment than starvation for my poor undernourished body (I wish!)

So lo and behold, lunch time came around again the next day and as humans are such boring creatures of habit, my new found bane of my existence told me to vacate the seat (which was another bench by the way, as I had attempted for the past week to find one that suited my skin tone). I told her “No”, she said “What?”, so I repeated again, only slower, making a mental check to clarify that the national language of Australia was in fact English.

Turns out it was, because she simply shrugged her shoulders and never bothered me again.
I burrowed my brows in uncertainty thinking if all life’s battles were that easy, I was going to be cruising my roller coaster ride, and then proceeded to devour my half-finished sandwich.

Racism can also be very funny, like the time a Southern Italian yelled at me to go back to where I came from. In Australia? I asked him to repeat his sentence because I was absolutely certain I had heard him wrong which only frustrated him more to yell it out.

I was happy because I’d saved on my healthcare to go check my hearing and left him quietly at his disposal. Not because I was afraid or had nothing to say, because as I am sure you all know by now, I definitely have a motor mouth, but because I thought it was cruel to harm anyone with such a humungous case of an Identity crisis.

This finally brings me to why I love racists as much as I do – because I owe a part of my appreciation and love for everything that makes me to them. People often naively believe that racism will push the victim into being ashamed of their heritage, but often (not always unfortunately) the exact opposite happens!

Racist encounters make me feel more proud of who I am and just more pitiful about the close-mindedness of those who inflict hateful comments and activities on people who are happy, that’s right – happy and content in their lives.

No matter how much I exercise my cranium, I sincerely believe that anyone who has the time and energy to hate can’t possibly be happy, because they’re expending so much wasted effort on just that, hate.

So, to all the Racists out there, I’d like to give you some happiness and thank you from the bottom of my heart for making me stronger, happier, healthier and proud. I love you, man 🙂

What’s your pizza?

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I absolutely LOVE pizza!

Now that I have that off my chest, I think it’s only fair, as I am strongly opposed to false advertising, that I let all of you know that this post is not about the type of product you can purchase at Dominos or Pizza Hut … sorry. You may, however, still want to use their services at the end of this little excerpt, that is of course, if you’re still interested in reading the rest of it, when no free pizza is on the menu.

No, this pizza is about the one we’re all made up of, the one some of us are a little more conscious about, the one we kind of carry around with us, some of us more evidently than others. I became aware of mine fairly early on, I’d say around about eight, when I first came to Australia and one that I am questioned about on a constant, continuous basis. The dialogue often travels the following journey:

Potential friend: “Hmm, so where do you come from?”
Me: With a slightly dumbfounded expression, “Um, what do you mean?”
Potential, nosy friend: “I mean, where were you born?”
Me: “Oh right, the UK”
Possibly a friend (odds are stacked high): “So, you’re British?”
Me: “Well, not really. I mean I was just born there”.
Tiring unlikely friend: “Okay, so you grew up somewhere else?”
Me: “Yeah, the Middle East”
Still unlikely friend (that ship seems to have sailed): “Okay, so you’re Arabic?”
Me: “Well, kind of, but I left the ME and moved to Australia when I was quite young”
Potential murdering acquaintance driven to their wits end: “So, you’re Australian then?”
Me: Shoulder shrug
Declared Idiot: “But you don’t look Australian?”
Me: “Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place and ask me why I look the way I do, because clearly what you wanted to know is why I’m brown”

Though not all my discourses on my heritage follow this old worn out path, the intent is often there, sometimes clearly, sometimes bizarrely (I didn’t think it was possible to have so many ways to ask someone where they’re “from”), and sometimes downright rudely (the “so what boat did you come on?” enquiries).

My friends (yes I do have some) call me an International citizen which I honestly sort of like, but then, I think we all fall into this category. The fact is I am proud and gratefully thankful of all the little bits and pieces that make me up. My “international citizen” status has helped make me more (at least I hope so) open-minded, more respectful of cultural diversities and nuances, more willing to at least attempt to understand different perspectives, and most importantly, more sympathetic to being different and empathetic to all the trials and tribulations being “different” brings with it.

Some of my immigrant friends tend to look at being distinct from the norm, or part of the minority as somewhat of a handicap, but I have never seen it as such, in fact, what they often shied away from, I normally embraced. I didn’t see being different as a curse, I saw it (and continue to do so till today) as a glorifying unique novelty.

So where does pizza come into it?

Well, I like to view my heritage as a pizza, where the base is a thick, mouth-watering distinctly Indian crust, with a strong Aussie tomato sauce flavour, a British topping of olives and vegetables (I’m vegetarian , so no meat!) and a sprinkling of Middle Eastern, melted cheese. Take any ingredient away, and my pizza lacks that special oomph.

I like the fact that there are so many pizza varieties I can interact with on a daily basis, and I can honestly state that no one pizza is better than the other. Every single one of them brings with it a novel flamboyant flavour and a kaleidoscope of interesting perspectives, but the fact remains that at an organic level, the main ingredients are all the same basically. A pizza is just that – a pizza, and with the main constants being at the crux of any good pizza, I never stop being pleasantly amazed at how all pizzas’ similarities far outweigh their individual diversities.

So, what’s your pizza?