Half a Life

Stephen Thompson

A few months ago I was strolling along Leith Walk, minding my own business, when someone called me a 'f****** coon'. I could scarcely believe my ears. I hadn't been on the receiving end of a racist insult, not to my face, since I was a child growing up in London in the 70s. Once the shock had worn off, my hackles flew up and I wanted more than words. I was ready to play. At this point a third party got involved, one of several men who were with my abuser. He apologised on behalf of his clearly drunk friend and urged me to forget what I'd heard and advised me to 'be on yer way big fella', but I wasn't interested in what he had to say and stood my ground. Initially I didn't know what to say, but eventually I found my tongue. 'You've got a big mouth,' I said, 'in front of your mates. Why don't we go round the corner and settle this, just you and me?' He sneered, playing to the gallery, but didn't take up my offer. Nor did he hurl any more abuse my way. In fact he didn't say another word. I continued to stare him out, and his friend continued to ply me with soothing words, and all the while, through a combination of fear and anger, my heart was beating so fast I feared it might burst out of my chest. At long last I turned and walked away, casting the odd glance over my shoulder and muttering curses as I went.

The incident completely ruined my afternoon. Fortunately I had quite a few hours to calm down before my girlfriend came home from work. I decided not to tell her what had happened as I didn't want her pity. Nor did I want to run the risk of using her as a repository for all that negative emotion. I must be the world's greatest actor, for I'm sure she didn't suspect a thing. We had our usual evening together in front of the TV, chatting about this and that. I think I even managed to laugh. Privately, however, the incident continued to burn me.

Later that night, just before I fell asleep, I was able to reflect more calmly on what had happened. By this stage I was less interested in what had actually been said and more in the reaction it had provoked in me. Over-reaction would perhaps better describe it. So I had been insulted. Quick! Recall Parliament! Was I the first person in the world to be insulted? Would I be the last? And exactly how many insults, racial and otherwise, had I hurled in my time? And what precisely had I taken offence to? A racist slur can only affect you if you perceive your identity, your sense of self, through the prism of your ethnicity. I obviously did, which came as something of a shock, for I have spent my life trying to avoid being defined by the colour of my skin. To me, being black is no more a summation of who I am than the wind is a summation of the universe. It's but one minuscule part of a vast and complex whole. Still, believing this about myself is one thing, living it is some thing again. If life were lived solely at the level of the intellect, who could match me for wisdom and insight? It's no wonder I yearn for solitude and a life of the mind, for in that state I can experience perfection. I can sit and think and philosophise and meditate on the self and roam about the many-splendoured world beyond the veil. In that state no-one can touch me. But that's only half a life, which just won't do. I must also live in the real world, so to speak, for only there can I receive a proper education. It's not for nothing that man is a social animal. If I want a warts-and-all appreciation of myself, where better to find it than in the company of my fellow human beings? If I hold certain truths about myself to be self-evident, would I not be wise to bring them to my neighbour for a thorough examination of their supposed truth? I thought I had transcended my ethnicity, but two words from a complete stranger made me realise I still had a lot of work to do in that department. And for that I'm grateful.