To see a piece of art or read something that invigorates and uplifts you, that leaves you convinced that something inside you is forever changed as a result of experiencing it, is one of life’s purest pleasures. And in a world of digital distractions, fleeting trends and seldom-free weekends, it is also something of a privilege.
I grew up with no explanation as to why I didn’t look like my white family, and I didn’t see black or mixed-race people in much of the literature I read or the TV I watched. Now, I’m basking in cultural richness on a near-weekly basis. Am I referring to my insatiable reality TV appetite? No – although I’m still an ardent Towie addict despite its woeful lack of diversity – I’m talking about the work of black artists that is helping shape me as a person, by teaching me more about my history. I’m excited, invigorated and happily overrun with stuff to see, watch and read.
Last week I saw Tasha Marshall’s fantastic, one-woman play, Half Breed. Its protagonist, Jazmin, is in the middle of an identity crisis in a fast-paced, visceral piece of theatre that brilliantly elevates the experiences of being mixed-race in a small UK town. She is desperate to make it as an actor and escape the clutches of her small West Country town, which is suffocating her with its prejudice. Watching Marshall act out gritty experiences of rural racism through her electrifying prose almost reduced me to tears. So many of Jazmin’s experiences could have been plucked straight from my own head, and I left the theatre spooked.
Later, a well-read friend took me to a bookshop and bought me If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin. “You need to know your history,” she said. And she’s right. I don’t technically know where I’m “from”, but I can learn about my connection to the black diaspora and the wider context in which a non-white identity exists.
Even if I don’t know the full background of my heritage, I can still educate myself through art and history and music that really speaks to my black side. My Anglo-Irish side has been given a fairly solid grounding all these years, so it’s only fair. There’s a huge abyss of lost time to make up for, but a seemingly endless pool of black excellence from which to draw inspiration from right now – and I’m diving in.
I’m living in a time where the BBC is screening a whole season on being black and British, the Tate Modern has a sell-out civil rights-era art exhibition, and writers such as Reni Eddo-Lodge, David Olusoga, Nikesh Shukla and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie beautifully articulate the complexities of race, class and identity in the UK and beyond. Singers such as Solange, Kelela and Jamila Woods unapologetically position themselves as black women at the centre of their music, and campaigns to create curricula that reflect the multicultural society we live in are starting to be heard.
Growing up, I didn’t align myself with much by black artists (aside from Shaggy’s Hot Shot, which was the first CD I asked my parents for). I grew into an emo teen (although my dad loved ska and reggae) and my shelves were stocked with books such as Charlotte’s Web and The Hobbit. At school, I can’t remember studying any black literature, except for a poem called Half-Caste by John Agard.
By the time I got to university, however, I was drawn to modules that had some resonance with who I am. I dived into Samuel Selvon’s Lonely Londoners and Monica Ali’s Brick Lane for an education on the UK immigrant experience, and I relished texts from the Harlem Renaissance, the extraordinary artistic explosion that took place in New York in the 1920s. And now I have a vast list of things I need to consume.
Part of facing up to what it means to be a woman and a writer of colour means exploring where I and others who look like me originate. To have a better idea of who I want to be personally and professionally, I need to know where I started.
We still have a long way to go in terms of representation in UK culture, but I’m privileged to witness more black artistic triumph than ever.
