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So, my dad always says he’s black, right. I mean, it is
true, actually, when my dad arrived in England, Indians were
still black.
It’s the 1960’s right and my dad’s the first Indian kid to go to
Downshall Junior School, and they do an assembly on him, the new black
boy from India:
“We have a new boy here today,” says the headmaster. “A new black
boy from India. And, even though he’s black, underneath his black
skin, he’s exactly the same as you or me. So you have to all be
just as nice to him as if he wasn’t black. And here he is: the
new black boy!”
My dad stands up on the stage and the whole school stares at
him, silent.
“What’s wrong with you all?” bellows the headmaster. “Is that any
way to treat the new black boy? Give him a round of applause!”
And they all start clapping.
But still. It’s so embarrassing, really. Your dad thinking
he’s a black man.
Like, if you argue with him on anything - any subject whatsoever -
healthcare, education, the cost of turnips, he’ll go:
“Well, in my opinion, as a black man…”
And then you’ll go:
“Dad! Hello! You’re not black! I don’t wanna hurt
your feelings, but we’re…we’re a bunch of Pakis, Dad.”
Then, he looks at me mournfully.
“When I arrived in this country, they used to say black for Indian,
Kate.”
“Yeah, but then the real black people arrived, dad. We got
relegated - we got demoted, man.”
He’s even bought himself a BMW – a Black Man’s Wheels He’s driving
around, in his BMW, looking at the police in the rear-view mirror,
going:
“They’re gonna pull me over in a minute. They think I’m a
drug-dealer.
DAD. They think you’re a doctor! Even if you were going too
fast, they wouldn’t pull you over – they’d think you were hurrying
along to check out some little old granny’s piles.
Then my dad marries this white woman who’s a bit, well,
working-class. She has a teenage son who tells Paki jokes, stuff
like “How do you stop a Paki from drowning?” And the answer is
always the same: “Take your foot off his head.”
Dad laughs – he cracks up – he really laughs - he says it’s
so “refreshing.”
He says it’s a breath of fresh air, after all these years of political
correctness gone mad.
“Just how refreshing is it, Dad?” I ask one day. Is it like a
Diet Coke? Or more like Sprite?”
He looks at me blankly, and doesn’t say anything. “Anyway,” he
says. “I’m not a Paki. I’m black.”
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