Opinion and Race Discrimination

In my personal life, having been brought up in a very white conservative middle class area, I found myself exploring the various areas of the country that I subsequently lived in and achieving a real multi cultural, cross generational, open mind.

Racial prejudice arrived in my life when I fell in love and lived with an Asian guy in 1988, who bravely gave up his family to be with me because they vehemently didn’t approve. I never questioned my choice. I didn’t see his colour, his religion or his previous way of life, I just loved him for who he was and, perhaps naively, couldn’t understand what the issue was. My Dad and my Step Mum were bewildered.
At the time we both worked in South East London and lived in Romford in Essex. On the whole we didn’t receive any outright prejudice but it was always there bubbling under the surface and every now and again it would raise it’s head. This was the first time in my life that I realised such racial hatred existed.
When we first met he used to have to walk from South to North Woolwich at the end of his evening shift. A journey that took 15 minutes and involved descending down a flight of stairs until you reached the bottom of the tunnel, under the Thames and then walking through and ascending the stairs the other side. One night two older guys behind him started shouting abuse. He heard them drawing closer and ran, literally for his life, only just making it up the stairs and onto the bus, which fortunately was waiting at the stop, when he emerged from the tunnel.
We got spat at, when we were out one night at the cinema, by the people sitting behind us and I remember him using serviettes to remove the spital from my hair. On the rare occasion that we went out clubbing it was always with a group of work colleagues so we could blend in.

This racial discrimination didn’t go away, when in 1994 I met the guy who became the father of my children. He was of Caribbean descent. However this was when I learnt that prejudice could work both ways.
Just one week before the wedding my future father-in-law told me he had hoped his only son would marry a girl of similar descent and that he wasn’t overly happy with the match. My family refused to attend the wedding and my Dad struggled to come to terms with my subsequent mixed race children.
The night before my son was born, my husband and I were out at a karaoke pub in the East End of London. At the end of the night I had to stop my husband from getting involved in a fight, when a white guy of similar age to us started referring to me “as black man’s meat” It was a fractious situation. My son wasn’t due for another 12 days but my waters broke less than 2 hours later.

I always remember going out as a new Mum, walking into Romford and around the market, with my precious little bundle wrapped up in his blankets in his pram and older ladies peeking in the pram, loving the idea of a new baby and then being shocked by his colour. This didn’t change when I had my daughter. Neither of my children look like me, they have strong Caribbean genes and later in their life when they invited friends home for tea etc it was obvious that their school friends didn’t expect me to be white.

I always proudly displayed beautiful framed photos of my children on my desk at work. One Christmas Eve, after I’d moved back to the South West, I was sat at my desk, at the end of the afternoon shift, working my way through the clock cards that staff needed signing for overtime. I made enquiries of them as to what their plans were for Christmas and I’ve never forgotten one young lady saying to me “What are you doing for Christmas?” . “Oh it’s just me and my children” I replied. “Oh you are so nice, you’re like that Angeline Jolie adopting children from other countries” came the reply. When I then told her they were my children, that I’d given birth to them, her expression was one of total bewilderment. I could literally see her brain trying to work it out!

When my children were 7 and 5 years old, I became a single Mum having ended my marriage based upon my husband’s constant infidelity. Despite our divorce I always ensured that my ex mother and father in law remained part of my childrens’ life. This was their ancestry and something I wanted to ensure remained a constant in their lives. Once I moved away from the South East I still kept that culture alive and to this day we still celebrate our own Caribbean Christmas, the weekend before Christmas, with home cooked Caribbean food.

Racial prejudice then spread into my childrens’ lives which is a whole other board game. Experiencing it first hand is so much different to seeing it being directed at your children. How do you explain to them that the comments being directed towards them are born out of ignorance, when they are still innocent and confused and don’t understand why they’ve not been invited to a party despite being friends with that person at school? How do you help them to fit in when their skin is a different colour and grows darker in the sun, particularly when they have been abroad on holiday? When getting your hair wet in the rain can be a major deal and when adults stare at you when you are in unfamiliar surroundings? It wasn’t something I was well prepared for. I’d lived a life where the colour of your skin meant nothing to me.

My children are part of the 1.2 million people in the UK who are mixed race and I didn’t foresee that this brought it’s own unique dilemma. They weren’t black, so some people of African/Caribbean descent, didn’t feel they fitted in either. My daughter still deals with this, particularly from business acquaintances in the USA.
Conversely they are not white, so as explained previously, they don’t fit into this group either. The book “The Mixed Race Experience: Reflections and Revelations on Multicultural Identity” by Naomi and Natalie Evans released in July 2022 really helps in this situation but was 20 odd years too late for me as a parent.

I’d like to think that my experiences of racism as a white Mum with mixed race children allows me to understand the world a bit better, particularly at a time when systemic racism is being openly questioned throughout the media.

Touring Western Europe -Spain -Bilbao

We arrived last Thursday, by plane, and treated ourselves to a taxi ride to our “home” for the next 6 nights. An Air BnB in the middle of the “Old Town”. -Casco Viejo.
At the heart of the city are Bilbao’s original seven streets, Las Siete Calles, which date back to the 14th century.

We are in the centre of the Basque Country and you soon begin to appreciate how important their heritage is to them.
Signage is in Basque and then Spanish. English is not spoken to any degree and we have to use Google translate to help us along. It actually makes me feel slightly inadequate that I cannot even contribute!
Football is as important a game as in other parts of Spain, but Athletico Bilbao have a unique rule where only players from the Basque region of Spain can play for the club. The result? They’re only one of three teams never to be relegated from LaLiga!
Whilst its history is centred around the port and thus the transfer of goods you don’t see a huge amount of ethnic diversity certainly not compared to some English cities.
They appear to be proud people, Basque first and Spanish second.

The culture seems centred around a cafe/bar experience where locals and tourists alike mingle for morning coffee (black or white, no decaf or specialist milks), a social drink and pintxo at lunchtime before afternoon siesta where most shops etc close down for about 3 hrs. Then everything reopens and the small bars in the old town spill out onto the streets. Standing in the street, sipping a drink and socialising is an everyday night time activity and lends a background buzz to any evening spent inside your home.
Our first night was accompanied by a punk rock band performing outside a bar two streets away but clearly audible in our historic apartment above a shop.

Friday:
The city is full of architecture, which we both enjoy, as we stroll the streets of the “New Town” on Day 1 and take a walking tour courtesy of our Lonely Planet pocket guide. The weather is drizzly but, at least being out of season, we aren’t having to wait ages and fight the Instagram crowds for our photos. Our day out incorporates a visit to the Guggenheim- see my separate post:

https://amidlifeadventure.org/2023/03/07/opinion-modern-art/

and a trip up the funicular railway (although the views were extinguished by the mist).

Saturday was spent out with locals in the “Old Town” beginning with the fabulous Mercado de la Ribera where stalls upon stalls arrest the taste buds with fruit, vegetables, meat, fish etc. Everyone is out buying their weekly shopping. This is farm to fork at its best! And we return to the apartment with everything needed for our fish supper.


Within the market is a large food hall where everyone seems to congregate for lunch and having perused the various counters, laden with pintxos of all descriptions, we settle down to try our first foray into this Basque delight. Unlike those around us we settle for a coffee each whilst the locals are sipping martinis and aperol spritz.

Elsewhere families utilise the parks and open spaces along with the historic plazas to entertain the children. In the afternoon the Plaza Nueva is full of little footballers, balance bikes and people congregating for social interaction whilst their children play nearby.
The Plaza del Arenal, next to the river, is teeming with every age group relaxing on a weekend. The play park, which on a weekday is probably invisible, is the focal point. The river, itself, is empty. We didn’t see a single boat, kayak, canoe etc throughout our stay?

Sunday-we are up and out early to try out the metro. It’s fairly straight forward once you get the hang of it. It helps when you feed the tickets through the machine in the direction of the arrows. Talk about getting old!!!
There aren’t a lot of staff about, so help is not really at hand, but Google Maps provides us with all the info we need in terms of which train to get on.
30 minutes later we alight in Bidezabal where a seaside ramble in Getxo awaits. We are now in the suburbs, so to speak, and there is no doubt that the houses look newer and more expensive than the city.
Our walk takes us right along the coast line with clifftop views and a sandy beach. We meander through the Cornish style narrow streets of the old fishing village of Puerto Viejo before continuing on past the architectural beauty of the Paseo de las Grandes Villas. Heading across the unique Unesco World Heritage bridge of Puente Colgate we finally finish our sunny afternoon in Portugalete.
Throughout our walk we were surrounded by locals, all out enjoying the Spring sunshine. Dogs abound and it’s apparent that most ladies wear slacks and trousers and not jeans like me. Needless to say this English woman stood out a bit like a sore thumb!

Monday morning we hop on another metro train and head off to the bus station for a 7.30 bus (coach in England) to San Sebastián. Tickets are bought in advance and weekend tickets sell out quick, as we discovered, when we originally tried to book seats for Saturday on Thursday night’s arrival.
The bus station, like the rest of Bilbao is immaculately clean. You could eat your dinner off the floor! As we have discovered before you don’t get awoken by the bin men in Spain but by the street cleaners. The old streets around our apartment are cleaned down every morning and then every shopkeeper steps outside, before opening, and cleans their specific area of cobbled stones just to make sure!
The 90 minute journey goes without a hitch and we arrive into San Sebastián bright and early. Like Bilbao nothing really happens here until after 10 am but this gives us time to begin our walking tour of “Old and New” before it gets busy.

I’m trying to be honest on my travels, so I have to say San Sebastián is like Bilboa’s posh neighbour. It’s like the difference between a well looked after set of teeth, there is nothing wrong with them, they are clean, hygienic and useable and a set of teeth that have been brightened and whitened to sparkle. San Sebastián sparkles!

The beach is probably the best urban beach I’ve seen to date! The town is compact and welcoming. Designer clothes shops mingle with elegant bridges such as Puente de Maria Cristina. The 20th century, belle époque, 5 star Hotel Maria Cristina, designed by Charles Mewes, the architect responsible for The Ritz in London, stands proudly on the river front.

We managed to walk to the top of the 123m Monte Urgull topped by the old castle and a slightly grandiose statue of Christ. The spectacular views across the bay and the city were a just reward for the climb up there, although the steps back down to the old town fully exercised my midlife knees!
The streets in the old town are wider than Bilbao and again everything is that bit more spacious and bright.
I can imagine families packing up their bags of a weekend in Bilbao and popping across here by car or bus for a weekend of sun, sand and relaxation.

Our foray into life in Bilbao is coming to an end and tomorrow we board an early train to Madrid.

This is my first post on our extended trip to Western Europe and also the first in Spain. There will be more to follow on this tour.



Modern Art-Is This A Reality or A Joke?

We are have just flown into Bilbao which is our starting off point for a three month exploration of Western Europe by train. This city came to my attention when I was reading a piece of travel journalism which focused on the wonderful architecture of the city and variety of food specifically the pintxos.
In order to explore the architecture I utilised an app I have downloaded called “GPSmyCity” which suggests self guided walks to follow, complete with narrative. As a result I then also came across the world famous Guggenheim Museum which opened in 1997.
This museum possibly single handedly lifted the city out of its postindustrial depression and into the 21st century and gave a lot of tourists a reason to visit the city.

From the exterior you are met with a monolith of titanium tiles, created by architect Frank Gehry, which as you walk around you will find that the patterns and colours change with the light.
On the city side of the museum, prior to descending to the entrance, is “Puppy”. This 12m high Highland terrier is currently made up of thousands of spring flowers. Designed by Jeff Koons it sort of welcomes you to the museum.

On the opposite side, next to the river, you can view Anish Kapoor’s “Tall Tree and the Eye”. This consists of 73 reflective spheres anchored around three axes which individually distorts reality as you look into them.

Nearby, on the riverbank, is “Maman”, Louise Bourgeois’ sculpture of a skeletal spider said to symbolise a protective embrace
Alongside many others I admire all three of these sculptures before even paying my entrance fee.

Inside the museum there are three levels. Architecturally they are unique. They meander around the inside of the building, leading you from one zone to another, whilst a central glass lift sweeps you ever higher. There are walking platforms between the zones which allow you views of the cleverly designed interior.

Within the zones you are introduced to modern art from Joan Miró, Richard Serro, Jenny Holzer, Jeff Koons, Mark Rothko and Jean Michel Basquiat amongst others. This is where I become unstuck. I look at some of these “paintings” and I’ll use a Mark Rothko as an example and firstly question “how can you call this a painting?”
It looks like a child has painted a frame and then inside the frame has created three horizontal boxes which have then been painted three different colours.

Rothko’s art sells for millions. A similar piece to this entitled “Orange, Red, Yellow” sold for 86.9 million dollars back in May 2012 at a Christie’s sale in New York.
I stand and stare at it and wonder if someone, at some point in history, decided to play a practical joke on the art world? Did they rock up with one of these paintings and start wittering on about how truly artistic it was, how clever the brush stroke, how individual the talent? Did they talk about how expressive the artist was feeling at the time of painting and did the group of art collectors assembled, not wishing to appear as philistines, agree and suddenly modern art was born?
Or worse still was it, as some theorise, that modern art was a “scam” created for money laundering and tax avoidance purposes, by people far more astute than the artists being presented as world class?

I guess we are all entitled to an opinion and, to be honest, if it was the latter then no one is ever going to know. Are they?

Opinion -Sex Discrimination

Basing my opinion on my own life experience includes experiencing sexual discrimination.

During my 30 year career I worked in a male dominated, customer facing industry where you worked mainly 4 days out of 7, on a rota you devised yourself, ensuring you delivered the needs of the business. We worked shifts of anything from 8 hrs (which was counted as a half day) and 12-15 hrs (being a full day).
When I started we used to begin work around 10.30 a.m. and finish a full day around
11.30 p.m. As time moved on and more and more money spinning activities were added into the working environment, mornings could sometimes start as early at 8 a.m. and evenings could drag past midnight.
It was tough but enjoyable and you became absorbed into this way of life.

We were all autonomous Business Managers, with no one looking over our shoulders. We dealt with all facets of Management from recruitment and training to devising and delivering promotional campaigns worth £1000’s whilst coming face to face with up to 6000 customers a week and also complying with numerous Government legalities. Our customers were of every nationality and came from all walks of life as did our staff.

I was really focused and dedicated to my career, climbing the ladder through hard work involving numerous moves around the country but I was in the minority as a female.

Despite the sexual revolution of the late 60’s women were still fighting for independence, much less equality at work and there were certainly very few role models for us to look up to.
This was summed up nicely back in 1994. I’d been with the company for 9 years, at this point, when I had a visit from my male Operations Director and the current male MD of the company. With no regard for my feelings, the Ops Director introduced me not by name but with ” This is our first female Manager to go and get herself pregnant!”
From this point on, the path that lay ahead of me was one of continual struggle. Instead of enjoying my first pregnancy, I had to fight to keep my company car, pension contributions and to know what my entitlements were. I received no assistance, support or help and was taken out of my role as Manager as I was seen to be a HASAW risk!

On my return from this pregnancy, when my son was 4 months old (financially I couldn’t afford to stay off work any longer on my £52.35 a week SMP) there was no job for me.
I, therefore, had to work as a Regional Relief Manager until something became available.
It was a nightmare trying to juggle child care with no daily base. I was travelling all over London (by car due to the late finishing hours) working 4 full days (about 48 hours a week).
Eventually I was given a Managerial post but at Level 3, when prior to my maternity I had worked as a Level 2 Manager for 3 years in Liverpool, Kingston upon Thames and Leyton.
My male Regional Manager had the audacity to say to me” Be happy at least we are allowing you to keep your current salary and car!” As if that should make me happy when it felt as if my whole career, thus far, that I had worked hard for was about to implode. None of my male colleagues would ever have been treated in this way unless they had received a disciplinary demotion.

Despite my despondency I had enough sense to ensure I had a letter stating that this “temporary placement” wouldn’t affect my on going career and then I joined a union which was totally unheard of in my working sector particularly at my level.
After the birth of my daughter, 2 years later, the letter came to the fore when on returning from my second maternity leave, I worked in a Level 3 business for about 6 months and then applied for a promotion to a Level 1 business. My application was turned down based upon the fact that I had no Level 2 experience. Time to call the Union rep!

So yes, I’ve experienced sexual discrimination which ultimately resulted in taking action despite possibly alienating myself in the process, winning an out of court settlement and I’d like to believe paving the way for other female managers that followed my career path.