My dream is to be a representative of unity
My nightmare is being the divider
By Imo G
I was born in 1969, in Stoke on Trent, to a white mother who had had an affair with a Black Nigerian. Giving birth to a mixed race child meant that she declared me as stillborn to her white partner and gave me up for adoption when I was 10 days old. This fact and the lack of any form of communication or acknowledgement from her haunts me on a regular basis.
My adoptive mother (mum) is my heroine and the love between us is deep. She is small in stature, and Amazonian in mind and spirit. Like my birth mother she is classed as white. The circumstances in which she adopted me were extremely difficult and made legal history.
My adoptive mother (mum) is my heroine and the love between us is deep. She is small in stature, and Amazonian in mind and spirit. Like my birth mother she is classed as white. The circumstances in which she adopted me were extremely difficult and made legal history.
From 10 days old I lived in Hull. Mum met dad via Hull University around 1971 and married him in 1973. They are still together. Dad is classed as white. I know nothing of Nigerian culture and because of this, to have any chance of understanding my perspective you have to translate what can be regarded as Black to white.
As an infant I was oblivious to my minority appearance. I only questioned my permanent suntan when another girl at school questioned it. Junior school was a relatively pleasant experience too. Looking back ethnicities and therefore skin colours and other distinguishing features were quite diverse, for the time, (the 70s and 80s) at the schools I attended. Maybe as a result of this and possibly my ‘Britishness’ I didn’t acquire any lasting scars from racism at school that some of my peers did. Things happened that were racially motivated but I remained relatively detached from them because I was unaware of the meaning behind some of the comments and behaviours or because my protective dad deflected them from me. My best friend and I even used the offensive version of ‘Eenie Meenie Miney Mo’ to choose whose turn it was in playtime games. We were probably at senior school before we understood why this version was not acceptable. |
My main hindrances at school were nothing to do with skin colour; they were the result of being the tallest in the class, having a tom-boyish nature, unruly hair (my adoptive parents had little knowledge of how to tame Afro-European hair), serious acne and National Health spec’s. Had it not been for the unconditional love from mum and dad (aka my adoptive parents) and the fact that I was able to excel in athletics and a couple of other sports, I think I would have been incredibly introverted.
As a teenager I represented my school and Humberside County in the High Jump and later in the Long Jump. At 16, thanks to the coaching I received at City of Hull Athletics Club (Tony West), I gained a place in the National Rankings for Long Jump. I also joined Hull Truck Youth Theatre around this time and took part in a play called Zigger-Zagger which found my (Ghanaian/Rhodesian) friend and I cast as “the Black girls on the bus”; as well as members of the crowd and a couple of other roles.
By this time I had grown my hair over my face to cover my ‘Ugly Betty’ glasses; I had stopped putting it in two plaits (to stretch it) and crimped it instead. I spent hours applying foundation make-up (that didn’t match my half-caste/mixed-race/caramel skin colour) and had begun to adopt a Goth look to feign confidence in my appearance. At 17 I acquired contact lenses and a boyfriend and from then on my pseudo-confidence blossomed and I was able to function as a fairly normal rebellious teenager. At 18 I was dumped by my boyfriend and I flunked my A-levels (too much rebellion and blossoming going on). At 19, still relatively unaware of the prejudice that can be caused by skin colour and more aware of the attention that results from being tall, athletic and alternative in the dress sense, I enjoyed a good social life and passed my A-levels after re-studying them at Hull College.
My only other problem, during my school years, was not being allowed to go on school trips. Money was an issue, but more significantly I discovered that I was a Ward of Court and was therefore not allowed to leave the country, without going through a barrage of paperwork, until I was 18. Apparently this was because my biological father had abducted me as a baby. I was his firstborn and proof of his manhood. (I have been told that proving ones manhood is important in Nigerian/African society). He took me to another city and had me fostered, probably until he could find a way to take me to Nigeria.
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With the help of the Quakers, friends and family mum was able to find a solicitor who tracked me down and in spite of my being a baby and it being 6 months on, when I saw my mum, I am told, I held out my arms to her, an event which still conjures up overwhelming emotions in all involved to this day. On 13 July 1970 my adoption was legalised and made legal history because my mum (the non-biological parent) was granted custody over the biological parent.
My biological father claimed to have kept in regular contact with me over the years but apart from two mediated visits and 3 written communications, passed on to me via a mediator, I have nothing and therefore I don’t class this as regular contact. On one of his visits I remember being asked by him if I wanted to go on holiday to Nigeria. I declined; I had a mum and dad who loved me beyond words, I had a baby brother, I felt no connection with the pictures I was shown of my Nigerian siblings at this time, I had no desire to know anything of my Nigerian heritage and in spite of me only being about 10 years old and beginning to lack self-confidence due to some of my experiences, I didn’t feel that that there was anything positive to be gained from going on holiday with my biological father; he was a stranger to me. To this day I am glad I didn’t go. I think I had developed a fear that I wouldn’t be returned and that would be unbearable as my heart was with mum and dad. Looking back I can see that such a ‘holiday’ would probably not have been authorised by the courts anyway.
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So after passing my A’ levels I went to college in Chester to do a BA degree in Sport, English and Drama and here I began to develop a heightened awareness of colour-related prejudice. To some extent it astounded me, it made me cautious, it made me sad but it also made me more determined to be me.
The difficulty with being me is that it feels rootless. I cannot lay solid foundations due to the lies and betrayals from which my existence stems. My biological father has been shown to be polygamous, in manner that to me shows no respect for the women he has encountered or consideration of the consequences of such a lifestyle (e.g. innocent fatherless children). Add to this the fact that my biological mother does not appear to have had the courage to own up to having given birth to a live (mixed race) child in 48 years, as opposed to a stillborn. Having gone through IVF to conceive myself, this knowledge disgusts me to the core. How can a mother live a lie for that long? Why do I have to be the one that has to think about the upset that it may cause to her family if my presence is made known? Being me therefore is still a path that I am cautiously discovering and is irritatingly blighted by a lack of self confidence, that can only be seen close up.
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I am able to express love, tolerance, empathy, kindness and consideration to others because of the unconditional love shown to me by my mum and dad… and I am forever grateful to them for that gift. I know that I love being a Hull lass brought up and cherished by a most amazing Yorkshire mum and a Scottish dad. I know that the special people in my life are the ones who show no prejudice at my appearance and do so much to hold me up without question. I know that acknowledgement, understanding and acceptance are instrumental to overcoming barriers.
Click each image to enlarge
“The difficulty with being me is that it feels rootless”
My dream is to be a representative of unity
My nightmare is being the divider
My nightmare is being the divider
...when you smile at another human being because something occurred between you that was worthy of a smile and they don’t smile back... instead there’s a vague look of disgust on their face or, worse still, it sounds like they’re cursing you. All of a sudden you’re confused because all you did was something like graciously move aside to let them go past. The confidence that it’s taken you years to build up is crumbling once again.
You end up in a daze and then you bow your head and metaphorically “go back to where you came from”. As you “go back” your blood starts to boil and numerous questions pop into your head.
You end up in a daze and then you bow your head and metaphorically “go back to where you came from”. As you “go back” your blood starts to boil and numerous questions pop into your head.
- Is the lack of a return smile or similar gesture because this person is not familiar with the social etiquette for receiving a smile?
- Is it because they don’t like the way I’m dressed? (Doc Martin boots, particularly on a female, have that effect on some people)
- Is it because I look vulnerable and it’s amusing to them to try and make me feel intimidated?
- Why do I feel like something the cat dragged in after my goodwill gesture?
...and then, Oh is it 'cos I is Black'? (in their eyes)
Then begins the turmoil:
Surely this person can’t be treating you with such animosity because of your outer cover; your skin colour? My skin colour doesn’t make me any less (or more) human, in fact it doesn’t even come close to speaking of who I am as a human being.
Then begins the turmoil:
Surely this person can’t be treating you with such animosity because of your outer cover; your skin colour? My skin colour doesn’t make me any less (or more) human, in fact it doesn’t even come close to speaking of who I am as a human being.