The following piece was written under the theme of connection whilst at KWMC’s Male Room as a part of a collaborative creative project by Vincent Didellot-Khelifi. Please take what is written here with a dose of scepticism, as I am recalling an event in the past and may be misremembering some facts.
I consider myself to be British. Brought up in the UK from the age of 5 and growing up around a diverse community I’ve always felt at home, and the idea of racism was pretty foreign for me. When the topic is brought up, only one event in my life comes to mind - the second time that I was punched in the face.
High school has just finished, and I got on my bike to cycle home. Cycling on the pavement for parts saved a lot of time, and at the time I was sacred to share the road with cars and ignorant of the law. Outside of school grounds was a pelican crossing, where I and some schoolmates waited for the lights to turn green. I cycled across the crossing, ahead of the other walkers. As I reached the pavement on the other side, I heard someone tell me to stop. I stopped dead in my tracks. Turning around I saw a middle-aged British man. Scowling angrily, he walked in front of my bike, blocking my path.
As he walked, people seemed to whiz by - on foot or their bikes. ”You’re not supposed to ride bikes on the pavement! You could’ve run me over back there!” he said whilst gesturing. I hadn’t been confronted like this before and felt the need to justify myself and calmly explain the inconsistencies in his comments. I pointed at others cycling past us; I asked him to recall that I gave plenty of space - and would be cycling off if he hadn’t stopped me! He seemed to concede some points but retained his anger. The more we talked the angrier we both grew. Suddenly a fist came at my left cheek. I was stunned. He’d been moving closer and closer whilst we were talking. I stood strong and didn’t let my emotions show, silently staring into his eyes. Finally, some people intervened. ”There’s no reason a man of your size should be punching a high school kid!” said a woman. The attention was on him, and he left in frustration. As soon as I cycled out of the view of the woman, I felt my frustration and anger swell up inside me. I wept on the side of the road.
It’s difficult to even begin to understand what was going through the mind of the bloke who punched me. Why that day? I cycle the same route at the same time every day, and I never saw him again! Why me and not the other cyclists? Why did he get so angry? These are questions that I’ll never get answers for, but he only conclusion that seems to be plausible is that he stopped me because I look different.