Coming of Age : 1976 and the Road to Anti-Racism

No one
warned me of the
approaching storm
of racism that had
been festering in
the underbelly of
our society fuelled
by the media and
politicians. By the
early 1970’s violent
racism was rearing
its ugly head in my
town. In a deadly
‘sport’ called ‘paki-bashing’,
gangs of
white teenagers and
skinheads would
target and damage
Asian homes
and businesses
and provoke daily
fights against Asian
people in schools,
sports fields and the
streets.
a small mill town hidden in the Pendle district of Lancashire, For a
young child the journey was a momentous adventure and the first
encounter with people of different cultures and nationalities. The
French owned ship, Steam Ship Vietnam, had provided the very first
opportunity to share my life and adventure, and in such confined
space, with African children, a friendly English woman and Vietnamese
cooks. But life in Nelson was hard. We learnt to endure the
reality of freezing winters and cold rain. There was no luxury in our
home. My parent’s made titanic efforts to provide human love and
care but neither the harsh conditions nor the dripping affect of racist
incidents allowed one to live a life on a feast of hopes and dreams.
During my formative years, in a very short space of time, my ambitions
were wrenched out of me, and I faced an uncertain future with
trepidation.
No one warned me of the approaching storm of racism that had
been festering in the underbelly of our society fuelled by the media
and politicians. By the early 1970’s violent racism was rearing its
ugly head in my town. In a deadly ‘sport’ called ‘paki-bashing’, gangs
of white teenagers and skinheads would target and damage Asian
homes and businesses and provoke daily fights against Asian people
in schools, sports fields and the streets.
My parents had only drummed respect in my head. I had to learn
to defend myself and overcoming fear was the first great obstacle.
In my first confrontation I was terrified of being hit so I tried to reason
with my assailants but my logical arguments proved fruitless.
They certainly didn’t help me avoid the first hard punch to my face.
But then the school bell rang and I was saved. In another encounter,
I remember being hit without warning. My head rolled backwards.
At first the fight seemed to slow down and then suddenly real time
kicked in when both pain and senses became more pronounced and
where you could smell your own blood. I had no time to fear and I
managed to block and hit back. My reactions seemed to surprise
every one including the assailant’s supporters who had surrounded
us during the fight, purposely to deny me, their targeted victim, any
escape route. This time I had survived and only suffered a black eye.
At my school racism was never challenged either in the classroom
or playground. Enoch Powell was viewed as a folk hero by
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