Brown Baby Page 6

  No, you can’t have an ice cream.

  Stop doing that.

  Please can you do this?

  But Sam was right. When I think about my friends who have boys, they’re always cross or grumpy or moody or sensitive. We never refer to them as having a tantrum.

  It’s hard to delete words so casually ingrained into your brain from everyday usage. Language is often careless in this way. Language is learned more than it is considered. I’ve written extensively in the past about the carelessness of how we allow racism to creep into our language. When we make flippant proclamations about inanimate objects like tacos or Vogue magazine, or people like Lizzo or my uncle Vijay being our ‘spirit animals’. Or where Starbucks sells chai tea or Aldi stocks naan bread. Or when people from ethnic minority backgrounds are made to check their anger when it comes to their worldview.

  Or that the word ‘coloured’ is racist, while ‘people of colour’ is not.

  I remember the comedian Eshaan Akbar attempting to criticize this terminology on a podcast, saying that he couldn’t understand why we were quick to point out that being called coloured was akin to a slur while we identified as people of colour. Hearing him say this angered me so much. It felt like exactly the type of thing someone who wanted to be seen as a model minority would say to white people to get them to trust him. I thought about this a lot.

  The answer was simple. Surely?

  Historical context?

  Which is exactly what Sam was telling me. How society has added baggage to language needs to be acknowledged. Words are not free of history. Coloured, historically, was a slur. People of colour was a re-owning of a term to describe a homogenous group of people that governments labelled Black (in the sixties, seventies and eighties), then ethnic minority, then minority ethnic, then Black and Minority Ethnic, then Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic. Or BAME. Kamila Shamsie once said that ‘we were one Latinx community away from being called BLAME’. The point was, the Americanized ‘people of colour’, we owned that shit. We didn’t own the word ‘coloured’. And no one felt such a way about it that we wished to reclaim it.

  I get that it’s hard to stop when it has become so ingrained in us. The comedian Ahir Shah talks about how he and his sister were made to talk in as posh an accent as they could, that this enunciation made his parents feel more comfortable that they were integrating. He said his voice didn’t make sense. He jokes often that he has been ‘colonized by my own voice’. Language can do this as well. Language is powerful. It takes root at our core. It gives us freedom, communication, entertainment. It connects us. It enslaves us. It holds power over us. I never believed that lie our parents told us, that sticks and stones could break our bones but words would never hurt us.

  It wasn’t true. My parents had been undone by language themselves. My dad told me of being racially abused by workmates. My mum told me, not only of racism but also about how she wasn’t taken seriously because she was a woman. And worse, she said, ‘I am a brown woman.’ She complained that every idea your dada had was one she’d had the day before, that he had dismissed. She would tell me this with a roll of the eyes. It was so ingrained in their interactions, she felt no use for irritation.

  We own the words ‘people of colour’. The word ‘coloured’ was always used to own us. Language is often about ownership. On whose tongue does it confer power and in what way. I have been called coloured. I own that I am a person of colour. I was called coloured as a way of dominating me. Sure, the idea of colour may seem facile if we are talking about colour palettes, or paint colours. Sure, white people will say that white is also a colour and we will reply that white is an absence of colour, or that they are pink when hot, blue when cold, red when embarrassed or angry, yellow when sick and green when they covet, so they are truly the people of colour. We could say that.

  We could say that, on paper, if we are functionally looking at the words themselves, sure, there is not much difference between people of colour and coloured. Of course we could say this. Of course we could. We could be hypocritical.

  But we own the words ‘people of colour’ and while it may be an imperfect term, it still belongs to us in ways that ‘coloured’ does not.

  I think about what I, as a dad, should be doing to hold you and your younger sister up. How can I be a good ally to you both, as women, growing up and becoming part of the world. How can I get out of your way and help you forward? If you were both boys, I would ensure I was raising you to respect women, to respect people, to have patience and humility, to have a strong moral code and always stand up for people when they need it, to never kick downwards and to never exert your power in a negative way. I’m sure there are other things I would need to do, to ensure that boys became men who were better versions of what I felt was a decent man.

  But as a father raising two daughters, should I be treating you both differently?

  It feels like a stupid question. Because the answer is, of course. Because I have to ensure we tackle things like clothes and aspirations, together, so that you know I’m with you. I’m there to help you through puberty and decisions about your future, so you feel no shame about yourself or about your choices. That I’m an ally.

  But what does that even mean?

  In that moment, when Villain 1 threatened to take you away from your mummy, when he ensured you knew you had no agency over your body, I seethed inside but I said nothing to him. I failed you. Because I was being polite and civil.

  But what does civility buy us, other than an expectation that we adhere to the codes of others? These aren’t mutually agreed terms of engagement. Civility masks our right to be angry and act accordingly. Politeness is cowardice. So much of the world is about expectation management, how we manage our own expectations of ourselves and those around us, and how we then manage their expectations of us. Politeness is just expectation management. Instead of saying how we truly feel about a situation, we will be polite.

  I think about that moment a lot, how small you appeared. And how you cried and cried. That night, you wouldn’t come to me, you stayed with your mother because she was your first port of call for protection and solace. And I knew I had failed you. So I texted Chimene and Rosie, and they told me exactly what I needed to hear. That I didn’t deserve a cookie for noticing that they had certain safe routes home, checked in with friends constantly, lined up red flags in the sand and feared for their bodies every single day. It was beyond me to expect this to all be laid out for me. And because I had finally seen the patterns, verified their claims, I did not deserve special treatment. If anything, I was now meant to talk to my fellow men and do something about the situation.

  Because should I treat you differently because I am a father and you are my daughter?

  I look through online lists of how fathers should treat their daughters, I realize how gargantuan my task is, and how necessary it is. Because there are lists that tell you to listen to your daughter, respect her, and maybe show interest in the things she’s interested in, that show you exactly who these lists are for, and how fucking low the bar is.

  The tea and coffee kitty in my shared workspace has a Post-it stuck to it that says ‘British currency only’.

  There’s a sign in the toilets of an American airport that says ‘Do NOT drink from toilets or urinals . . .’

  These signs are there because they need to be. No one puts up such a preventative sign for no good reason. I can imagine some wise-ass in my studio put unwanted Euro coins into the kitty. People are drinking toilet water and urinal water at this airport. I cannot fucking comprehend it.

  These lists are like the sign telling you not to drink from the toilet or urinal: they set the bar low and tell you things that are obvious, because, while we’re all asking these questions of ourselves, the majority of men are coming from a position that is already low.

  Of course you should listen to your daughter, respect her and show interest in the things she is interested in. This much should be obvious. Also, this
much shouldn’t be specific to daughters. You’d say that about a son. These are basic principles. None of them give me any insight into how fathers should be, other than very basic. Just showing up, it seems, is enough.

  The guidance for dads of daughters perpetuates gender stereotypes at every juncture. I find a list of twenty-five things on the Good Men Project website. I read them through a bunch of times, trying to ascertain where I score on this scale but also how many of these perpetuate an othering of daughters that we need to get beyond. Surely, the work should be done on us as men so that we don’t see surface differences and make conscious choices to either allow them to be one way or another. They just are. Amongst this list are some solid pieces of advice. But they hide amongst the foliage of men who don’t see women as humans, and thus have to be told to treat them a certain way.

  1.Tell her she’s pretty, but tell her other good things about herself more.

  2.Teach her that handymen don’t have to be men.

  3.Let her play in the mud.

  4.Remember that the way you talk about and treat women will have a lasting impact.

  5.Teach her the correct names for her genitals, and use them matter-of-factly.

  6.Indulge her imagination.

  7.Cry when the family pet dies.

  8.Teach her honesty and integrity in relationships by demon-strating them in yours.

  9.Read her books with great heroes – both boy and girl heroes.

  10.Teach her that she has power over her own body and sexuality.

  11.Teach her about male sexuality without fear-mongering.

  12.Share music with each other.

  13.Dress like a princess if she asks you to . . . And let her dress like a Power Ranger if she wants.

  14.Go with her to the nail salon and each of you get a pedicure.

  15.Include her in your favourite hobbies.

  16.Let her put on shows for you. Then put on a silly show for her.

  17.Let her choose any colour she wants for one wall in her room.

  18.Roughhouse with her.

  19.Inspire her with women role models who excel in traditionally male-dominated fields or activities.

  20.Don’t shame her for what she wants to wear – but exercise the power to modify.

  21.Look her in the eyes and have a real conversation at least once every single day that you’re together.

  22.As she gets older, tell her the truth about drugs. Don’t use scare tactics, be honest.

  23.Teach her that ‘No’ means ‘No’, for both herself and others.

  24.Allow her to be girly if that’s her thing, but don’t force her to be if she’s not.

  25.If she’s still little enough, hold her until she falls asleep sometimes.

  The first one, about telling her she’s pretty but also concentrating on other facets of her personality is important. Because you don’t want to perpetuate the quiet, pretty, seen-not-heard stereotype of little girls. But I fear that this is advice you’d want to apply to all your kids. Don’t big them up solely on one aspect of their personality. Big them up across the board. Stop going on about how intelligent they are, or how funny, or how pretty, rebellious, naughty, cheeky, quiet they are. It doesn’t build a rounded individual.

  So many of these bits of advice worry me because they are levelled specifically at a dad’s relationship with girls.

  I go through the list and try to work out what is specific to you and where I then need to fill in the gaps. Of course with boys and girls you should compliment them on things and not just focus on their looks or even one aspect of them. In another, more shouty ranty version of this book, I would go through each point and archly and hilariously take it apart. But you don’t need to waste your time with that. All you need to know is how I have thought deeply about how to treat you. I don’t agree with those who say ‘I don’t see colour’ when talking about race. It feels like a dodge that means you never get to deal with race.

  It’s the same with this list. I have to acknowledge that I am a man raising two daughters and there are things I need to be aware of. The list doesn’t give me much insight into this. I end up reading the list and thinking, we should do this for both boys and girls. Both should have male and female role models. The way I talk about and treat women, all parents talk about and treat women, will have lasting impacts for both boys and girls.

  Both boys and girls would benefit from a father who’s willing to get down in the mud with them, share stuff with them, be it music or films or photographs or emotions, and doesn’t mind looking silly. All of these things mean that children are raised in abundance. With a 360-degree view of the world, possibility and their relationships stretch far and wide and we’re not limiting ourselves to boys do boy things in boy clothes and girls sit quietly in their dresses and stay well away from the mud. Where we might want to teach you that ‘No’ means ‘No’, for both yourself and others, it’s just as important to teach this to boys.

  I ultimately find the list useless.

  The more I think about it, I’m left, increasingly, with my own version of this list. Don’t shame your daughter for the way she dresses, acts or the body she is in. Tell her she is perfect just the way she is and beautiful and smart and funny and everything else she is. Raise her in love, not shame, about the way she looks or feels. And never pin any of it on her being a girl.

  ‘Wipe your vagina properly,’ I shout to you one day, as you run to the toilet.

  You stop in your tracks and turn to me, confused.

  ‘What’s a bagina?’ you ask.

  ‘Your front bottom,’ I say.

  ‘Daddy,’ you say, shaking your head at me, like I’m an utter idiot. ‘I only have one bottom.’

  You run to the toilet and I go back to playing with your sister.

  ‘Daddy,’ you call, crying.

  I stand up and run towards you. My sock is wet. You’re standing there, your cheek hunched into a raised shoulder, your mouth turned upside down like the saddest emoji in the pack.

  ‘I had an accident,’ you say.

  In my effort to instruct you properly on your body, I stalled you and you wet yourself. I kneel down, my jeans immediately soaked by the puddle around you, and I gather you into me.

  ‘You have two bottoms, a front one and a back one,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘Daddy,’ you say, rubbing the back of my head. ‘You’re being silly. Is your wallet your front bottom?’

  I look into your eyes, remembering point twenty-one on the list, and I smile, knowingly.

  ‘Sure thing, baby,’ I say. ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl.’

  I want to hold you like that forever, even if it means kneeling in your wee. Which is fine, you only really drink water. I want to protect you from the world that others you and won’t let you play in the mud as default but at the same time thrust you into it and say, you can do whatever the fuck you want so long as you think about how it affects other people, and you’re generally nice. Play in the damn mud. Dress in whatever you want. Don’t let convention push you to deviate from who you want to be and what you want to be interested in. Don’t let these gender stereotypes distract you from who people really are. Don’t let them allow you to make judgements on who we should be.

  All that defines you is right here, in my arms.

  I think of all the women in my life, from your mum, to mine, to your aunties, to your fais and our friends.

  I think about Father’s Day, where I examine, yearly, my complicated relationship with my dad. I thank him for working seven days a week to provide food and shelter for us and I thank all the women, from my sisters to my aunties to my bas to my mum, who actually put in the time to raise me.

  I wish you had known my mum, Ganga. She trod this tightrope between cultural norms and progressiveness with an interesting balance, and it allowed her to exist in many different environments and never compromise who she was or what she th
ought of the world.

  I won’t always understand what you’re going through. I am a goofy embarrassing dad after all. And you will probably find my music utterly embarrassing. And I’ll think of your music: ‘Oh, things used to be so much better when I was younger, and oh, your music is soooo influenced by things I was listening to.’ And when you want to play in the mud, I’ll just sit on the sides and watch. I hate getting my hands dirty. See? Maybe we’re breaking gender conventions after all.

  I’m not entirely convinced I am a feminist woke dad. Firstly, I hate the current pejorative usage of the word woke. And feminist? All I can be is an ally. So how do I talk to you about being a girl? Your mother shows you how to navigate these things but what is my role as a dad in affirming you?

  Honestly and not in a binary way. You will always be faced with convention on what society deems girls are. And I cannot do anything about those outside influences. It’s your journey to go on, no matter how you self-identify in the years to come. All I can do is support and challenge you to not think about this as something simple as boy and girl. It’s all I can do. It’s the same thing I’d do if you were a boy. I guess it’s magnified by how much society makes it harder for you, as a girl, as a girl of colour. All I can say is, I’m here, I’m ready to talk and challenge and learn and support you the whole way, in the best way I can.

  There’s a picture of Mum overlooking your bed. It’s a picture of Mum from my wedding day. I’ve cropped myself out because I was stressed in that particular moment and didn’t want my photo taken. But she did, because it was her son’s wedding day and everything about it was radiant. Except my grumpy face. The photo of Mum is in a frame. You are fully aware she is dead. Occasionally you will remind me.

  ‘Daddy, your mummy died, didn’t she?’ occasionally you’ll ask.

  ‘Yes,’ I’ll reply.

  ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘Yes, darling, I’m always sad,’ I’ll tell you. I want you to know how much this all causes me pain.

  ‘Why did she die?’

  ‘She got sick,’ I say. ‘And she didn’t get better.’ I don’t quite know how to explain lung cancer to a three-year-old yet.