Dave Read

1975, I’m 9 years old, running through the playground at Gateway School on the Lisson Grove. It’s not my school, we’re there alone on some fun day for kids. I'm running as fast as I can, gripping the handle of the wooden toy pram in which my sister is sitting, laughing. I feel my legs taken from under me. I come down hard, still gripping onto the pram. All my knuckles bar the thumbs and little fingers tear down to the bone as they smash and scrape along the brutal concrete. My knees are next. The pain is indescribable. I can't believe he tripped me up. We're not on the estate, where we live, but he still calls me Paki and laughs. I'm bawling my eyes out, and eventually someone comes and tries to sort it out. Can't be done. The iodine makes me scream. I can't believe the pain. They call my mum. She comes over. She's utterly horrified and can't believe what's happened to me. We go home. I can barely walk. I can't use my hands. The agony is relentless. It will be months before the skin grows back under the slow-forming scars. I still have them at 58. She leaves us at home, then walks over to the neighbour's place, alone, and starts to shout at the mum. "Come and look at what your son did to mine! Come and look! Do you think it is fair?" Eventually, they come. I'm sheepish. I don't want to face this monstrous fucker who has made our lives hell (along with the others) in the year and a half we've been there. The one who knocks on our door and brazenly says to my mum "You're blocking the drains. You all smell of curry". That's it, that's the purpose of his visit. He gets away with it, but not this time. My mum is livid and when his mum sees the state of me, she tells him to say sorry. Then, and this is insane when I think about it, somehow, the mums make us play together once my hands can hold a ball. He's not racist when we play the one time. He's on parole. Then a few weeks later, back to "Paki" and "Curry" and we are bullied by the whole estate for years. I'm beaten up. My sister is beaten up. My brother is beaten up. Our door is smashed. The mobs are outside screaming, breaking windows. A copper comes over during a particularly terrifying episode when we all think we're going to die and says "You're going to have to grin and bear it." Don't you dare tell me about your fucking legitimate concerns. I took nothing from you. I tried to make peace with you. I forgave my abusers. No more. Today I know the generosity of the vast majority of my country, and I know I'm not alone. You're not backtracking out of this one, not this time. You don't get to call me Paki anymore. We are not going to grin and bear it. This time, the copper is coming over and is putting you behind bars and you are going down. Maybe when you come out, you'll be reformed. Maybe you'll be bitter. That's fine. I don't care either way. I'll be living my best life while you think about what you've done. And I'll be doing it with the vast majority of my country, who don't like fash any more than I do. I refuse to be terrorised. I refuse to be afraid. I refuse to lose hope. One day, before it's too late, I hope you realise what it means to make someone feel like they're not welcome in their own home, that they should burn and die. And I hope you feel ashamed. And I hope you feel remorse. And if you do, let's have a cup of tea and let bygones be bygones and get our country back on its feet. Deal?

The constant soundtrack of my childhood: “Down where the lights are flashing We’re going Paki bashing” Echoing down to the chants taught to children today. What’s heartening is that even then, though I didn’t know it, there were people like this brave soul prepared to say “No”

Remember, beauty is here too. Give your amygdala a rest. You can’t spend your life with your nervous system in overdrive, you’ll end up paralysed. We can’t get out of the cycle that way. Enjoy, and peace to you and yours. Good night!