Paperboy

It was an icy cold winter morning, frost shimmering on hedgerows and driveways, concealing the hazardous black ice that lay underneath. I tried to mount my bike to ride up the hill but to no avail; the tyres simply defied friction. I conceded to trudge up the hill and push my bike instead, lugging the heavy hi-vis bag laden with thick, printed copies of the latest breaking news. I was hot and bothered, irritated by the idiosyncratic contrast between the body heat generated by the strenuous activity and my gloved yet frozen hands. It seemed as though the load was getting heavier by the week but the wage packet remained the same. Of course, I daren’t raise it with the shopkeeper. She already kept me at arms length and peered at me from the corner of her eye, as though if she came too close she’d catch something.

As my laboured breathing increased, creating a small cloud in front of me, I crested the top of the hill, glimpsing the first few homes for whom a fresh newspaper delivery was destined. At the youthful age of 12 going on 13, I was as fit as a fiddle. Running, swimming, cycling, karate, competing nationally as a triathlete. Despite this, the ascent was tough and I felt a stab of envy as I watched the other kids leave the visibly cosy warmth of their homes to sit in their nice, midrange family cars and make their way to school. One of them looked up at me and I reflexively averted my gaze, fearing their derision at my foreign features and humble clothing, something I’d grown so accustomed to. 

Growing up in a less diverse area was challenging as an Indian family. We constantly faced undermining, second class citizenship, snide comments, and general distaste. Our neighbourhood was very ordinary, a working class suburb adjacent to a council estate. My dad worked as a warehouse operative and my mum, a chemistry graduate, stayed at home to home-educate my sister and I. The kids we used to play with in the park all seemed so privileged to me. Free from judgement, on the winning side, the characteristics I aspired to exude. I felt as though I could never be as cool as them, always more the uncool, inferior brown kid. Interaction with the opposite sex wasn’t even close to a tangible reality; I’d be laughed away or ignored.

We didn’t have much money, so financial anxiety pervaded everything, as well as compounding the way we were treated. Poor and brown is a terrible combination if people want to feel superior to you. There was many a time when we would be forced to swallow our pride and simply accept maltreatment for fear of escalation or unfair persecution. Rudeness at grocery stores, the post office, the local Londis. A landlady performing a home visit, terrorising my mum, threatening to take our furniture if we couldn’t pay the rent. Surviving as a family of four on a £10 a week budget was a challenging existence that would send anyone into a dizzying spiral but somehow my mum kept it together. She never let on how severe our financial hardship was and ran a tight ship, ensuring my sister and I could still experience a fulfilling childhood. Charity shops and reduced food aisles were a staple that kept us all dressed and fed every day. I will forever be indebted to her for this and remain inspired by her fortitude.

My experience of growing up was objective and my consequential reflection is subjective. As a kid, I didn’t live my life on the daily feeling hard done by. I had a part time job and learned the importance of saving money since the age of 12. There was strife but it was mixed in with some golden memories that I’ll always cherish. For as long as I can remember, there were blazing rows and tension at home, usually triggered by fraught finances. However, I was surrounded by privilege. My parents loved me. My mum taught me maths, science, and English at home with my sister for 8 years of my life. I went on bike rides with my dad. He taught me how to tie a tie and wear a suit. I always had a roof over my head and we always had food on the table. I was fortunate enough to attend a private secondary school from age 14 on a 100% bursary that was secured by my mum and supported by my ability to run fast as well as a headmaster who saw potential in me. Despite the ostensible tumult of life, I learned lesson after lesson, shaping me into who I am now. Whilst I was home educated, I remember raring to flee the nest particularly in the latter few years, desperate to see the world. Yet, I spent precious years with my mum and sister, learning about myself in a safe space without external peer pressure. I managed to bypass the potential risk of becoming waylaid and negatively influenced by bad company, something that was a very real probability where I grew up. Attending an independent school was nonetheless a turbulent time for me as I entered a social rollercoaster, never quite feeling like I fit in due to my less well off background. I remember trying to hide my true self through shame. However, this experience opened my eyes to how the other side lives, something which was completely alien to me and dramatically inspired me to hone my ambition and aspirations through an insight into a better way of life.

This is neither a sob story, nor an attempt to prove self worth. I solely wish to tell an autobiographical story that I feel compelled to write. It’s a weird thing to feel different. Everywhere I go, I feel this nagging sense of not quite belonging. Always being just a little bit different. Not special by any stretch of the imagination. Just different. A hybrid identity, constantly code switching to adapt. It’s something I’ve never been certain how to appraise or clearly articulate. Perhaps it doesn’t need any further clarification than to just be recognised in the first instance. I wear the evidence of my ancestral origin every day on my skin and in my non-Western features. I often find myself acutely aware of people’s reaction to me. Did they ignore me because I’m brown? Did they look straight through me because I’m brown? Perhaps it’s a conditioned, learned response. Maybe people look at me in strange ways because they find me interesting, which, in and of itself, is discreetly flawed; I’d prefer people to see me for who I am, just like they’d see anybody else. I’m particular about dressing well and wearing suits to work and conferences, taking pride and enjoyment in well curated formal wear. This is something that originated in my childhood and has been engrained ever since. Through infantile eyes, I watched people who were deemed successful clad in suits, looking so professional whilst doing so. I accordingly grew up inherently believing that when I had a professional job I would wear a suit too. However, I’ve noticed that this external appearance can sometimes lend itself to a negative reception. I may come across as wealthy, entitled, obnoxious, narcissistic, or arrogant. I take comfort in harbouring adequate insight to hope that this description is incorrect; I’m certain when people eventually get to know me they discover I’m quite normal. But for some reason, as first impressions go, ensuring I come across in the best light leads to a less favourable interaction.

I hope that one day there will be a world where we can walk free without prejudice. Life is already complicated and humanity diverse but we all have a commonality, an inherent understanding of basic needs. A volition to be appreciated, loved, touched, whatever that innate language may be. Our interconnected psyches scintillate around each other, perpetually in flux, hardship and joy conjoined in disharmonious choreography.

I hope if you’re reading this that you feel ok. That you have a moment to be still and appreciate where you are in life. Even if it’s a far cry from where you imagined yourself to be, I hope you’ve thought of at least one thing you’ve done well today. We hurtle so fast through life without pause, always moving forwards, rarely looking back to reflect. We juggle priorities, we vilify ourselves, we constantly question whether we did the right thing, whether we made people happy or whether we just caused hurt. Searing tears, a deep rooted agony bursting from the soul in a hoarse scream. Lessons of love, loss, loathing, and loneliness. Overthinking, under thinking, anxious and hyperactive, perpetually deficient of attention at the mercy of illicit, subconscious corporate cognitive manipulation. In a world so seemingly dyspnoeic with strife, where Nazi salutes can be justified through gaslighting, we must be kind and compassionate to those around us. Say please and thank you. Smile. Encourage each other. Lend a helping hand. Hold doors open. Betterment is right here in our palms.

Someday, I hope you take the time to pause and lock eyes with yourself in a moment of reflection. Despite the confusion you may feel, I know that deep down, somewhere far far away in that dark, long forgotten recess of your psyche, somewhere where millions of memories lay gathering dust stands a little paper boy, quietly looking up at you.

Smiling. Dew eyed with admiration.

And he’s so proud of you.