I Wish My Blackness Didn’t Matter.

My colour is not my identity.

I was the second black student ever to attend my school. The first was my sister five years earlier. I was told that this was important but I couldn’t quite understand why it mattered.

This trend continued throughout my education. I was the second black pupil my piano teacher ever had. The first was my sister. I was the second black child to attend elocution lessons at the home of a nice old lady named Mrs Thompson. The first was my sister. My dad had insisted that we go so that we would speak English properly. He didn’t want us to be treated differently because of the colour of my skin. I couldn’t quite understand why it matters when I spoke the same way that all my friends did.

I was, believe it or not, the only black sprinter in the local athletics club. My sister wasn’t much of a sprinter so in this case, I was also the first. I grew up in a fast-growing, prosperous town in the South West of England with a population of around 150,000 people, and the only people I saw who looked like me were my family. It didn’t occur to me that this was remarkable until it was suggested to me years later.

Growing up I watched cartoons about giant robots and muscular white men who fought aliens and other giant robots. I spent hours every weekend watching their adventures…