The Happily Never After: Co-Existing with Racism.

My life was a fairytale. After all that is what racism is. A structured narrative that clearly outlines “right” and “wrong”. But the truth, Well, that is in the eyes of the beholder, and it is inescapable. I cannot escape your truth any more than you can mine.

The difference between this fairytale and those we read to our children are that I will never have “and they lived happily ever after”. I will not defeat the villains because they have too many faces, too many roots, growing every day in shadows. My victory is not a conclusion, but survival, one fight after the other.

As I try to tell you this story now, I realize that — though it is untold — it is fatigued and worn out. You will know all the words as if it is the lyrics to Disney songs: bullied, discriminated, humiliated and taunted.

Perhaps this is not my story. It is ours. We are standing in two separate prisons, holding the keys to each other’s cells. I might be your monster but you are mine. I cannot set you free any more than you can me.

I remember you. The man who bumped into me and murmured, “fucking paki”. At least you got the nationality right. I remember you too. The woman on the airplane who shifted in her chair when I sneezed, and then whispered to her husband, “God knows what disease she has”. It was allergy, ma’am, from the fake cold air that blew dust into my eyes and nose. I remember the substitute teacher, who introduced himself by saying that he did not shake hands with Muslims because their hands were dirty. He glanced at me. Perhaps you did notice me, the only brown girl in class until you said it, or perhaps you saw me from the second you walked in.

I smiled. I don’t know why but my heart was beating faster and I was afraid so I smiled, trying to make you feel comfortable with my existence.

I was nine then.

The fairytale continued, and the plot thickened as I walked alone on the broad streets of Danmark. There was always a group of men, gathering to drink a pack of beers in some corner. I had to walk past them but I noticed how their voices would die out. One of them yelled, “Go back to where you came from”.

Although I was a child, I was not sheltered from the meaning of these words. No part of me was wondering and I did not tell him that I was in fact going home. The bond of birth is not strong enough between my nation and me. My colour, my cultural background and my faith create loopholes in my identity. I am a Dane with a footnote attached.

Most people don’t understand that racism is more than obvious abuse. Racism is dehumanization. An act of reducing someone to a single fact of a feature. Racism is being sceptic by the things that separate you, though a hundred things may unite you.

But what good has it ever done to tell anyone these stories? Why keep beating out heads against the same wall? Is it to share the trauma and feel relief?

The trauma is not over. It is not in the past. We are still living in this reality.

Is it than to share the disappointment and sadness so we can feel less alone?

Racism does not hurt. This humiliation, objectification and fight to be human is not an emotional struggle. It is a struggle to survive with your body, mind and soul.

I did not cry when they yelled after me, not even when I got home. The rule is to keep your head down. To remind yourself to be small.

I looked down when they spoke.

Be quiet and they might leave you alone.

I kept my eyes on my shoes, watching one foot move over the other.

Don’t run. They might try to run after you. It is over soon.

Eventually, the distance grows and their voices fade. They are left behind on that road and you can continue your day.

It is just one more story, one more victory.

And so it goes one.

Our Happily Never After.