For Those at the Edge.

There was a black family in Tesco when I was shopping on Monday. Black families are rare in Uttoxeter, and even rarer in Ashbourne. The parents were probably in their early thirties, the boy was around twelve or thirteen, and there were two younger girls. The girls were the ones I noticed first because they had their hair impeccably braided, and every fifth or sixth braid had been coloured a light copper. They looked stylish and very lovely. Somebody must have taken a lot of trouble to make them look that good.

They were blocking my route down the aisle and so I said ‘excuse me, please.’ The mother moved the kids out of the way and I walked past with a ‘thank you.’ And then she looked at me with a strange look which suggested surprise, and replied ‘you’re welcome.’ It occurred to me to wonder whether the strange look was the product of her not being used to white folks being polite to them. That would be very sad, wouldn’t it? But I don’t know. Maybe not. I hope not.

And tonight I was recalling my own childhood, and how I used to take the week’s dinner money on a Monday morning to buy five meal tickets. The children of poor families didn’t have to pay because they were entitled to free dinners courtesy of the welfare state. Their tickets were white; ours were blue. The difference in colour meant that everybody standing in line could see which kids could afford to pay for their meals, and which kids were too poor. Even at that age I detected a hint of stigma in the air. I assume they changed the system eventually, at least I hope they did.