The Colour of Race
It bothers me, this feeling of trespassing,
taking certain bus routes
from Walthamstow, from Elephant and Castle.
Their colourful clothes, their dreadlocks,
the curiosity in that young boy's stare,
his white teeth when he smiles.
I catch one white woman saying to another,
"I wouldn't like my children growing up here.
It's so . . . multicultural."
What makes her look away? Why does she tremble?
Who are those in parka jackets, waiting in the darkness
for the first bus in Hounslow, in Tooting, in Oval?
Baristas. Cleaners. Bus drivers. Sales assistants.
Lives measured in shifts and toilet breaks,
happiness in the annual leave they take.
What about that man in the local
chicken shop? He's been frying drumsticks
for years and years. Does he ever speak?
I know who that Chinese girl is outside
Canary Wharf station, handing leaflets
to passers-by, on a weekend, for a few quid.
She studies management by day
and in the evening swipes meats and fruits
at the counter, but she'd stoop for any
job in this country, if it means she can stay.
Why does the Uber driver tell me
his story? He works seven days a week,
has never been to the theatre.
In Pakistan, his father is dying.
He's saving every penny for his children.
Nothing you can't buy with money. He smiles.
The cab passes slowly through the streets
in Chelsea, disappears into the traffic.
Copyright Credit: Jennifer Wong, "The Colour of Race" from Letters Home. Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Wong. Reprinted by permission of Nine Arches Press.
Source: Letters Home (Nine Arches Press, 2020)