THE arch-racist imperialist Cecil Rhodes once said: “To be born English is to win first prize in the lottery of life.”

Closer to home, in 1937, another arch-racist, Winston Churchill, displayed his own master race inclinations when he said: “I do not believe that the dog in the manger has the right to the manger, simply because he has lain there for so long. I do not believe that the Red Indian has been wronged in America, or the black man has been wronged in Australia, simply because they have been displaced by a higher, stronger race.”

To them everything other than white is inferior and to be treated that way. Sadly these were not isolated views and were and are prevalent throughout England.

These statements get to the heart of the conversation I continue to have with myself regarding how much others regard me as English and, therefore, as having any worth, but, much more importantly, the extent to which I attach Englishness and worth to myself.

By birth I am absolutely English, even though I was once told within six inches of my face by some bad-breathed racist that it takes more than birth to make me English.

I am proud to have been born a Black Country boy. Not a piece of land set aside for black people but an area of the Midlands, with an often contested boundary, that was the centre of the Industrial Revolution.

Those of us coming from the Black Country are very proud of this part of our heritage but many of us have other ancestry from outside the area that we are equally proud to draw on.

The recent weeks of surging racism and, prior to that the European football competition, has once again sparked in me the vexed question of my Englishness or lack thereof.

I failed the so-called “Tebbit test” years ago. This was where the former right-wing Tory secretary of state Norman Tebbit talked about the importance of youth from the former colonies supporting England rather than India, Pakistan or West Indies etc in cricket matches. The truth is that I have never supported any English team in any sport at any time.

I guess some of this stems back to the South African-born England cricket captain Tony Greig claiming in 1976 that it was his intention to make the West Indian cricket team “grovel” during that summer’s series in England.

I cannot believe that he did not understand the connotations that would be drawn from the comments of a white South African at the height of apartheid by both the black community and, of course, white racists.

I remember being at the Saturday session of the Oval Test Match in London watching “Whispering Death” Michael Holding destroy the English batting, including Greig. Truthfully, it has always been so much more than just about cricket or any other sport.

Perhaps it was the years of being forcefully told that the lovely colour of my skin means that I can’t possibly be English despite the fact of my birth.

Forgive me for never getting over — as some have suggested I should — the stealing my ancestors from their lives in Africa by the English and their transport in the most horrendous conditions to be in enslavement for hundreds of years, all to enrich English capital.

Or for my own lack of forgiveness for my ancestors being kept in a state of semi-enslavement through the colonial years in Jamaica.

It could be the scars of being spat at and harassed on a daily basis as a five-year-old walking to and from school every day just months after racist Enoch Powell’s so-called “rivers of blood” speech which he delivered in Birmingham less than 10 miles from my home.

I have never really gotten over having my skin rubbed — as man and boy — to see if my colour came off like shoe polish and my hair rubbed and marvelled at how it allegedly resembled cotton wool.

My dilemma certainly has not been helped by being taught to hate myself because I was not white and the effort it took to hide this and the very many years it took me to even like myself despite the flags of St George or the Union Jack being waved in my face as I was threatened with violence. So please don’t talk to me about how I should “fly the flag.”

When it became apparent that I was failing to join in with whatever the latest display of English nationalism or alleged patriotism was, I would sometimes get called out by friends or colleagues.

The simple answer is that if you have spent your entire life being told that you are not really English and that you are inferior because of the colour of your skin, it’s impossible to just to turn a switch and become English for the duration of the match or tournament — even if I wanted to.

I realise that not every black person feels the same way that I do. That’s fine — we are not a monolith — even though I have been often called on to speak on behalf of the thoughts of every person of African descent ever born or likely to be born.

My late parents always told me that I had to be twice as good as everyone else just to be considered the same. I gave up on this quest sometime during my early twenties.
    
It was already clear to me that it was completely unachievable. Not just because of my own limited capabilities but because far too many people were unable to look beyond the colour of my skin in their judgement of me.

Much later, even during some of the high points in a job sense of my trade union career, I learned of comments made more than once about me only having achieved these positions because of some apparent box-ticking exercise.

In many ways it was a liberation not to be burdened with being bothered about proving myself to anyone but myself. But I would be lying if I didn’t say hearing those comments was anything less than hurtful — especially coming from within the labour movement.

Thankfully I no longer lose sleep worrying about it as I work in one of the best jobs I have ever had with some of the very best comrades.

All of this said, whenever I leave England I always look forward to returning home. Maybe it’s petty nationalism that I am allergic to and the way that I am expected to demonstrate the same as and when called on to do so?

But I never confuse missing home with a delusion that a country that can do what it did to my ancestors, without the remotest sign of reparations, and will do nothing concrete to bring an end to the long-made surge in racism, is a great nation. Because great it is not! But it could be!

So whatever patterned cloth you choose to drape yourself in — whatever your colour — is your business. I will take a pass, thank you very much. 

I am a product of my ancestors and everything they went through to allow me to sit here and scratch out these words. 

I will never forget or forgive the humiliation often meted out to them and the racism I have seen and endured on the warped basis of a fictional white superiority. 

It means I cannot join you in displaying a nationalism or so-called patriotism that my experience tells me will all too quickly be turned against me.