Issue #15: On Dealing with Microaggression

This year makes it eight years since I moved to England. While there are many things I love about this country I now call home, there is also a litany of reasons I hate living here sometimes. The weather is almost always dreadful, and everything appears pale and stripped of colour as if dead and at the onset of pallor mortis. But I have learnt how to cope. I take my Vitamin D tablets and constantly make small talk and moan about the weather with friends and colleagues. It’s the British way. What I haven’t gotten used to, however, is the passive aggressiveness and microaggression I sometimes experience as a black man living in the UK. If you speak with almost every black person in this country, I bet they have stories about their experiences with microaggression - the subtle slights and jabs thrown our way as we go about our lives; white people avoiding sitting next to a black person on the tube; white people crossing the road or clutching their purses when they see a black person approaching; white people asking you “How come you speak English so well?”. These actions are often subtle, but they hurt deeply.

My first experience with microaggression was as a student at my university in North London. I took out a camera from the library to record a coursework video for a New Media module I took. It was a Friday, and I was due to return it on the day, or I would be required to pay a late return fee on the following Monday. I was a broke student, so I couldn’t afford to pay a fine. Anyway, I went home after the shoot to take a quick nap to recover and then head to the library before the 5 pm return cutoff time. I woke up around 6 pm. The “quick nap” lasted for more than three hours. I jumped out of bed and ran to the Uni library when I woke up. Mo Farah had nothing on me that day. I got to the library, and, of course, the return office had closed.

I met the library security guy, explained the situation to him, and asked him if he could take the camera in for me, so I wouldn’t have to pay the fine. He couldn’t help me, but he started telling me what I could say to them at the return office on Monday to skirt the fine, and then suddenly, he stopped and said, “I shouldn’t be teaching you how to lie. You’re black”. What he said didn’t register at first. It wasn’t until I was on my way home, camera in hand, that it dawned on me. That comment was made to disparage and disdain, and it stemmed from his racially biased stereotypical view of black people. And that is the annoying thing about being at the receiving end of microaggression. Because it is so subtle, you don’t immediately recognise it. You only realise what had been done moments after, sometimes hours or days after, and you are left with anger, frustration, and thoughts about the retorts you could have fired back at the microaggressor. It’s awful.

And it happens everywhere and to everyone, rich or poor. As long as you belong to a racial minority group, you will experience microaggression. You start making more money, move to nicer areas, wear expensive clothes, drive around in a Tesla, and you sometimes get lulled into a feeling of safety, but it is always lurking, and you are reminded, often in the most unlikely places, that you don’t belong and that you aren’t entirely accepted. It sucks. My most recent experience was at a private dental clinic. I called to book an appointment, and the lady on the line said, “Do you realise this is a private dental clinic?” to which I replied yes. Again, it wasn’t until later that I started wondering why she asked me that. Would she have asked me that if I spoke with a posh British accent? Did she ask me that because she figured I was African and assumed I couldn’t afford their services? That’s what microaggression does to you. It makes you question everything. I may have found a way of coping with the atrocious British weather, but I will never get used to how I feel when I experience microaggression.