The first time someone called me a “P**i”, I cried. It was in primary school and a girl named Holly had taken issue with me tagging her in a game of tag. Now, I’m not sure that Holly fully understood the rules of the game, or indeed at the age of eight, appreciated the gravitas of what she’d said, but I certainly did.
It hurt more than anything I’d been called before then – including the sting that was “snotty snot face bum head” in Year One – because it targeted something that I couldn’t help: my skin colour. And ultimately that’s what racism does; it leaves you feeling helpless, wondering what you did to deserve it.
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