OUT OF STEP IN STEPFORD
SEX AND THE SUBURBS
I’m just about to move into a community so deep in the suburbs it makes
Stepford seem like the ghetto. I’m assured the neighbouring ladies will
welcome me with home-made muffin baskets and invitations to little soirées
to discuss the best ways to decorate cupcakes and keep the private road free
from undesirables. Problem is, being black and HIV positive, and consequently
epitomising everything undesirable, I’ll need to come up with a cunning
plan to keep myself out.
During the election campaign, an insidious undercurrent of racism slithered
onto the agenda. The Tories’ ‘It’s not racist to want to
control immigration’ campaign had uncanny parallels to people who blithely
begin sentences with the preface: “I’m not racist, BUT…”
before launching into sudden attacks of xenophobic fury. More terrifying than
immigrants planning an anthrax attack on the Tube, according to some sections
of the popular press, are those coming into the country with HIV.
I’ve been accused of not living in the ‘real world’ because
I’ve claimed not to have experienced any discrimination because of my
HIV status. The same could be said of my
experiences of being black in Britain. Yes, I know racism is alive and kicking
in Merrie Olde England, but so far I haven’t faced it. Recently I’ve
begun to question my complacency on both counts. Am I blinkered to reality
by the Ready Brek glow of my seemingly charmed existence?
When it comes to choosing the appropriate tick box on
ethnicity forms, I vacillate pathetically and usually end up ticking most
of the options. I’m a confusing mix of Guyanese, Jamaican, Indian, Scottish
and Portuguese, born and bred in the exotic wilds of Croydon. I’ve been
accused on occasion of being a “coconut” or “Bounty bar”
(brown on the outside, white on the inside) along with some of my friends
who are also dating white men and do supposedly ‘white’ stuff
(seeing that none of us has so far attended a BNP rally, I’m not quite
sure what constitutes white behaviour). However, when
I witness vitriolic attacks based on race, it’s easy to choose sides.
In the clichéd words of James Brown, I’ll say it loud –
I’m black and I’m proud.
When it comes to HIV services, however, I’m not quite sure where I fit.
There are many support groups for people from African communities and for
gay men, but nothing as far as
I can tell for multi-raced Brits with a penchant for shopping. I know of a
few other people who feel that they don’t seem to fit with the parameters
of many groups. I have heard of a support group for heterosexuals who are
‘culturally European’, but I’m not sure that I’d be
admissible, being able to cook rice and peas and fry plantains. 
I
think it was Norman Tebbit who said you could discern whether someone was
sufficiently British by the cricket team they supported. Well, I have no understanding
or interest in cricket, beyond expressing mild pleasure whenever the West
Indies wins. Guess that’s grounds for my deportation then.
Being black and living in Britain certainly doesn’t mean that the millions
of us who fall somewhere within that extraordinarily broad category have anything
in common. Being black and living with HIV in Britain, although narrowing
the group down somewhat, again doesn’t mean that we’ll have anything
in common, beyond having the nasty bug. Even within smaller sub groups, such
as being West Indian,
cultural differences exist. I know the Guyanese part of me is rather suspicious
of my Jamaican fraction. Lumping all of the African countries together and
assuming that everyone from the continent is similar also seems questionable.
Would you assume that someone from Ireland would necessarily have a great
deal in common with someone from Lithuania?
Our race or culture does not define who we are. Nor does HIV. Maybe it helps
those who need the world sufficiently
simplified in order to achieve some understanding, to neatly place us into
groups. Perhaps people living with HIV are less alarming to some sections
of society if we are placed in sub-groups and turn against each other. Bollocks
to all of that, I say.
Well, I can’t stand about chit-chatting, I need to buy a
twinset and pearls and work on that cupcake recipe before the move. However,
the first thing I’m going to do on arriving at Stepford is to get the
other wives to sign a petition in order to get a Morley’s Fried Chicken
opened in the area. You can take the girl out of the West Indies, but you
can’t take the West Indian out of the girl.
