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Great Writing - Home > Non-Fiction > Kev's story
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Non-Fiction
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| Kev's story | |
| By Leo | ||||||||||||
| 25 June 2006 | ||||||||||||
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After i wrote 'childhood memories', i found myself thinking back to my school days. Remembering people, places and events. This is one series of thoughts/reflections Essex, The early 1980’s… The children from the kids home were easy to spot. It was their clothes. They never wore fashionable clothes. Bearing in mind this was a generation of teenagers that defined themselves not so much by the style of their clothing, but by its cost. It was cool to spend ridiculous amounts of money on clothing. Clothing was status. So whilst others were wearing Farah trousers, Sergio Tacchini track suits, Lacoste tee shirts and Adidas trainers, the children from the kids home wore clothes that had no badges or labels. They were quite often hand me downs from older kids. Threadbare, shiny and tired. And it was noticeable, that they often wore the same outfit every day of the week. I heard Kevin once, when he tried to defend himself, after another kid had said something. He said that there wasn’t any need to wash them after a couple of days, because they weren’t dirty. He didn’t need to justify anything. It was probably said as much to convince himself he wasn’t any less valuable than the next kid. I’ll never know, it’s just me speculating with the benefit of hindsight. There was one other thing that set Kevin apart from the other kids in the school. And that was even more striking. Kevin was black. On reflection I suppose there are a limited number of children’s homes across London and the South East in which social services could place kids. But with Kevin, they placed him in a predominantly, if not exclusively white town on the outskirts of London. I can’t imagine he could have felt any lonelier if he had been placed on the moon. What was he 12? 13? When you’re that age the world seems to be stacked up against you anyway. I can remember running up to my room to escape my tyrannical mum. Slamming my bedroom door, and crying my eyes out in rage when I didn’t get what I wanted. But at least I had a room. At least I had my mum there to fall out with. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to be alone. Truly alone. To the other kids he was an oddity. Something of a freak. “Do you bleed red blood? They would enquire. “Can I touch your hair? Why is it so curly? Do you perm it?” And he was also a target for fun. “Hello rubber lips….” And with that the other child would invariably extend his index finger and run it up and down over his pouting lips, “ha ha ha” They just laughed at one another, feeding off of the shared sense of power that humiliating someone gave them. Then they just walked off. As if nothing had happened. Never having any regard for the consequence of their actions. Such attacks became a routine occurrence. Sometimes they turned physical. As Kevin made for the school gates, a group of boys would form a human ring around him. The boys who liked the sound of their own voices. The sort that grew in stature when they coalesced in a mob. They would chant: “Zigger zigger zigger kill that nigger!” “Zigger zigger zigger kill that nigger!!” And then they were on him. At first he tried to fight back. But they overwhelmed him within moments. You might occasionally see one of his spindly little legs sticking out from the heaving mass for a few seconds. You would see his big cheap chunky trainer, which would invariably be pulled off and chucked onto the roof of the bike shed. His shrieks were drowned out by the laughter and jeers. Then, the now near rabid mob would surround him, totally obscure him from view and pulse up and down. They had succeeded in pulling the thick elastic rim of his underpants out above the waist band of his trousers. The cheers would intensify as the attack peaked, and they managed to tear the thick elastic waistband away from the flimsy material from which his pants were constructed. You would see him wince and hold his stomach. He was in pain. On more than one occasion I can remember seeing him cry. The torn ragged band would get flicked and flung around by the baying pack before it ended up lying amongst the gravel and sweet wrappers that collected along the kerbside in the teacher’s car park. Sometimes it was a surprise attack, other times there was a build up during lessons, and the attack was in the air. He would be seen tucking his shirt and jumper into his trousers and tightening his belt. You would see him scanning around as he made his way quickly to the school gates. Keeping light on his toes, ready to run. His life must have been lived on the edge. Day in, day out, without any let up. As a sort of defensive strategy he assumed the role of the school jester. Doing anything to raise a laugh. I guess, in order to get people to like him. Or at least leave him alone. In the corridors at break time there would be calls for him to ‘Show us your body popping Kev’. And like a performing animal in a cage, he would oblige. To whoops of glee. In truth I don’t think the vast percentage of people treated him so nastily out of hate. In the main I think it arose from a sort of an inbuilt tribalism that seems to be the genetic default. He was just different to others. His skin colour, his background, his home, his lifestyle. In some ways it seems more tragic that his whole experience at school was blighted by one thing, and one thing alone. Ignorance. It was something that could so easily have beeen remedied by parents. All they really needed to do was take a little time out to explain that different was not necessarily wrong. But I guess that when you are talking about many of these parents, you are talking about a generation that had little or no exposure to other races and cultures. He probably didn’t really stand a chance. Some people did befriend him. The sad truth was that the majority of people that showed him any friendship would switch back in an instant. They would turn back against him and join the pack. The irresistible pull of the tribe, far more powerful than the urge to do the right thing. I seemed got on well with him. I genuinely believe in my heart I tried to show him true friendship. My dad had been brought up in the care system, having been torn away from his family he was moved from pillar to post, care home to foster family. As a result I felt I had at least some tangential insight into what it was to be an outsider. Every once in a while a group of us would travel up on the central line to Carnaby Street on a Saturday. To spend time looking through the shops and taking in the sights. It was out little adventure. He would relax and have fun. It might have been a little easier being out of the school setting. Being away from the cruel dynamics that exist when teenagers are present in any great numbers. On reflection, I don’t know how I came across, whether I was too earnest or whether he felt others just seemed to treat him somehow differently from everyone else. I didn’t ask him, so I’ll never know. Looking back I don’t imagine he ever had any real friends. Friends he could completely trust or confide in. I don’t imagine he could ever let himself get close to anyone. He never opened up. His truth was always partitioned away somewhere very deep inside. I have no idea about his family, or how he ended up in a kid’s home. I don’t even know his real name; Kevin was one that he was given when he came into this country. But my heart goes out to him. To this day. In the end, when everyone left school and went their separate ways, he just kind of disappeared. All I can hope is that he went on to bigger and better things, and managed to find himself surrounded by more enlightened individuals. All I would like to say is, wherever you are, whatever you are doing now Kev, go in peace...
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