Our Playground: A meadow behind the first apartment building of the Componistenbuurt neighborhood. Or was it the last of the four? It doesn’t really matter; it all depends on the perspective, doesn’t it? Isn’t that the way with everything in life?

With winding ditches to jump over, a footpath leading to the swimming pool, and fresh cow’s milk sold by the farmer every day. On that particular day, it was just before dinnertime; my cousin and I were on our way home. Suddenly, we froze in shock, staring right into the eyes of two dogs.

In the time, place, and family I grew up in, mixed relationships were rare. Despite the fact that my mother had met my father through her sister’s British-Caribbean husband, their relationship was accepted, but comments were made about his skin color and background. Because of this, both directly and indirectly, I always felt different. I wasn’t cursed at or ignored, but there were always those jokes and comments. Could I wipe off my skin color? I didn’t need makeup to be Zwarte Piet. Was I adopted? And did my mother love me as much as my blonde sister? Strange, isn’t it?

To give my mother some relief, her eldest sister often stayed with us. Mom was tired and down; she was combining her training as a caregiver with looking after the family, and it took a toll. Our aunt was seen as the pillar of the family. The bond between her and my mother was strong, but there were deep-rooted issues as well. Even if she probably didn’t mean harm, her words were often tinged with a sharp, sarcastic edge. During my teenage years, I received negative comments from her when I lost twenty kilos. She, along with other family members, didn’t see the struggle I went through against my weight, nor my determination to be healthy and feel beautiful as a young woman. “Your face is getting so thin, we don’t recognize you anymore,” they’d say. And when I excitedly shared my plans to go from secondary to higher vocational education, she rolled her eyes and let me know I shouldn’t think too highly of myself and would be better off getting a full-time job.

Back to the two dogs: following them came the family—father, mother, and two sons about our age, I’d guess. And how old were we anyway? My cousin was six, and I was about fourteen, something like that. Just moments before, everything had been fine, but now we were frozen in fear. The father shouted, and his target was my brown skin. It reminded me of the time my aunt called me a “black monster.” I was terrified, but I didn’t show it.

Also scared, sad, or shocked was the younger son. I still see his face in my mind: childlike innocence, and a look of pure disbelief that what was happening at that moment wasn’t right. Did his father’s hate leave an impact on the rest of his life? Because racism doesn’t just affect the person being discriminated against—it impacts us all.

Natalie

(Foto: Erik Mclean@Pexels)