As Anita was mulling this over, and wondering whether she should buy a card—or anything at all—she couldn't help but overhear the attendant chattering on the phone.
"Are you coming down tomorrow?" the nice lady asked her friend on the other end of the line. "Yeah, of course, it's Darkie Day, isn't it?"
"And immediately, it was like someone had jerked my head on a string," Anita recalls. "I snapped my head to look at her, and it was so fast, I—I almost cricked my neck."
Red-faced, the woman spluttered into the phone, "Oh, uh, okay, Jean, I'll call ya back, I'll call ya back."
But Anita was already gone. As she stormed outside to take the sea air, she kept asking herself: What the hell is Darkie Day?
Unfortunately, she was bound to find out: they had reservations at Rick Stein's on New Year's Day. The celebrity fish freak owned four eateries in town, as well as a hotel and a Seafood School. Foodies travelled from around the country to eat at his flagship restaurant in "Padstein". So they couldn't just cancel their reservations.
In the car on the way back to their cottage, Anita began to worry. "Oh my God, did you hear what she said?" she asked her future in-laws.
"Oh, what was that, dear?"
They had never heard of Darkie Day—and they'd been visiting Cornwall for 30 years.
They were educated, highly progressive people; in fact, they were so colourblind—in the well-meaning sense of the word—that they didn't seem to understand why she might be concerned.
"It's probably nothing," they said.
But that didn't make her feel better.
Usually, when she went to Cornwall, she was the only dark face around—you didn't see many Asians, and certainly in the winter, you didn't see any outsiders. When you walked into the locals' pub—their pub—everyone would stop, and they'd register you; you were a curiosity. And God only knew what the Cornish did when everyone went away and they were left to their own devices. Who knew what happens in the depths of Britain? Darkie Day didn't sound exactly positive for black people, did it? It was like "Coon Day" or "Racial Slur Day" or something.
From the woman's reaction, Anita couldn't tell if it was something innocuous or sinister. It was like some sort of secret ritual they were planning, that outsiders weren't meant to know about. Was it some sort of local Ku Klux Klan?
At the very least, it was probably going to be very uncomfortable and embarrassing; at the very most—well, who knew? Possibly a white-sheet job. If she got a sniff that it was even remotely Ku Klux Klanny, she would be out of there like a bat out of hell.
By the time they returned on Darkie Day—that was the other weird thing, they didn't call it "New Year's Day"—Anita had just about rationalised away her fears. Maybe it's just an expression… maybe it's nothing… maybe I'm overreacting.
"Are you coming down tomorrow?" the nice lady asked her friend on the other end of the line. "Yeah, of course, it's Darkie Day, isn't it?"
"And immediately, it was like someone had jerked my head on a string," Anita recalls. "I snapped my head to look at her, and it was so fast, I—I almost cricked my neck."
Red-faced, the woman spluttered into the phone, "Oh, uh, okay, Jean, I'll call ya back, I'll call ya back."
But Anita was already gone. As she stormed outside to take the sea air, she kept asking herself: What the hell is Darkie Day?
Unfortunately, she was bound to find out: they had reservations at Rick Stein's on New Year's Day. The celebrity fish freak owned four eateries in town, as well as a hotel and a Seafood School. Foodies travelled from around the country to eat at his flagship restaurant in "Padstein". So they couldn't just cancel their reservations.
In the car on the way back to their cottage, Anita began to worry. "Oh my God, did you hear what she said?" she asked her future in-laws.
"Oh, what was that, dear?"
They had never heard of Darkie Day—and they'd been visiting Cornwall for 30 years.
They were educated, highly progressive people; in fact, they were so colourblind—in the well-meaning sense of the word—that they didn't seem to understand why she might be concerned.
"It's probably nothing," they said.
But that didn't make her feel better.
Usually, when she went to Cornwall, she was the only dark face around—you didn't see many Asians, and certainly in the winter, you didn't see any outsiders. When you walked into the locals' pub—their pub—everyone would stop, and they'd register you; you were a curiosity. And God only knew what the Cornish did when everyone went away and they were left to their own devices. Who knew what happens in the depths of Britain? Darkie Day didn't sound exactly positive for black people, did it? It was like "Coon Day" or "Racial Slur Day" or something.
From the woman's reaction, Anita couldn't tell if it was something innocuous or sinister. It was like some sort of secret ritual they were planning, that outsiders weren't meant to know about. Was it some sort of local Ku Klux Klan?
 |
| "Irony: It strikes at the best of times" |
By the time they returned on Darkie Day—that was the other weird thing, they didn't call it "New Year's Day"—Anita had just about rationalised away her fears. Maybe it's just an expression… maybe it's nothing… maybe I'm overreacting.
Even so, she couldn't help but feel apprehensive.
Just before lunch, it started pouring down rain, so they took shelter in a pub next to the harbour. And when Anita walked in, all the regulars stopped to look. Maybe it was because they didn't expect someone with a dark face—or maybe it was because they knew what was coming.
Suddenly, the doors were flung open, and there was a flurry of noise and music. Two-dozen people rushed in, all blacked up, dressed in rags, with big white circles drawn around their eyes and rouge lips to make them look big and fat, and these dreadful Negro wigs on. And they were singing in thick Cornish accents, bursting into laughter, cheering and stomping—it was obviously the big event of the day.
The cavalcade continued around the pub, and… everyone thought it was completely normal.
But for Anita, it was really horrific.
There she was, on New Year's Day, hoping to have a quiet drink, and suddenly there was this assault on her senses—and sensibilities. It wasn't threatening; it was shocking.
This is modern, multicultural Britain—and people are running around dressed up like 'niggers'!
Just before lunch, it started pouring down rain, so they took shelter in a pub next to the harbour. And when Anita walked in, all the regulars stopped to look. Maybe it was because they didn't expect someone with a dark face—or maybe it was because they knew what was coming.
Suddenly, the doors were flung open, and there was a flurry of noise and music. Two-dozen people rushed in, all blacked up, dressed in rags, with big white circles drawn around their eyes and rouge lips to make them look big and fat, and these dreadful Negro wigs on. And they were singing in thick Cornish accents, bursting into laughter, cheering and stomping—it was obviously the big event of the day.
The cavalcade continued around the pub, and… everyone thought it was completely normal.
But for Anita, it was really horrific.
There she was, on New Year's Day, hoping to have a quiet drink, and suddenly there was this assault on her senses—and sensibilities. It wasn't threatening; it was shocking.
This is modern, multicultural Britain—and people are running around dressed up like 'niggers'!
* * *
©J.R. Daeschner
Like what you've read?
No comments:
Post a Comment