went alang cause I’d nothin else to dae efter school on Friday and Friday is a day when you want to have something to dae. I thought it’d be good to get tae know some folk at school but it was just Jas and two of his pals and a couple of fourth-year girls who wanted to get off with the sixth years. And me. Clocked in a dusty classroom wi the desks moved back and stacked upside doon so you could see the chuggie stuck tae the underside.
Jas was electrifying. I wasnae convinced by all he said, but he said it wi a passion that was infectious. He had these beautiful haunds, long and spidery like the winter branches of trees, and he moved them as he spoke, like someone daeing calligraphy in the air. The other guy never stood a chance; he plodded through his well-prepared and well-meaning speech at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals tae pause, look at us and sum up his point in a deeper voice afore lifting the next index card. He said all the things I’d ever been told about respecting different cultures and religions, about us all co-existing in some happy melting-pot of a city.
But Jas.
I am sick, sick, sick of being a Sikh.
He looked round, dark eyes taking in each of us.
Not because I am unhappy with my religion or my culture or my family heritage, but because so-called multiculturalism has stolen Sikhism, has tamed it and made it cute and cuddly. He put on a patronising adult voice, the kind of voice people use when they’re trying to humour a three-year-old.
Oh, look at the cute little Asian boy with his hanky tied round his heid, that’s because he’s growing his hair. It’s his religion, you know.
Oh, why don’t we all make paper lanterns this week in the Art lesson because it’s Diwali? Maybe Jaswinder could tell us about it. Then next week Hassan can tell us about Eid. Then it’ll be time to start learning the carols for our Christmas concert.
If I had a fiver for every time I’d told my primary school class about friggin Diwali I’d be a millionaire. But making lanterns every November or drawing pictures of the five Ks doesnae mean they understand anything about being a Sikh – it’s just paying lip service to the real diversity of our culture and smoothing over the racism and suspicion that divides us, even those of us who tick the brown boxes in the ethnic monitoring forms we need to fill in in the name of equal opportunities – Sikh and Muslim, Hindu and Sikh.
And I don’t have time in the four minutes allowed me to even get started on those of mixed race – those who should be the zenith, the culmination of our so-called multicultural society (if we really believed in it). Yes I am referring to those of mixed race, who, rather than being what we aspire to, far from being the epitome of multiculturalism, are in fact an embarrassment as they can’t be done, ticked off on a multicultural calendar by making something symbolic out of coloured paper, or placed in the correct box on the multicoloured form. No, they fit nowhere, not even with their own family.
Efter the debate, predictably, was won by Jas, he and the other guy shook haunds and the fourth-year lassies fluttered round him. I sloped off out the room and heided doon the road.
SO. MS HARRIS crossed her legs and clicked the top of her pen. Today I thought we’d go round the group so each of you can say what topic you’re proposing for your dissertation and why you chose it. I’d like you to give us some idea of the areas you intend to explore. Is that clear?
She looked round us, sat in a circle on scabby plastic chairs. Of course it was clear. Everything she said and done was clear. She spoke wi a precision that was quite different fae the sloppy way the kids done, every other word like, yeah, dunno, whatever. But it was also different fae the way the other teachers spoke. They mumbled or tailed away their sentences, turned their back on you while they were explaining things or failed tae make eye contact. Ms Harris was young – 26, 27 mibbe – and everything about her was perfect. The other young teachers were either buttoned up as if they were wearing their parents’ clothes or else sloppy like they’d fallen out of bed, but she wore the kind of clothes that managed to look quite cool but perfectly appropriate for a teacher – little cardigans with glittery bits on them, silky skirts that never creased, funky shoes. Even her specs had a designer label. She knew her stuff too – was always prepared, never seemed harassed. Of course the sixth year werenae likely to gie teachers up cheek but some of them could be stroppy in their ain way. And I’d seen her in action in the corridors, gliding through a tumultuous sea of second year, effortlessly calming them with a word.
Naebody said anything. Terrified if we looked up we’d be asked to start, everybody stared at their folder. Ms Harris had gied them out last week at the first meeting of the class; unlike the usual thin school cardboard ones, they were dead fancy, with spaces for lined paper, a pouch for books, plastic pockets for putting pictures and stuff in.
I want you to see this as a very organic process, sixth year, different from the way you’ve worked before. Don’t feel you have to limit your research to critical books or biographies. Maybe a found object, a photograph or poem is what you need to carry around, focus on.
I’d felt excited when she talked like that, imagined mysel piecing thegether a portrait of Emily with all kinds of things I associated with her – heather fae the moors, sketches of her dog – but the day, my bum already numb fae the uncomfortable seat, Kevin next tae me scratching hissel as if he had fleas, I just felt stupid.
Jaswinder, can you start us off?
Jas nodded. I’m gonnae write about Shelley. Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792–1822, was everything. One of the greatest poets who ever lived – in my opinion, the greatest – he was a philosopher, a traveller, friend of Byron and other important poets, had several lovers and many children as well as being married to the woman who wrote Frankenstein – and he was a political and a radical thinker.
That sounds really interesting, Jaswinder. But your dissertation must be no longer than 3000 words so you’ll need to focus on one or two aspects of Shelley.
That’s the problem – to do that is to limit him, and he never limited himself, he thought these barriers were artificial. ‘Hail to thee blythe spirit, bird thou never wert.’
Thanks, Jaswinder. Let’s move on. Kevin?
I’m gonna write about three lyrics of the Manic Street Preachers.
Ms Harris touched the bridge of her specs with one perfectly manicured finger. I can safely say that this will present a different set of challenges from writing about Shelley. Only three lyrics?
Well you said we had tae focus.
True. Do you think the Manic Street Preachers will provide sufficient weight, though? I want to encourage you not to limit yourself to the conventional literary canon, but you must ensure that your choice of text falls within the parameters of the Exam Board.
Eh?
Alice dunted Kevin in the elbow. She means the Manics are crap writers.
That’s …
Which they are.
Ms Harris said coolly, I don’t actually know enough about them to express an opinion.
