Black babies.
By celticman
- 10820 reads
‘You’re a fibber, Alice O’Connor,’ Clarence said, holding her skipping ropes tightly. We stood facing each other in the backcourt, tenement windows looking down at us. She wore a smudged and baggy print dress. In the distance we heard an ice-cream van, and it was hot enough for the tar to melt and for Jesus to come down from his cross to get a ninety-nine cone.
I wanted to smack her on her big nose, but that would be a sin. It wasn’t her fault. God made her ugly for a reason. And with her untuned hazel eyes and Clarence the Cross-eyed lion on the telly, overnight Clare became tarred as Clarence. I could hear my mum’s words in my ear, she’s just jealous of you because she’s ugly and fat and you’re small and beautiful. I’d red piping like an Admiral around the sleeves of my dress and my shoes were so shiny you could see envy reflected in them. I turned the other cheek. ‘Am, not fatty. I didn’t want a black baby. I’d have preferred a dog or a rabbit, but it was just there, outside Massie’s. Nobody about. Screaming and shouting at me, AHHHH-LICE, AHHHHHHH-LICE, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHLICE.’
The black baby had kicked its blanket from its legs and it stared up at us from the Silvercross pram. A white doily round its head as a hat tied under its chubby cheeks. Clarence leaned in under the hood, hovering over the baby’s head and made smacking, kissing noises. The baby gurgled and smiled.
‘Leave him.’ I jounced the handle of the pram, so the carriage bounced up and down. ‘He’s mine, I bought him.’
‘Oh, he’s probably never seen a white person before.’ Clarence smiled at me and the baby.
‘Well, that’s the last thing he needs is seeing your ugly mug.’ I made kissing noises at the baby, but he frowned back at me and looked as if he was ready to burst into tears. ‘I mean you could have had a black baby too. I’ve got pictures of twenty-eight of them. But I left them lying over there in Africa, with all the priest and nuns taking care of all the little darkies.’ I smirked at Clarence. ‘Mrs Thompson said I set a great example.’
‘I’ve got a black baby too,’ Clarence said.
‘Liar, if you ever had a penny in your life, you’d spend it all on sweets.’ I bent forward and dropped my shoulder to show Clarence, and the black baby, the medal of the Holy Ghost pinned to the inside of the strap of my dress to keep me pure. I’d asked Mum about the money for the black babies, but she was too busy to answer and smacked me on the head and told me to stop blethering for once and listen. Then she stopped washing socks in the sink and gripped my arm.
‘You have been giving the money I gave you to the black babies?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes, Mum,’ I’d said, meeting her eyes, my wee brother, Timmy, behind me screaming a fuss. Only the devil and me knew about the great temptation. He’d told me nobody would ever know. And you could just tell the priest when you make your first confession and he’d never tell anybody.
But I wasn’t fooled or tempted, even a wee bit. Because I knew about this because of Granny. She was a holy wee women that had a mole on her chin with hair growing out of it, and she went to Holy Mass every day, hail or shine. And she’d been to school with Jesus, Mary and Joseph and she told me that if I told a lie, we wouldn’t know at first, but later when I took my shoes off I’d have cloved feet.
And granny always read to us about the saints, who could do anything. And just floated about the place, putting their heads in a lion’s mouths and jumping out of burning pits and only came down from heaven, now and again, to shout at Protestants that they were going directly to hell. And served them right. Then they’d be sorry.
‘Look,’ I dipped my other shoulder and showed Clarence, and the black baby, the matching medal pinned to the other underside strap of my dress of the Immaculate Mary Ever Virgin.
‘I’ll give you a shot of my skipping ropes if I can hold the black baby.’ Clarence bundled them up as an offering and held them out.
‘Nah, they’re rubbish. And you cannae skip for buttons.’
The baby in the pram murmured and babbled agreement.
‘Aye, but you’ve got to share.’ Clarence stood with her hand on her hip and squinted goggle-eyed, appealing to my conscience.
‘Alright then, but just for a minute.’
Clarence mate tutting noises as she picked the baby out of the pram and cuddled her into her neck. The baby patted her on the shoulder. ‘See, he likes me.’ She shoogled the baby up and down and made him laugh.
‘He only likes you because he doesn’t know you. I bet yeh a million pounds when he grows up he’ll hate you. The same as everybody else.’
Clarence turned her broad back on paced up and down near the close entrance. We heard women’s screams and shouts, but with the pub at the bottom of the tenement and nightly fights that wasn't uncommon.
‘Your minute’s nearly up,’ I reminded her. But I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to keep the black baby now. Granny had told me that she’d found me under a cabbage leaf. And the only reason she’d found me was because of St Anthony, the patron saint of lost causes. Granny said that she could just as easily have found a tadpole, but she’d found a little girl instead. But that was just the law of averages. It could have been a little boy. Girls were more work. In the same way that I'd been lucky and found a little boy. Just waiting for me. And I wondered if the black baby, as it got older, would turn into a white baby, and go to the same Catholic school as me. Granny had told me babies were a lot of work.
The screaming and shouting got nearer and a black woman poked her head out the entrance to the close. She dressed funny in a hat and good blue coat and gloves, tears in her eyes. Mrs McKay, from the shop, was at her back, with broad arms folded across her piny. I felt invisible. Out of the loop. They spotted the pram and Clarence strolling up and down with the baby in the crook of her arm. The black woman screeched as she rushed at Clarence, tearing at her, pulling the baby away. Clarence stood gormless with her mouth open. I ran the other way, clutching at Mrs McKay’s legs and firm waist.
‘I told her not to take the black baby.’ I peeked up at Mrs McKay, with tears gleaming in my sky-blue eyes. ‘But she wouldnae listen to me. She told me to shut up and mind my own business.’
Mrs McKay patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘They Craigs are a bad bunch. Heaven knows, they’ll get whits coming to them, shortly.’
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Comments
A very convincing child's eye
A very convincing child's eye view. I winced along as the plot unfolded. That poor woman!
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A surreal vignette, celt.
A surreal vignette, celt. Quirky. Just as I like it.
Parson Thru
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Love it. I once had a friend
Love it. I once had a friend who stole a baby from a pram when she was 13. Her mum returned the baby to the police station but it was hours before mum knew what was happened. Both the girl and the baby were white and lived in Edinburgh. Her family were like the Craigs ie known to the police and she was sent away to reform school.
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The world of children, red in
The world of children, red in tooth and claw. Great characters. I bet Alice is something in big business now.
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You always manage to capture
You always manage to capture the naivety of children in your stories Jack. It was a relief to know the mother got her baby back in the end. Phew!
Jenny.
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Celticman creates such
Celticman creates such wonderfully well-rounded characters, and here's a brilliant example, It's our facebook and twitter pick of the day, do share if you like it too.
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I've read this 5 times
I've read this 5 times now and I think that, perhaps not all, but alot of non-white people are going to be uncomfortable reading this.
It is very much like something that would have been considered acceptable on TV in the 60's or 70's and that to many white people might seem sweet and innocent but just makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.
At the end of the day a black baby, for the sake of humour, is being treated and talked about like an object, a possession and a toy and the author does not appear to condemn this at all.
The story is also kind of shocking because it trivializes the horror of a vulnerable black baby being taken by white racists, naive kids or not, who obviously don't see the child as being fully human. It is a 'black baby' not just a baby as if there was some difference between these two things.
I've looked for the nuance that you get in for example Johnny Speights "In Sickness and In Health" that tells you Alf Garnett is not a hero to be condoned or admired but theres nothing like that in the story.
The first time I read it, I was shocked by just how old fashioned it seemed and after reading it several times and giving it the benefit of the doubt, I really think that this is a racist story not just a story about racism.
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Hi John. I've read it again
Hi JoHn. I've read it again for myself. On balance, I think it's a quite brave story to write. What puts it that side of the fence for me is the voice of the child protagonist. Or both of them. I could be wrong, but the whole notion of "black baby" in this context seems specific to something that belongs in the period of the setting: collecting money for "black babies" and the reference to pictures or publicity. To me, it's this setting and its ignorant culture that the children in their innocence have internalised. This, I think, is the subject-matter of the story, and why I think it's a brave situation to try to depict or take on. There appear to be cues in the language and actions / assumptions of the character that lead me to this opinion. The lack of any moral compass, for example, when the mother arrives. I think some of the descriptive language brings the narrator close to the edge at times, but being familiar with the author's other work, I'd say those descriptions are about authenticity, rather than reflecting the author's personal view.
It's emotive stuff, and I'm right with you in wanting to highlight any prejudice, be it against colour, culture, sexuality or whatever. I think you're right to raise your concerns. God help us if we all stand in silence when we believe something is wrong. As I say, I've had a look at it again myself, and this is my own reading. I'm sure there will be other views. It is very emotive writing. On balance, I think the author's intent is to depict an ugly thing accurately.
Kevin
Parson Thru
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John, thank you for coming
John, thank you for coming back and giving a lengthy and reasoned explanation of your views. This piece has been read by the majority of the editorial team, and a fairly lengthy discussion took place between us off-site after your first, shorter comment. We take our terms and conditions very seriously and any suggestion that they're being contravened is something we will always investigate. I am very sorry if this has caused you any offence.
When more people are up and about I hope some more of the above discussion will be posted here for you to see the reasoning behind our decisions
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Parson through. Please try to
Parson thru.
Please try to imagine you were a black father or mother reading this story.
You would see the child in the story as a baby that could be your child.
You would see a story in which the taking of a baby like your child is portrayed as harmless fun; a story which does not portray the taking of a black child with due seriousness.
You would see the child, for laughs, objectified by the kids but see no condemnation of the kids attitudes in the story.
You would see a story in which even the adult character of the shopkeeper, at the end, tells the child protagonist not to worry but seems not to care about the mother or baby.
You would see a story in which the white characters appear like real people but the black characters are ciphers like those found in colonial literature; they are the other, the alien,
"The black woman screeched as she rushed at Clarence, tearing at her, pulling the baby away".
They screech rather than having a voice.
You would see a callous story in which the taking of your child by the uncaring hands of white racists is trivialized.
And, seeing that the story has been rewarded; given the stamp of approval, you would rightly worry about your child living in a world which would approve of the trivialization of the taking of a child that could be your child.
I certainly know that growing up in a UK when "Mind Your Language" and "Love Thy Neighbour" were on TV, the success of these programs seemed like a stamp of social approval for racist attitudes towards non-white people.
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Hi JoHn. This is a difficult
Hi JoHn. The story places the reader on the boundaries of morality and taste and leaves us with an issue that has no objective resolution. I'm not going to put myself up as arbiter. I do, however (reading your points above), have a strong sense of empathy, and I have a deep personal attachment with the points it raises. The liberal test of offence (as I understand it) is how an action is received by the injured party. That's why I think this is a brave piece of writing. I'm not going to wave away the points you make, which have weight, but I don't want to condemn the piece or the author, either. It's a difficult subject-matter and a difficult piece. My belief is that the philosophy behind the piece is one of exposing, retrospectively, that culture, which celticman has done very effectively in the past in other contexts. A fine line to walk and one not without its hazards.
Parson Thru
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The story is written in a
The story is written in a mood between light and serious. However I am certain that all the readers and the author would know that stealing a baby of any colour from a pram is always wrong.
I may well have found this tale upsetting I was black or if I was the mother of a black child. I have heard of white women who have made this choice being subjected to vile racist comments when they have gone shopping wheeling their baby in a pram and racism still happens.
No easy answers...
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Elsie. Who are the readers of
Elsie. Who are the readers of this story? Any person in the world could read the story on the internet. I can't claim with any certainty to know what is in the mind of everyone who reads this story or how they interpret the story.
But if the black people in this story only communicate in shrieks or in baby gurgles and there is no white voice in the story condemning the actions of the children then, if I already held slightly racist views or misconceptions I would see this story as confirmation that black people are something trivial and inferior to be objectified.
You say you have heard of white women suffering racist abuse when wheeling their babies in prams?
Well then wouldn't you feel uncomfortable if you read a story about a white baby who was taken by non-white racists that trivialized the incident and didn't either condemn it or give a human voice to white characters?
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Hi well wisher. Back in the
Hi well wisher. Back in the day convent schools had a collection for 'Black Babies', certainly racist and a blast from their 'missionary' work. I went to a few missionary schools in the colonies where these collections took place, really unsettling for my family of mixed ethnicity.
I read celticman's story as an observation of how children of the time might interpret these so called charitable collections.
I don't think the story is racist, but draws attention to the casual racism of that era.
The humour comes from the child's perspective, but any adult today who had been subject to these campaigns - under the banner of religious charity - will recognise the huge discomfort we felt at the time and can now see, in more enlightened times, as institutionalised racism.
The baby and woman in the story have their own story to tell - it would be interesting to hear it.
Sorry to go on, and perhaps to make assumptions, but realise that those who didn't have a catholic upbringing in that era might not have experienced this.
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"I don't think the story is
You say: "I don't think the story is racist, but draws attention to the casual racism of that era".
Does it really draw attention to it or does it just depict it without comment or condemnation or the balance the story would have if a black character in the story had a voice?
Also, the story itself is casually racist if it does not portray the taking of a black child by white racists as serious. The story treats its subject matter casually.
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The racist act is the charity
The racist act is the charity collection for 'Black babies', that is actually what it was shockingly called. The story goes into the mind of the child to reveal the absurdity of that collection's name.
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Shockingly, Phillip, there
Shockingly, Phillip, there are people who would read this story and not realize there was anything absurd about the child protagonists attitude unless it was pointed out by a white character or one of the black characters could express themselves.
A neutral photograph of a racist act doesn't tell the person who sees the photograph that the racist act is bad; the wrongness or rightness of what is in the photograph is left up to the observer to decide.
And anyway, this story may be accurate in its portayal of white working class Glaswegian kids but is it accurate in its portrayal of a black baby or woman in that circumstance?
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For me the power of the piece
For me the power of the piece is the raising of this issue. There were so many awful things that we had to live with in that era, and there was no way of articulating it. One of my sisters is obviously black and suffered hurtful comments because of this collection. As her older sister I felt awful that there seemed to be no way of protesting - I was a child too.
Not everyone will know about it - perhaps they should hear.
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Philip, a generation of black
Philip, a generation of black authors, post colonial authors like Linton Kwesi Johnson, emmerged in response to writing like this that portrayed black characters as ciphers and only gave a voice to white characters.
If you read this story, all you hear is the voice of white racism and black silence and its left up to you as the reader to decide whether you like what you hear or not.
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I think your close engagment
I think your close engagment with that silence is so important. Giving voice to it is difficult and possibly inappropriate for someone who is not in the marginalised group. That it is so striking here opens our minds to countless acts of harm that black people have endured, but also the insidious manner in which racism enters society.
Of course every reader will bring their own experiences and interpret anything they read differently. For me this story was biting satire - for you perhaps not.
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I felt the only person who
I felt the only person who got bitten by this story, as someone who is mixed race, was me.
The kids in this story are not the grotesques of satire; not obviously ridiculous; they are cheeky likeable scamps and the butt of most of the jokes (apart from the jokes about Clare/Clarence) seemed to be black babies.
Basically, this story, rather than lampooning it, makes racism look cute.
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