I was
at Peralta during mildly annoying autumn weather. I braced myself
each morning for the spectacular view over the valley. Despite several
layers of expensive clothing, I sometimes froze as I gazed transfixed
at that scenery, blocking out the chatter of my fellow guests so
that I could concentrate on being inspired.
Taking a break after a successful morning's work, I watched a West
African man walk up the steep Tuscan road. He was tall and approaching
handsome, but was weighed down with all sorts of gear, including
a mini-strimmer and a large spray gun. He passed me with a white
teeth smile, and some Italian words. ‘Inglese,' I shouted back.
I didn't catch his response because out of nowhere came ferocious
barking, followed by the resident dog whose determination to tackle
such large prey took me by surprise, but the African reacted with
the speed of experience and darted up the steps to the furthermost
terrace.
My heavy-footed prancing distracted the animal long enough for it
to draw a breath. Before the imitation guard dog could take off
with renewed vigour, my one-time place of contemplation was invaded
by the taciturn owner, Thomas. The dog instantly started whimpering
and crouching, as if to say, I had attacked it. The master wasn't
fooled one bit, and proceeded to chastise his pet in a manner worthy
of an audience greater than one. But I was on the ball too and quickly
realised that the type of onlooker rather than the number was key
to the unfolding histrionics.
The pantomime was vaguely entertaining, and put me in mind of my
childhood friend, Judy, a mongrel who also had a tendency to select
enemies along racial or ethnic lines.
Back in the Peralta chaos, with the mini-strimmer strumming on the
top terrace and the man's best friend howling to its own tune, Thomas
explained his exaggerated frustration with Jet. For starters, Jet
behaved irrationally whenever a black person was sighted. The ‘damn
idiot' refused to obey him; in fact, ‘IT' redoubled hostilities
when scolded. What was a fair-minded, peace-loving man to do when
faced with these antics? It was always embarrassing, and sometimes
downright dangerous, to have a ‘Mutt' that only chased black people.
‘Why don't I have an Equal Opportunities dog?' he moaned. I was
too amused to comment. Dubbed the friendliest creature in Italy
by my companions, whenever I encountered his pet, it would manage
to present me with its butt rather than its appealing head to stroke.
I thought it might be a racist bitch, but I was trying not to leap
to conclusions. Embarrassing? I had little sympathy for Mr Politically
(In)Correct because, as a schoolgirl, I frequently witnessed my
beloved Judy bark crazily at the black factory workers knocking-off
at the end of the day shift, while completely ignoring their white
colleagues.
Back then, I was too troubled by the impact of the noise to listen
to the tone of Judy's yapping, or consider an alternative explanation
for the aggressive lurches towards the innocent immigrants. Once
a man screamed at me, ‘Your dog is racist.' I accepted this with
the shame and pain of a mother who hears for the first time that
her precious child is a serial rapist, and knows it to be deep-down
true. My Mum told me not to be ridiculous as I cried over my tea,
and refused to let me change my routine and walk the dog after the
factory had closed for the night. ‘Stop being a baby. You're a young
adult for goodness sake.' I remember her words exactly, because
I discovered then what it was like to hate your own mother.
But I can put the record straight now. Judy may not have been an
Equal Opportunities dog, but she was no racist. She was more what
an ignorant, white Southern gentleman might have described as a
‘nigger lover'. In the clarity of an unseasonably cold Peralta day,
it dawned on me why the poor thing got excited whenever she saw
people resembling her human family. She disobeyed me because she
thought she was heading for a kind of hugs, pats, tickles and strokes
heaven, and she couldn't understand why I would deny her such doggy
bliss. I was only eleven; too inexperienced to distinguish the bark
tones of delirium. So I allowed my puppy to be labelled racist and,
despite my subsequent anti-racist career, I resisted any revisionist
theorising until the Peralta experience forced me to acknowledge
the truth.
Of course, that truth wasn't enough. I was also destined to question
my relationship with an icon born two centuries ago: was my only
hero a racist? The answer is not obvious. Twenty years ago, I so
wanted her to be black with a political ‘B' that I was prepared
to contort the truth if necessary. Hadn't I convincingly explained
her use of the term ‘nigger' to describe people like me? How many
more times could I use the poor memory excuse on visits to Istanbul,
to avoid giving my best friend a copy of my book and the concomitant
pain of reading the biased observations about Turkish people? Yet
the Peralta vision forced me to confront my potential culpability
now, lest my 1970's interpretation of nineteenth century attitudes
to race and class be judged duplicitous by an academic court, and
my work consigned to the trash-can for failed historians.
The
name of my solitary hero is Mary Seacole. She published her autobiography
in 1857 in the aftermath of the Crimean War, in which she made her
name helping the hungry, sick and wounded on and off the battlefields.
The Mixed Heritage, Jamaican-born, adventurer and clinician was
as complex as her historical contexts – African slavery, followed
by statutory emancipation; colonialism led by the Europeans and
the beginnings of New World imperialism; not to mention the inferior
position of women globally. Suffice it to say that my extended moment
of clarity on the Tuscan hills has led to some challenging research,
and the results of my endeavours will appear in an academic journal
in the Spring.
©
Ziggi Alexander