Black on the outside. White on the inside

That’s what they used to call me. When I was six weeks old, my parents vanished from my life. Before I had even developed the muscles to smile, on a cellular level I had already experienced separation, abandonment and rejection. But what actually happened was far more complicated than that.

My parents came to the UK in the early 1980s on student visas and I was born here during their time in Britain. But under the changes introduced through the British Nationality Act 1981, which came into force on 1 January 1983, being born in the UK no longer automatically made you British unless one of your parents was already British or “settled” in the UK. (gov.uk)

I spoke about this around 10 years ago, it was featured in Aftopean where you can read more about this topic of my experience with belonging .

My parents were not settled. There was a fear that if I left the UK as a child, I may lose the pathway to obtaining British citizenship later through long residency rules. So my mum made an impossible decision. She left me in the UK. She believed Britain was my birthright and that staying here would give me opportunities she could not guarantee elsewhere. So she found a family already connected to the Save the Children Foundation, a family my cousins already knew and trusted. And they raised me as one of their own.

Laura Barton became my mum, Michael Barton became my dad. I went to school locally. I sat around the dinner table with everyone else. That was my life. And growing up Black in Britain in the 1980s came with its own education. Racism existed,  I was called names I try not to remember because they were vile, dehumanising and cruel. But the one that stayed with me was:

“Black on the outside. White on the inside.”

Too Black for some spaces, and too “white” for others. Even later, around Nigerians, I realised I wasn’t fully that either.

I am Black African British.

And there is an entire generation of Black British people who grew up carrying a very specific psychological experience of Britain. An experience that often sits in-between cultures, in-between identities and in-between acceptance.

My mum Laura used to say: “You have to be five times as good.” When she has passed I understand more about her approach.

I think she believed excellence was protection. All of us overachieved. Deep down, many black British people have been conditioned that acceptance has to be earned. And this is why storytelling is such a big part of my life and work. I believe when people suppress their truth for too long, cognitive dissonance begins to happen.

That internal split between:who you are, what you feel, what you believe,
 how you show up in the world, and the version of yourself you think people will accept.

I see it in workplaces, families, relationships. Entire communities. People diluting themselves to survive environments that do not fully allow them to exist fully. That is why storytelling can feel so cathartic. People finally get to say: this happened to me, this is how I felt, this is how I experienced the world.

That is what thought leadership actually is. Leading a thought that expands conversation and gives other people permission to think differently about themselves, their lives and the world around them. Some people will resonate with it and others won’t, I’ve found the people who need it will feel seen by it. One thing I’ve learned through helping thousands of people tell their stories is that you don’t need to allow other people who appear in your story to dictate whether you are allowed to tell it. Everyone experiences the same story differently.

That does not mean you expose people maliciously. But it does mean you stay truthful to your own lived experience. Because this is your life, you are the main character. Everyone else is supporting cast.

Too many people are living as extras in their own movie. 

This is my story.
And I’m sticking to it.