A Mistaken Case of Identity

Abstract

My historic passion perches precariously on the line between obsession and passion. It begins often as a small thought, evolves into a chain of enquiry and then erupts into uncontrolled feelings that arouse, inflame and anger me. This intensity of feeling obliges me to seek a scientific, rational method of explanation for such perturbation. Here, historical enquiry and methodology come to the rescue and the mental agitation is briefly contained, but only to be re-awakened by clumsy attempts by others to disregard the presence of my tormentor, and by my own efforts to force me to provide a home for my unwelcome guest. What is this passion that so consumes me from time to time? It's the search for my identity, of course; an identity that has been shaped by history and continues to be shaped in manifold ways. Some passions are intensely pleasurable, others turn into a quest for answers to interminable questions. Worst of all is the question about my 'national identity'. Over the years I have come to discover that to ignore this question is to invite trouble. Hence, I have fashioned, reluctantly at first, and then with gusto, a passion for nailing down the roots of my so-called 'national identity'. I must first explain that I am what is termed in a number of forums a Black Briton. I don't particularly feel comfortable with this title. In fact, I don't feel comfortable with being labelled or categorized at all but I have come to accept that historians and sociologists must have their categories, and bureaucrats must have their means of identification too. This doesn't mean that I accept them. I am happier to explain my assigned 'national identity' in political and historical terms, which often offends the person who asks the question, 'where do you come from?' I would like, therefore, to outline my reasons for choosing to explain my identity using history and not socially-constructed categories and how it has become a passion. I was born in London in 1963. My parents had arrived in 1961, as immigrants, from what is known as Guyana today but was known then as British Guiana. In British Guiana, my mother had been training to be a classroom assistant and my father was a policeman in the Guianese CID. Both had been encouraged to emigrate to the British 'motherland' to increase their chances of promotion in their professions, raise their standard of living and perhaps, more importantly for them, to provide their children with an education and a chance to raise themselves out of poverty. Leaving one's homeland for distant shores is a heart-rending decision for any family to make but in British Guiana there were many factors forcing families to