There is nothing like having a global spotlight suddenly shone on Ireland to make us see how some things once deemed acceptable or excusable at home are shamefully far from being either. By now, you’ll probably have seen the video circulating of the lone black child in a lineup of white children at a medal ceremony for a gymnastics competition in Ireland. Each of the white children in the lineup is presented with a medal. The black child is ignored. I recognise my childhood self in her pride and eager smile as the medal moment approaches. Then the excruciating confusion and bewilderment as she waits, her expression eventually settling into one of quiet disappointment – and wounded resignation.
I was an eager, enthusiastic child too, but the pervasive and insidious racism I experienced growing up in Ireland, the sense of shame and humiliation that comes with being repeatedly overlooked, disregarded, told that you are inadequate or inferior, made to feel ugly or small or worthless, or singled out or indeed overscrutinised as I so often was, guaranteed that I reined in my enthusiasm. By the time I reached my teens I had learnt to largely hide my true feelings behind a mask. I was scared to let people know how I really felt in case they disappointed or hurt me; much better to erect a frosty, cynical exterior than subject myself to the potential for more humiliation.
