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In all fairness a road trip is a metaphor for life. We live in perpetual motion, moving forward and going from place to place. Our time is spent through journeys in our space, through the time of our lifespan. Alone or with others, planned or unplanned journeys are to happen. That is life as it is.
Sometimes of course a road trip is nothing more than an actual trip in a countryside, quickly to be forgotten replaced by the next one! On this occasion, I shall try to narrate it as it happened, as it is fresh in my mind and the images can be vividly recalled. Maybe in future it would serve as a reminder, but on this occasion, it is merely a reminder of a very odd trip! At this stage, I would like to state that no humans nor animals were hurt during this road trip.
I am driving on one of the island’s country roads, the road is narrow going through the lush pine forest, some sycamore trees on the side. The track is leading up and down the mountainous path. The scenery is scenic and probably the reason people choose it. The road alternates views from the forest, the valleys, the canyons and the sea in the distance. Hues of green, and blue everywhere; and the smell. The pines joined with thyme and other fragrant herbs, a combination that gives the air that scent I cannot describe. The light blue of the sky meet the Aegean blue in the distance.
As per usual, on a road trip I prepare my maps, and plan the route in advance, but just in case I also keep an eye on the road in case there is a change. On this occasion, the public works are working wonders; the street signs are non-existent so I opted out. Interestingly instead of traffic information there were signs but not about the road ahead. Somewhere is the midst of the journey there is the first sign about Jesus. According to the sign “He is the truth, the way and the life”. I am unsure about the destination, but at least Jesus is aware. The next couple of signs involve Jesus and his teachings whilst the last one is making me feel a bit uncomfortable. “Jesus died for your sins” it proclaims! Ok fair enough, let’s say that he did. Any chance of knowing also whereabouts I am and where I am heading. The route continues with further signs until we come to a stop.
Finally, more signs. On this occasion there are some holy sites and monasteries. One of them is of a Saint most revered that apparently most of his body rests in a nearby location, (minus an arm and a shin). Later, I discover the Saint helps sick children and those who suffer from cancer. Admirable, considering that he’s almost 300 years dead. Still no actual traffic information on the road! At least the signs got me reading of a fascinating man long gone. It is fascinating reading on beliefs and miracles. Within them they hold peoples’ most secret expectations, those that under normal circumstances, they dare not to speak about. This is a blog post for another time; back on the road trip and almost two hours on the journey.
At this point, a herd of cows who have been lunching on the side of the road, decided to take a nap on the road. To be honest, it is only one of them who is blocking the way, but the rest are near idly watching. At this stage, I come to a stop waiting for the cow to move. The cow who was napping opened her eyes and looks at me, I look back, she looks away and continues to lay motionless in the middle of the road. I briefly evoke the Saint. Nothing. I am contemplating Jesus and still nothing. After some time, around an hour of cow staring I am going for my last resort. I get out of the car and promise that unless the cow moves, I shall part with vegetarianism. Now I am openly threatening the cow to eat her. This is when nature retaliates. A flock of goats join the cow. They meander around me and the stubborn bovine. The road is now akin to a petting zoo.
I employ a trick I picked up from cowboy films. I raise my hat, luckily, I am wearing a hat, weaving my arms furiously and making sounds. The cow is despondent at first and the goats just talk back. After a few minutes I have managed to get the cow to move and the goats are now at the side of the road. That’s my opportunity to leave. As I turn back, I notice another car behind me; they are also travelers who begin to applaud my efforts at husbandry. The road is clear, and I am on my way.
The next hour is less eventful although the road is still hairpinned; now it’s heading downwards and from the mountains its heading to the sea. I arrive at the sea way over the expected time and I manage to find a spot to park. One the wall, next to the spot someone wrote “you vote for them every four years like cows”. The writing is black, so I assume an anarchist, or maybe the author had a similar driving experience to me, or it’s just an unfortunate metaphor. The sea is cool and the views of the sea and in the distance a group of islands, spectacular. There are hot springs near by but in this weather the sea is more than enough. After all that drive, a stop at a local taverna is inevitable. Speciality dish mosxaraki or beef stew! I think the Saint is testing me!
On the way back, the road is empty. The cows rest on the side of the road. I slow down, I look out…they look away. At a local coffee shop a patron asks for the Covid-special coffee. I suppose a joke about the thing that occupies everyone’s mind. He doesn’t wear a mask and doesn’t seem to believe this pandemic “nonsense”. I was wondering if he is related to the stubborn cow. The trip ended and it formed another of those planned road trips. There was nothing spectacular about it. There is however the crux of my point. Like life, most of our roadtrips are unspectacular on their own. It is what we remember of them that matters. In the last months millions of people went into lockdown. Their lives seemed to stand still; a road trip can also be a metaphor, provided we don’t forget the details.
I was inspired by @5teveh’s post about what things we may be struggling to be without, as well as what beauty we are finding in this new way of living.
I think it’s easier to start with what I don’t miss, which like many I am sure, is commuting. Some days I can commute a total of 3 hours round trip, and I am not even doing a lot of miles, but traffic is just bad. That’s 2 I guess, commuting and traffic. While I am at it, I don’t miss the things that go along with a long journey, such as trying to make up for the time I feel I’ve lost or, to be honest, thinking about my journey – that in itself can be a burden.
Me time! now, this isn’t a strictly-miss/don’t miss but rather something I have gained more of in the lockdown. Like us all, we have more time to ourselves, which for me has meant more time for reading. I tend to read every day anyway, but with the added time I’ve managed to devour 10 books in my 4 weeks of lockdown.
I am lucky that I am not in lockdown alone, I have my partner and my beautiful dog, who luckily is so small she doesn’t need frequent walks. However, this leads me on to what I miss. I miss walking freely with my partner and the dog, deep in the countryside, saying hello to other dog walkers and letting the dogs play, walking with friends and family and chatting while taking in the fresh air. This is one of my favourite things to do. It clears my mind and I miss it every day.
As mentioned above, but also like everyone, I miss my family, I do not live that close to my family, so when I visit them or they visit me, it’s a real occasion, for which we have planned what we will do, where we will eat and when the next visit will be. Not knowing when this will be is the hardest.
I think I echo others when I say that I miss the freedom and miss having (or at least the feeling of having) some control. I am aware of my privilege, I know the lockdown can bring the worst out of us sometimes, we moan about things that can seem trivial, especially when others are suffering more. I feel guilty, more than I did before I was forced to think about it every day. I miss not feeling guilty that I could be doing productive things like others, like filling every second with yoga (never done yoga before- why now?) or some other new activity.
The lockdown has made me think more simply, think of things day by day, there is joy in that, but I also take joy in picturing the moment where it all feels a bit better, I don’t think that will be the day the lockdown ends, but in months maybe, where I’ll be on a walk amongst the trees, with my favourite people and my favourite dog.
One of the first casualties of Corona was travel. Nations immediately began controlling the flow of people in and out of ever-broader borders. First neighborhoods, then cities, regions, and countries all closed. As fear of the virus spreading spread, different parts of the world became associated with Corona, though bullheaded public figures even continued to call it “Chinese”
A few years ago, I got a 10 -year visa to China through work and had planned to travel there much more than time has allowed. Now, I am fearful of ever traveling there before my visa expires. I am unable to accept the many invitations to connect with my previous students who’ve returned to China and know of my interest in the region’s cultures. I have been to southern China on several study trips with students. We finally ventured to Beijing and its wonders on a later trip. Naturally, I did my happy dance when I reached a peak on the Great Wall just a few years ago. I am now on sabbatical in Hanoi, just released from lockdown.
It was a lifelong dream to visit China, I was raised on my godmother’s stories about growing up in Hong Kong, savoring the flavors of her homeland in her kitchen in Kentucky. I knew I had to see for myself. As a kid, she and I would go on shopping day-trips to Chicago’s Chinatown, a 7-hour drive each way. For those few hours in Chi-town, we’d be transported to a world where finally she was the insider. She spoke for hours in several dialects with all the people around that I didn’t understand, and we even browsed restaurants that resembled what she’d told me home was like. We’d go in and eat not from the tourist but from the Chinese menus – foods that were not nearly available in Kentucky.
Kentucky is pretty black and white, but there, in the heart of Chinatown, in the heartland of America, smack in the middle of the 80’s, I got to experience my godmother being in the majority. Growing up close to my godmother confirmed I could experience more freedom through travel. This was a key insight into the world for a gay kid growing up in the Bible Belt; I could just go away. Travel has always exposed me to new ways of being in the world.
“You’ve got to go to the city/They’re going to find you there…” -Flawless, George Michael
Travel is essential for the development of a healthy self-identity as a queer person. ‘Travel’ is, in fact, inseparable from the notion of a gay community. This is exemplified by having to leave our homes and communities to commune with others queers, and certainly the richness of gay tourism. One might also consider how gay identity uniquely depends on the very idea of gayness traveling far and wide to enter the minds of gays isolated everywhere.
Knowing gay people is a primal impetus for me to travel. Rather than just seeking to know ‘different’ people, places and cultures, I crave knowing how people like me thrive in those places. We’re everywhere.
It has always struck me that as queer people of color, we too often must venture outside our ethno-cultural communities to meet gay people. I came out at 16 and by then only knew gays within my age-group. Fortunately, in that era of grand community building, a local charity had organized a gay youth group. There, in addition to comradery, the adult facilitation and guest speakers provided mentorship and what we now understand as inter-generational knowledge. They also alerted me to queer writers: Through Sister Outsider, I’d traveled around the world with Audre Lorde long before I stepped foot outside of north-America. This is a powerful glue that can sustain solidarity within any community.
By attempting to transport certain functions of the gay club scene into the virtual world, we have certainly lost a core opportunity for inter-generational bonding. The ominous gay club also functions as a platform for the exchange of knowledge and experience. This phenomenon is sustained by travel, particularly tourism, migration, immigration. Or, how long did it take for nations to consider asylum for queers fleeing in deadly homophobic regimes? Flawless:
Don’t you know, you’ve got to go to the city
You’ve got to reach the other side of the glass
I think you’ll make it in the city baby
I think you know that you are more than just
Some F-ed up piece of ass
Pride – both metaphorically and literally – has circulated the globe, first and foremost through travel and tourism, then through globalizing the fight against AIDS. By the mid-90’s, the attention of gay rights advocates had widened to confronting homophobia. If health was a human right, then surely freedom from stigma is, too. Mind you, this same argument fueled the successful campaign in India to decriminalize same-sex sex, which was based on colonial legislation. Rights advocates in India had successfully used case law to articulate access to healthcare as a civil right, showing how stigma impeded this for queers.
Sadly, the exact same Victoria-era law has been strengthened and extended in many African nations, legitimizing jungle justice! For many, travel is a lifeline, including asylum. For queers in the African Diaspora, this is yet another form of exile – banishment from the motherland.
Under the bridge downtown…
If there were ever a community consumed with travel, it would be LGBTQ+ folk. Our folk knowledge is transmitted in myth and music, for example, lyrics urging gays to head to the shelter of the city. Whether chants about finding a YMCA, or told to Go West to be “together” in the sanctuary, mythical San Francisco, for gays to achieve self-realization, we needed to ‘know’ urban life to counter traditional values in the homestead. “I think you’ll make it in the city, baby.” There -away- we’re promised a new beginning with freedom. I’m very proud to have seen this through.
Gay civil rights have advanced globally far faster than those of any other recognized minority group, and certainly, one factor is… (drumroll) …we’re everywhere, even where there’s no Pride! Like ether, our pride travels through the stratosphere.
Pt. 1: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
There’s country music blasting from the speakers in this restaurant, and the young woman serving me has such a twang, you’d think she’s about to sing…her own rendition of Achy Breaky Heart.
The waitress calls me ‘Sweetie’ though she’s clearly half my age.
I’d much rather be called ‘sweetie’ than sir, not that I’m ashamed of being middle-aged.
I appreciate coming back down south and feeling this cosy feeling from virtually everyone I meet. Plus she’s sincere, too. I can see that the staff here are mixed, and yet I have this burning feeling that there’s more here than meets the eye.
In this part of the country, we pride ourselves on our gentile ways. For years I’ve wondered if this is just how we southerners learned to cope with an excessively violent past.
My grandparents fled from here in the 40’s, just after the war, so terrorized were they of establishing a life of dignity outside the cotton fields they plucked as kids. Now, there is a localised justice initiative to mark the numerous racial hate crimes known as lynching.
The initiative has an eerie collection of jars filled with actual soil from (known) lynching sites. There’s at least one of these large pickle jars full-o-dirt from every county in this state alone. You know it’s Bama, too; there’s so much of that familiar chalky, red clay that’s still all around us. Dirt so red, you now wonder if it’s ferrous or blood!
Notoriously, lynching is NOT a practice of the antebellum south, for black labour was far too valuable to just maim, torture and burn up black bodies like what’s done in these heinous hate crimes then.
I know not every white person down here is a descendant of slave-holders, slave-drivers or slave-catchers. Many may have never owned a single slave, yet…
Yet, any white person down here benefits from white-skin-privilege. Even white immigrants have famously fallen into line, capitalising on the slave economy, commoditizing King Cotton in one way or another. Not only Stevie Wonder, but even Wikipedia can see that.
The Wiki history entry of the in-famous commodities firm Lehman Brothers’ opens dryly like this: “In 1844, 23-year-old Henry Lehman, the son of a Jewish cattle merchant, emigrated to the United States from Rimpar, Bavaria. He settled in Montgomery, Alabama, where he opened a dry-goods store…”
Henry’s brothers came over within a few years – legally, supposedly – and thus began the in-famous firm. The brothers quickly saw that the farmers were rich during harvest and broke when it came time to plant. The dry-goods store quickly began accepting raw cotton as a form of payment. They hoarded cotton when it was plentiful and cheap, selling it when stocks drew low; economics running counter-cyclical to farm life. Did it matter to the brothers that the cotton was produced by slaves?
The brothers opened their first branch in NYC in 1858. That’d be New Yawk ‘fore the Northern War of aggression, y’all. Their firm dug so deep into the commodities trading economy that the youngest Lehman brother’s son, Herbert, was eventually a senator, 4-time governor of New York, and among other accolades is quoted in the current US passports espousing the value of immigrants to the nation’s roots and success. Lehman Brothers’ 2008 bankruptcy has been called “the biggest corporate failure in history!”
Did you know there are entire regions of the United Kingdom that evolved on the back of King Kotton as a commodity? Manchester, “famed as the world’s first industrial city,” was nicknamed Cottonopolis. The Industrial Revolution was fuelled by slavery! Ironically, the liberation of one group of people depended upon the enslavement of another. His-story should tell both sides, else it’s a damn lie. Did you know those cotton mill workers were sent aid by the Union government when the Civil War curtailed these cheap exports?
But anyone down south was in one way or another entangled in the slave economy as much as all of us today can’t have a smartphone free of labour and land exploitation. The fact that I may never see a child mining tin in Indonesia, or set sights on bonded labourers toiling away for cobalt in the Congo, does not admonish me and my gadgetry from any responsibility to do better.
So, the pleasantries that we southerners find necessary are well-crafted ways of disarming one another from a past filled with mass artilleries in everyday life.
I am a Black son of the south.
Free from these chains, I hasten to think what life was like for my grandparents. Armed with their southern draws, having actually grown up cultivating the region’s cash crops, what life could they possibly have imagined for themselves as adults there?
What I do know, however, and I’ve heard this from my own elders, is that while they couldn’t imagine a future there for themselves, they did dream of that vision for us.
And so, here I am living my life…somewhere. Over the rainbow.
To navigate means to travel along a desired path, one which has been planned and prepared for, one which you have intended to travel along; and if you deviate from that path then you prepare the necessary tools to get back on the right track. In terms of our Mental Health something which I consider to be an extremely delicate aspect of human beings that must be nurtured and cared for just like any other part of our body and yet many of us do not place value in it or ignore it to the point of crisis.
I would like to share some very raw and personal stories throughout this blog to inform you on the value of managing a mental health crisis whether it be for yourself or someone you know, the following accounts will reflect upon the importance of caring for our mental health and what happens when we don’t, I hope that this information may prove to be invaluable one day.
From a very young age I was met with difficulties, both parents were heavy drug users and after my arrival on this planet my father left and I wouldn’t meet him again until I was around 10 years old, My mother without a job and 3 children continued to abuse drugs and so me and my brothers lived with my grandparents. Throughout my childhood I experienced panic attacks and zero confidence, I felt unloved and unworthy and so as we all know our childhoods greatly affect our adulthood. At 19 years old I decided I would escape from my reality and travel Australia leaving my dead-end relationship and my wonderful friends and my extremely complicated family. Upon my arrival in Oz land I truly felt free for the first time in my life and I had so much ahead of me. So young, hopeful and slightly naive I travelled to central Australia in my 3rd week where I embarked on a tour with 8 other people to travel further south, this tour however was pivotal in the downward spiral of my Mental Health. It would be on the 3rd day of the tour that all the backpackers enjoyed some beers together whilst watching a truly magical sunset over Uluru and it was later that night that I would be locked in a bathroom with the tour guide leader having been drugged and then raped. Rough I know. For many years I abused my body and my mind and grew an overwhelming addiction to not getting better via drugs and alcohol and bad people. And If I am completely honest it’s not until this new year (2020) that I finally feel free from the clutches of that horrific event. Getting better takes time, and it’s been 5 years since I went to Australia, but the important point I’m trying to make here is that for 5 years I’ve mostly ignored my problems and so they have festered. Some years ago I tried Cognitive Behavioural Therapy/Talk Therapy via the NHS and it really did help me for a small amount of time, but unfortunately the NHS is under a lot of pressure and so I only had these appointments for around 3 months most of it was self-help homework to help me understand my emotions better, and what I call my ‘Brain Doctor’ really cared and made me realise my childhood and being raped was not my fault, and if you can take anything away from this blog post then remember that you are not at fault, you are human, and if you need help then that’s okay.
So fast forward a few years, and I’ve plucked up the courage to come to University, I have the support of my partner who I live with, in our lovely apartment in the town, my wild childhood friends, and a very dysfunctional family, however I now have the added support of those at the University. However let me just say University life is definitely not easy, I’ve been kicked out of my accommodation whilst having to complete a 72hour TCA 3000 word essay, working out of a room with none of my belongings around me trying to revise for exams during exam season whilst extremely ill and massively depressed trying to figure out where I would be living, I’ve had to rush from lectures to get to the hospital to take care of and feed my extremely ill Granda, and just last November I started taking Anti-Depressant medication for the first time and a week later found out I was pregnant, whilst supporting my suicidal friend and repairing my relationship with my mum. Now I’m not going to say that if I can get through that then you can get through what you’re going through because the weight of our issues can be heavier to one person than the other, but the one thing I did differently throughout all of this compared to how I handled childhood problems and the rape, I actually spoke to people, I spoke to my partner, my friends, my family and for the first time I fully opened up to people at the University, it started with a tutor so I could request an extension (oh because of course during all of this I had like 50 essays to complete), then my personal tutor so my non-attendance at lectures could be excused, it was that conversation that led to me writing this blog post! And from that it continued, I then spoke to Assist and the Student Support Team to figure out whether having a baby whilst studying was even a viable option, and it was but I knew in myself I did not have the strength to embark on that particular journey and my choice was supported not just by my friends, family and partner but also by the University via supportive emails from tutors, and being allowed mitigating circumstances on assignments I just couldn’t complete right now. Support comes in many different forms but it’s so important that you open up otherwise how can anyone support you, you don’t even have to say what’s wrong you just need to let someone know something is wrong and when you’re ready and comfortable you can open up and get the help that you might need.
So at Northampton University there is a great deal of support available to us students all it takes is an email or popping by a drop in session, I understand that in itself can be a difficulty trust me I’ve made many appointments and not turned up and if you feel that way also then what I’d recommend is maybe asking a friend to go with you or letting your personal tutor know so they could offer some advice on how to deal with that because there really are people who want to help you become the best you that you can be.
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but rising every time that we fall – Confucius
- Counsellors – The Counsellors will listen to you and help you respond to the difficulties in your life, they will allow you to develop your abilities to address and resolve issues in your life. https://email@example.com
- Mental Health Advisors – The Mental Health Advisors will provide a private and comfortable space to discuss your mental health difficulties and work with you to develop coping strategies whilst studying. https://www.northampton.ac.uk/student-life/support/counselling-and-mental-health-team/
- Assist – Assist can give you advice and guidance for managing your disability whilst studying, for me they helped with a DSA application regarding my Anti-Depressant medication, the DSA application will give me the opportunity to have 6 appointments with the counselling team who can further help me work through my issues by providing me with a safe and comfortable space to talk. https://www.northampton.ac.uk/student-life/support/about-assist/ ASSIST@northampton.ac.uk
If you have been affected by any of the issues I have discussed during this blog post and your struggling to manage or cope with these issues then you can also use any of the following services;
- Speak to your GP, they can refer you to the NHS Mental Health Services.
If you have been affected by sexual assault;.
https://www.northamptonshirerapecrisis.co.uk/ (Northampton Local Centre).
https://www.nhs.uk/service-search/other-services/Rape-and-sexual-assault-referral-centres/LocationSearch/364 (Find sexual assault referral centre in your home town/local area).
Other helpful support (local and national)
Nahida is a BA (Hons) Criminology graduate of 2017, who recently returned from travelling.
Ask anyone that has known me for a long time, they would tell you that I have wanted to go to America since I was a little girl. But, at the back of my mind, as a woman of colour, and as a Muslim, I feared how I would be treated there. Racial discrimination and persecution is not a contemporary problem facing the States. It is one that is rooted in the country’s history.
I had a preconceived idea, that I would be treated unfairly, but to be fair, there was no situation where I felt completely unsafe. Maybe that was because I travelled with a large group of white individuals. I had travelled the Southern states, including Louisiana, Texas, Tennessee and Virginia and saw certain elements that made me uncomfortable; but in no way did I face the harsh reality that is the treatment of people of colour in the States.
Los Angeles was my first destination. It was my first time on a plane without my family, so I was already anxious and nervous, but on top of that I was “randomly selected” for extra security checks. Although these checks are supposedly random and indiscriminate, it was no surprise to me that I was chosen. I was a Muslim after all; and Muslim’s are stereotyped as terrorists. I remember my travel companion, who was white, and did not have to undergo these checks, watch as I was taken to the side, as several other white travellers were able to continue without the checks. She told me she saw a clear divide and so could I.
In Lafayette, Louisiana, I walked passed a man in a sandwich café, who fully gawked at me like I had three heads. As I had walked to the café, I noticed several cars with Donald Trump stickers, which had already made me feel quite nervous because several of his supporters are notorious for their racist views.
Beale Street in Downtown Memphis is significant in the history of the blues, so it is a major tourist attraction for those who visit. It comes alive at night; but it was an experience that I realised how society has brainwashed us into subliminal racism. The group of people I was travelling with were all white and they had felt uncomfortable and feared for their safety the entire time we were on Beale Street. The street was occupied by people of colour, which was not surprising considering Memphis’ history with African-Americans and the civil rights movement. That night, the group decided to leave early for the first time during the whole trip. I asked, “Do you think it’s our subconscious racist views, which explains why we feel so unsafe?” It was a resounding yes. As a woman of colour, I was not angry at them, because I knew they were not racist, but a fraction of their mind held society’s view on people of colour; the view that people of colour are criminals, and, or should be feared. That viewpoint was clearly exhibited by the heavy police presence throughout the street. It was the most heavily policed street I had seen the entire time I was in the States. Even Las Vegas’ strip didn’t seem to have that many police officers patrolling.
It was on the outskirts of Tennessee, where I came across an individual whose ignorance truly blindsided me. We had pulled up at a gas station, and the man approached my friends. I was inside the station at this point. The man was preaching the bible and looking for new followers for his Church. He stumbled upon the group and looked fairly displeased with the way they were dressed in shorts and skirts. He struck a conversation with them and asked generic questions like “Where are you from?” etcetera. When he found out the group were from England, he asked if in England, they spoke English. At this point, the group concluded that he wasn’t particularly educated. I joined the group outside, post this conversation, and the man took one look at me and turned to my friend who was next to him, and shouted “Is she from India?” The way he yelled seemed like an attempt to guage if I could understand him or not. Not only was that rude, but also very ignorant, because he made a narrow-minded assumption that a person of my skin colour, could not speak English, and were all from India.
I was completely taken aback, but also, I found the situation kind of funny. I have never met someone so uneducated in my entire life. In England, I have been quite privileged to have never faced any verbal or physical form of racial discrimination; so, to meet this man was quite interesting. This incident took place in an area populated by white individuals. I was probably one of the very few, or perhaps the first Asian woman he had ever met in his life; so, I couldn’t make myself despise him. He was not educated, and to me, education is the key to eliminating racism.
Also, the man looked be in his sixties, so his views were probably set, so anything that any one of us could have said in that moment, would never have been able to erase the years of discriminatory views he had. The bigotry of the elder generation is a difficult fight because during their younger days, such views were the norm; so, changing such an outlook would take a momentous feat. It is the younger generation, that are the future. To reduce and eradicate racism, the younger generation need to be educated better. They need to be educated to love, and not hate and fear people that have a different skin colour to them.