Suburbia: where the nature is honest, and peoples’ opinions are even more so
‘’That’s a beautiful painting. It reminds me of a Kanye album cover’’.
My partner and I visited our local secondhand shop, just a stone's throw from our house, to check out a painting that had caught his eye. An array of disregarded objects and knick knacks piled up past the wide shop windows, obstructing any natural light. It was the kind of setting that asked you to whisper, the silence too fragile. Concerned that our attempt to remove the painting would cause an avalanche of aged junk, we asked the owner if he could assist.
Trudging behind the owner through his maze of treasured castoffs, he led us to the till. The price felt fair and we both revelled in a small wave of dopamine. Yum consumption, but the honest kind.
‘’Yes it's a beautiful painting and it's from Westland. They’re for zwarte Piet. I'm for zwarte Piet’’.*
A blunt, prepared statement left the owner’s mouth. Dopamine bubble burst, I couldn't think of anything to say in Dutch; I was becoming pretty confident at expressing myself in Dutch, but level B1-B2 hadn't addressed "colonial attitudes and racism’’ just yet. No need, society was schooling me.
‘’That's racism’’ I mustered up.
‘’No, it's tradition’’ he confidently answered.
He then went on to explain more ignorant views, appearing very proud of himself. My heart was broken. I was immediately transported back to life in the UK 20 years ago. Where experiences of my mixed family never landed with my white friends. Where the topic of race was only allowed to be a sharp discussion. Where ignorant views were fired on the grounds of traditional English pubs, full pints in hand.
Both in shock, we left with little words, one painting richer. Gingerly putting it down on the floor of our living room like a new puppy who just peed all over the carpet, we stood back and assessed the level of sting the painting now possessed. For the first time since leaving Amsterdam, I was faced with the reality of the progressive bubble being popped, and the person who held the rusty pin.
Calling on my parents for wisdom, their words soothed the hurt like a gentle balm, helping me to come to terms with the attitude of the ignorant man. My brain impetuously troubleshooted ways I could make a stance in my neighbourhood without losing any front windows: what about posters on my windows? Not the best for keeping them or making neighbourhood friends, but it would be a statement. I felt afraid for the repercussions of speaking out, but I felt even more fearful of who would be, if I said nothing.
*The debate over Zwarte Piet, a character in Dutch holiday traditions, boils down to its portrayal as a Blackface figure, which is a racist stereotype. Critics say the character reinforces harmful racial images, while some defenders insist it's just a harmless part of their culture. This disagreement has sparked a lot of discussion and protests both in the Netherlands and elsewhere.
