As a (white) Scot living in Glasgow, it’s only too clear that the belief Scotland is less racist than England has to be treated cautiously. Yes we have a more welcoming government, and there are lots of postives such as the successful protests last year against home office dawn raids to remove asylum seekers. However in the last couple of years there have also been fascist protests in the city centre, teenagers racially abusing footballers on social media, the Justice Minister alleging racist admission policies at his children’s local nursery. And of course, the ongoing inquiry into the death of Sheku Bayoh at the hands of police in Kirkcaldy.
In 2021 I came across a project by the University of Glasgow which created a database of adverts posted in 18th century UK newspapers, including many Scottish ones, by ‘owners’ seeking help with the recapture of their runaway slaves. The sonnets I wrote after reading these texts aim to tackle themes of obliviousness and complacency by imagining how these runaways might have made a leap in time and try to find roles in a modern Scotland that would rather nor talk about systemic racism.
Underneath each poem I’ve included the image of the advert which inspired it. The poems and images were published in 2022 by Southwark Library.
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Neptune Barber
When he shaves you, the blade passes as close
to your skin as daredevil pilots skim; waves
of white foam and the white-black badger hair brush
comfort like the memory of your grandad’s
rough touch; the radio plays R’n’B
as he lathers your face, holds the GPS
of your jaw in his mind and stroke by stroke
tells you a tale about meeting Gil Scott Heron.
You asked him once: What’s the story with Neptune?
And he told you: I left the cage of the sea
with a trident in ‘seventy three. You laughed,
wondered if it was a line from an old song;
he’s always so well dressed you can imagine
him on stage, voice like Laphroaig or Lagavullin.
Adder
On a bed of spahgnum, chlorophyll
fixing carbon in complex broken chains,
coiled on itself, at rest, oblivious –
or maybe not – the creature may be conscious
of his presence but sense him as its brother:
blotches and venom binding together.
‘Freckled like an Adder’ the advert read,
its author proud of his simile, so keen
to make poetry out of uniqueness
where none exists. Scottish guilt? Aye right.
No wonder restoring peatbog suits him.
Repairing a land damaged by its owners
he could swear the red eye catches his own,
winks conspiratorially: welcome home!
T.Y. Garner Writer 