Should a Canadian Write about London?

Dear London,

I owe you an apology.

I think I had better explain myself. I was sent to visit relatives there in the summer of 1988. I was fourteen and a serious pain in the neck, but I was in good company. I remember that from the ride from airport to the flat that I would be staying in, I heard nothing but complaints. My very West Indian relatives pointed out how difficult it was to get ahead due to their race and class, even pointing out different buildings and places where they recalled insults and proved that they had a point. Later that same night, the relative I was staying with would get into a shouting match with a drunk in the street who was slapping a woman around (fortunately, this was from a balcony several stories up in the East End). Plaistow had its charms.

And that was the first night.

There would be visits to relatives who criticized my weight and accent; the supermarkets where you could buy fruit from apartheid-era South Africa. There was the shock of hearing a younger relatives referring to a South Asian boy who wanted to play football with us as a Paki (this was an offensive term I heard from the dumber kids towards me in Canada). There would be the dead-eyed stares of the kids at the youth centres who could sense my foreignness. There would be the adjustment to being left on my own in the city and being forced to travel through it alone.

All that over six weeks…

And, as I said, this is an apology.

For many years, I let the negative above outweigh the things I loved about my time there. Not all of my relatives were professional complainers who attempted to end street fights. And I did manage to see the Royal Albert Hall, the Houses of Parliament, London Bridge, Buckingham Palace, and much more. I did so by getting lost multiple times (not hard to do as a teenager forced to see the city on my own). I managed to discover many odd little spots and distractions that I still treasure. For example, there was a bookstore organized by publishers instead of titles or genres, a real education; there was the British Toy Museum was also a treat. And I even ended up in Wimbledon, discovering that there were people in my family who had milk delivered to their door. I played cricket, fruit machines on the beach at Brighton, ate kebabs, and fish and chips that were heavenly, and underwent a change in all of my tastes – musical, sartorial, and attitudinal, etc. – that I could never have guessed was taking place.

I owe you for that.

And I want to head back to see if there are any other lessons I could still learn.

Thank you, London.

And I hope you accept my humble apology,

K.D.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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