Don't Call Me White (a sonnet-ish)

When I was busking, some years ago, I came to a point when I had to stop playing Jerusalem.  The reason for this was that white, middle-aged people would look at the colour of my face and assume it was okay to come up and say things like “Britain for the British” and “Kick out all the immigrants”.

Fast forward to summer 2025.
According to police and government statistics: 81% of convicted child grooming gang members in the UK are straight, white, British men; 78% of sexual assaults are committed by straight, white, British men; 68% of homicides are committed by straight, white, British men. 
In a recent study it was found that 48% of the rioters who were arrested protesting the presence of migrants in a hotel in Belfast had previous convictions for domestic assault.  They were straight, white, British men.

 

Don’t call me white, I don’t want to be white
If it means I’ll seem anything like them
The lager-soaked thugs, spoiling for a fight
Throwing nazi salutes and spitting hatred like phlegm

Or hanging up flags to shout, “We own this space”
- territory – like dogs pissing up trees
Or seeing a rapist in every brown face
Or happy to let children starve, drown and freeze

I’m reclaiming my heritage from generations long gone
I’m an Irish Gypsy Jew, I’m declaring mixed race
And I’ll take my place with the singing throng
Chanting “Refugees Welcome!”, here in this place

What else can I do, except what I know to be right?
But don’t call me white.  I refuse to be white.

 

August 2025

 

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