History Teaches Us...

A stone's throw, just, from Chelsea's football ground, -skinhead territory long before any silverware - there's a barber whose window decorations indicate they're stylists in that tricky, ingrowing black hair; I dropped in there one day; and as the one white face in that busy, proud salon (I took the last spare seat with some relief) spent half an hour or so as a 'minority', as images of identity played out some tennis game of mind across the net of what - division or harmony? was I the face of hated white supremacy, now the hated white minority? Covert glances on both sides... Eventually I settled down, to then enjoy the novel ritual to me: when you're finished, dusted down - rise from the chair, and pause a second or two upon the barber's dais there and face the audience; to be admired for sharp new style which is by implication, tribute to the barber's skill; there's palpably the sound of silent, proud applause (I even dared, now shorn and bolder, to acquiesce, with respect, in just a hint of this attractive ritual...) . And here's the crowning glory of this escapade: they charged me less than for that difficult black hair... 'History teaches us...' ...not to trust too much the lessons of history; but rather, learn from how it's working out: emigrate to seek a better life somewhere where faiths and customs are so different and you're the proud, hardworking, strange minority. But then, beware - your children will not want the birthmark of 'minority'; and maybe seek some other pride than that of family, a new identity, some wilder faith than football's common touch, or cricket green; the hosts and guests of history must learn to seek to learn the lessons both must earn. The Romans, empire-builders, had a phrase for this: 'lacrymae rerum' - which so gladly, sadly, means the tears of things...