It wasn’t until I was twenty years old that I found out I come from a very recent Mixed-Race background — when my father told me my great-great-grandfather was a white man from Ireland.,The English I know comes from Charles Dickens novels, Jane Austen and Mister Darcy; no hint of the dialects of my maternal Grenadian grandparents’ speak. No evidence or any influence of my Brummie-sounding father — a man that spent years of his life in Lichfield, Handsworth and Birmingham.,Mixed-Race in having the experience of both private and state education and the clash of two very different worlds — from class, cricket and colonialism at school, to state college students that didn’t see taking the bus as a punishment. But also very literally Mixed-Race in my white and Black ancestry. To my private school colleagues, I was other. “You should go back to the trees that you came from” I remember hearing once. To those I met at college when I was sixteen, I can now say I was more The Crown, Sanditon and Doctor Who; someone that seemingly came across as educated and upper class with fancy tastes. They thought I believed I was better than them. Not the case at all, simply I am not a people person. I am also Narnia and Churchill, moving through the Whiteness of my coloniser — speaking with the tongues of Baden-Powell, Lord Kitchener and Cecil Rhodes. That is to say, I don’t speak like my ancestor Mister Street from Ireland, but those that colonised his people and enslaved my ancestors. School hijacked my voice box and turned it into flowers, crossing the ts in the star-cross cloth of the union jack that comes out at press nights at my local theatre and networking soirées. My BBC English is a four-leaf clover causing chaos for those that find out I don’t know how to talk slang. That I studied English in the poems of Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Blake, in the tint of ‘Ozymandias’ and ‘Tintern Abbey’, not in barbershops or at drill concerts.,Finding out my Mixed-Race ancestry at twenty years old showed me that I am as Black lives matter as I am Big Ben and Delapre Abbey. I am not white but I am not monoracially Black either. Now, I’m starting to think Black is more of a politcal term than a race. If race is constructed, should any of this matter? I do wonder. I am British. I am Northamptonian. I am a writer. I am an educator. I am a student. I am Me. Mister Street leaves me with many questions about a place that has been perpetuated as a very white.,Mister Street speaks to me now, as does Grandma Jessica. I am Mixed-Race because my ancestry is Multiracial. But I am also Black. British English is stuffed full of text speak, Patois and the blood and toil of enslavement.,Dad went on to tell me about how my Great-Grandma Jessica was Mixed-Race, and that’s essentially where my grandmother’s fairer skin tone comes from. He then, in-turn, is Mixed-Race, passing on this Multiracial lineage on to my brother and I, his children — who have grown up believing themselves to be monoracially Black. That’s my paternal grandmother’s family tree going back over 100 years. This has lead me into lots of thoughts, and that my recent family history wasn’t just built on the backs of enslaved Africans. I will never know what African ethnic group my enslaved ancestors came from but knowing I have Irish ancestry means the Potato Famine, the Easter Risings and the Troubles are as much part of my genealogy/family history as the Zong Case and the Windrush Scandal.,Usually, we organize related Notebooks together in a folder. In order to access them, we need to go through the directory structure in the File Browser, which is cumbersome.,Simultaneously finding challenge relating to his Black relatives and family friends. I chewed through white consciousness and frames of references, whilst choking on unapologetically monoracially Black references. They would get stuck in my throat, like a foreign language in my voice box. Sitting there in my grandmother’s house in Lichfield, I remember a culture war going on — between rural Northants, Staffs and the West Midlands.In comparison, growing up in Northamptonshire, I saw racial diversity as a newfound phenomenon. I still do. Now, I am increasingly self-conscious.,I was desperate for work so I did the interview and immediately got the heebie-jeebies. For starters, he was just a weird dude. Second, he didn’t get rich in a way that qualified him to sell this course.,He’d inherited a company from his dad when he was 23. He sold the company immediately, made millions of dollars. In the decades since, he hadn’t done anything substantive besides take sweet vacations.,The bottom line: this is the story for many of these courses. Legit millionaires are too busy making more millions or enjoying the millions they have to be juking kids for their money.,Thinking myself as monoracially Black for 20 years, I’m now thinking, “do I have what people may call a white man’s nose?” Looking at pictures of myself as a child, my nose was thin and my features changed as I aged. As a baby, anyone passing would think I was a Mixed-Race child, very much taking the skin complexions of both Grandma Val and Great-Grandma, Jessica — both born into the politics of lighter skin in Caribbean communities. As I grew up, my skin complexion changed, getting darker. At those family parties, I was a Black boy that “talks white”, carrying baggage of class privilege into places that had also been victims of it. For many, my life story is an anomaly.,My Mixed-Racedness is an invisible story, since my father would not be stereotyped as Mixed-Race. He does not have lighter skin or loose hair. In the national imagination, I am too dark to be Mixed-Race. Yet, when I lay down to sleep, I imagine others like me who do not fit the stereotype — those too dark or too light — from Professor David Olusoga, Ryan Giggs and Stephen Graham to Naomi Campbell and Bob Marley. When I lay down, thinking of my school years, I am now one of the white boys. Not a Black boy with red, gold and green encrusted into his union jack chest — this was still a boy who loved his Caribbean culture but also moved through Whiteness with ease.,I tapped on the 2.5 zoom and found that the moon was still just a tiny gray and white blob in the background. Next, I decided to push past the optical into digital zoom and noticed that I could bring in a bit more lunar landscape detail. However, to hold onto the focus and the lower exposure enough to keep the moon’s luminance from blowing out the image, I had to hold my finger on the screen, right over the moon, until Apple’s Camera app locked exposure and focus.,It’s always the same formula, isn’t it? A guy standing in a posh house (he rented) or in front of a library full of sports cars. He’s either totally blinged out in his suit or he’s wearing pajamas to reinforce the prize of his efforts.