Critical race theory?

I have bladder problems, like so many of us in our eighties. (In case you squirm away in embarrassment, remember that, a generation ago, cancer, AIDS, “womens’ problems” and mental disorders were also shameful taboo subjects.) I was referred to an excellent NHS clinic. Before my first appointment a few days ago, I was sent several pages of tick box questions about the details of my condition. (I’ll spare you those.) The initial questions were utterly appropriate. But then I was asked my “race”. At which point I bridled. For two reasons.

The first is simple. Race is a meaningless concept, as most experts now agree. Consider: I am a White Brit, and so were most of my ancestors, for approaching two hundred years. Some much longer. Is my race White? Or British? English perhaps? European? Caucasian? To what race do Jews who may have lived in this country for centuries belong? What about Black Britons, whose roots — a generation or two back — lie in the Caribbean, and before that, Africa? Are British Muslims — their ancestors came from all parts of the globe — bizarrely to be regarded as members of one specific “race”, rather than members of a religious group?

No wonder serious folk prefer to use rather clunking words such as ethnicity. But, even then, what they are increasingly often talking about are the fashionable but controversial ideas of  “White Privilege” and “unconscious bias”. They were introduced from America as part of the equally controversial — some would say toxic — Critical Race Theory, which is now the flavour of the month among progressive folk here. And what White Privilege, unconscious bias and the rest of CRT mean, in effect, is that all White people — however poor, however progressive, however colour blind, however much they take the knee or tear down statues — are privileged, compared with all BAME people. White people who — in all honesty — attempt to deny their “unconscious bias”  and privilege are the most evil of all. Sort of a Whites’ Only version of Original Sin. Predestination perhaps? Or the mark of Cain?

So I just write “Human” whenever the race box question pops up, hoping it will annoy some pen pusher. Yes, of course I know that all human groupings are not identical. You would never look at me and think: there goes a Namibian, an Inuit or a Tamil. Like it or not, we are colour coded. So what? Doesn’t make my tribe better or worse than your tribe. Of course I know, too, that there are  “ethnic” differences which are not visible. They are genetic. One example: people with African roots are more inclined to get sickle cell anaemia. That is why it is right and proper that the NHS should focus resources on that vulnerable group. Finally, I know that there is still plenty of deplorable prejudice and discrimination in this country. Look at the record of the Metropolitan Police. Look at the latest official report on the NHS, of all places.

Which leads to my second, more specific, reason for objecting to the question about race on my form. (And, incidentally, on many other forms and questionnaires issued by public bodies.) As far as I am aware, there is no genetic element to my bladder problem. So, even if race were to be a meaningful term, it would still be an irrelevant meaningful term, as far as my condition is concerned. Ask a silly question: you’ll get a silly answer, Herr Penpusher. Far better to mind your own business.

Now let me digress, for reasons which will become apparent. My late wife was the daughter of a respected doctor. He had a practice in the Midlands, many decades ago. He was also a prosperous businessman. They lived in a large detached house with a substantial garden complete with pond. There was a driver/handyman and a nanny/cook around the place when she was young. She was educated at Roedean and then read English at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.

Among other impressive jobs, she worked for the British Council, held a very senior post at the Arts Council, and represented the Government on European Union cultural working parties. She retired with an OBE. I, on the other hand, came from a radical East End family of building labourers, brickies, chippies, painters and decorators. Generations of them. My father was a sign-writer. I went to the local grammar school, and made it to Oxford on a state scholarship. I was a journalist all my working life. No OBE. No complaints either.

In the real world you would surely say that my wife was the beneficiary of privilege (along with her  intelligence, application and determination.) In contrast — again no complaints — I lacked privilege. But I studied hard and got lucky. I was a potential victim who, against the odds, obtained a winning ticket in the lottery of life. Not that the difference was of the slightest importance to either of us. However, in the topsy turvy world of  Critical Race Theory, I was the privileged one and she was oppressed victim. How come? Well. I cheated you. I deliberately omitted one crucial fact from our joint story. My wife’s maiden name was Naseem Fatma Khan. Her father came from central India.

Do you wonder then why I regard Critical Race Theory as chateau-bottled codswallop? Unfair. Racist. And dangerously divisive with it. I prefer to live by the colour-blind words of Martin Luther King: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by their character.” Right on. And I continue to dream that the only meaningful race our two children belong to is — the Human Race.

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