September 9, 2019
Two weeks ago, we celebrated a Bank Holiday, which occurs precisely three times a year here in the UK. Traditionally, banks used to close for a day. To reconcile accounts and trade, a task that’s now easily folded into regular working hours. These days, it’s just a sanctioned excuse for everyone to hit pause - whether that means a weekend trip, family time, or getting hammered with friends.
In August, this spectacular, idle Bank Holiday falls on the same day as Notting Hill Carnival.
Notting Hill Carnival is the world’s largest street festival, a colorful homage to Caribbean culture that attracts over two and a half million attendees annually. The streets come alive with steel bands, towering floats rigged with colossal sound systems, and the infectious rhythm of calypso. Dancers weave through the crowd, some adorned in intricate feathered costumes that shimmer in the sun, others casually dusted with glitter or draped in sequins. Whistles punctuate the music, flags wave high, and the atmosphere pulses with collective joy. The air is thick with the smell of curried goat, jerk chicken, and fried plantain from countless food stalls.
But beneath the jubilance, there’s an undeniable edge. Broken glass crunches underfoot, silver gas canisters scatter the streets, and a quiet tension hums through the crowd. Police officers stand coolly on the sidelines, barely glancing at the young white women giggling and inhaling laughing gas, but stopping to pat down a young black man, in search of a knife. It’s a dissonant atmosphere - exhilarating, yet undeniably on edge.
London has the second-largest immigrant population in the world. At first glance, it’s easy to think of it as a multicultural utopia, a shining example of inclusion. But closer inspection reveals that while the city’s extraordinary diversity is beautiful, it is also deeply rooted in inequalities and tensions.
I grew up in Slovenia, a country with a population of just two million - that’s nearly the entire crowd of Notting Hill Carnival packed into one country. The stereotypical Slovene is white, Catholic, punctual to a fault, and likely a sports enthusiast.
My class sizes were small, never more than twenty-five people from elementary school through middle school. I saw the same faces every day on my way to and from the music academy, and would often run into neighbors doing everyday things like buying groceries – or, occasionally, getting a little more personal, like going on a date with another neighbor. I mean, I still go to the same hairdresser since I was seven.
Of course, there were still identity clashes. Discrimination exists even among Slovene people, depending on whether you’re from the city, the coast, or the mountains. But especially after the fall of Yugoslavia in the '90s, mixed Balkan nationalities in particular felt like strapping a detonator to your chest and handing the remote to someone else. In my case, I’m American, Slovene and Serbian. Frankly, I like to think of my parents as political revolutionaries because they figured why not mix capitalism and communism to see what happens. Spoiler alert: we got me.
In Slovenia, I was never Slovene enough. In Serbia, I was an “amerikenjac,” which neatly translates to "American donkey". In America, no one could ever guess which state I was from, and luckily for me, in London, I’m Canadian.
Still, it took a while to adjust to this city. When I first moved here, everything felt so impersonal. Every interaction was fleeting. You wouldn’t run into the same person twice, even if you lived one door down from them, yet everyone was oh-so polite, it hardly ever felt genuine. It was strange, feeling both isolated and liberated. I was a stranger in a city full of strangers.
Now, five years in, I’ve learned that things are only as impersonal as you make them. I run into old university friends on the streets, I have a local pub where I know the bartender’s name, I dodge awkward encounters with my ex in nearby parks, and greet the same homeless man every day before work.
The reality is, despite its cosmopolitan reputation, London is made up of small communities and long-standing relationships that resemble those in a small town. It’s full of gossip, feuds, and drama.
Back in the 1950s, Notting Hill saw a dip in rent prices, which attracted many Caribbean immigrants looking for affordable housing. Unfortunately, with this expenditure, came a slew of issues - racial prejudice, exploitation, and hostility. It was around this time that Notting Hill Carnival was born, a celebration to allow the British West Indian community in London to feel at home.
The festival continues to stand as a symbol of solidarity, a vibrant display of Black British culture, but as gentrification has crept in, the Caribbean community has dwindled, and the area is now home to its former white majority.
Notting Hill has long been famous for its beautiful Victorian townhouses, pristine stucco-fronted houses, and private garden squares. Walk along Notting Hill's meandering roads and you sink into its affluence. Saturdays are the main attraction, with Portobello Road Market, showcasing antiques and other, shiny collectors' items from around the world. The streets are buzzing with noise, tourists come to haggle and camera buffs click away, capturing the crowd. The question that raises in my mind is: why do we create these 'in' and 'out' groups in the first place? Who benefits from them, and what are we really trying to protect?
A few weeks ago I binge-watched Netflix’s new docu series, The Family - if you haven’t jumped on this bandwagon, the show is part conspiracy theory, part terrifying reality. Journalist Jeff Sharlet delves into a secret international organization of politicians (i.e. old, white wealthy men), who use faith as a cover-up to form alliances for capital gain. It sounds like something out of a bad spy novel, but trust me, it's real.
In 2016, liberal newspaper, The Guardian, ran a powerful print campaign with typographic posters, one of which included the fabulous sentence:
If you don’t have friends in high places, you don’t mind seeing them fall.
The Family shows quite the opposite, having friends in high places takes you to higher places you couldn’t reach without them. The concept of “brotherhood” depicted in The Family shows both the fascinating power of unity and its toxic side - a marriage of sorts. Friendships between politicians, criminals, and business tycoons that can change policies, reform societal beliefs, and reshape the world as we know it.
I cannot help but wonder what would happen if we applied this same idea of unity and friendship but for something better? What if, instead of using faith as a blanket to mask our own self-interest, we all agreed to find common ground in basic equality? Let’s make Equality our new God. I know it doesn’t sound as sexy to sell, but I bet some copywriter out there will find a way!
Of course, it's fair to say that news organizations like The Guardian are supposed to put a lens on these types of powerful "friendships" - but who's looking at ours? Don’t the friendships we build in our everyday lives play a significant role in the society we live in? And if we’re really the sum of the five people we spend the most time with, is it worth asking: how we choose our friends, and who gets to choose us? Are some of our relationships built solely on trust, loyalty, and support? Or are they based on something more complicated, and if so, why?
Before moving to Slovenia, I lived in Chicago, where some of my most cherished childhood memories were formed. My best friend was Jewish, and I spent more time at her house than I did at my own. We were both in love with the same guy - an absolute hillbilly from Texas. Among the many wonderful memories from those years, I distinctly remember riding the public bus with her. We sat next to a group of Hispanic women and their children, when suddenly, and almost out of nowhere, I became hyper-aware of the color of my skin. Children don’t create a pecking order of who they will play with after school unless told or shown otherwise. And while I didn’t feel we were different, I knew our experiences were. I wasn’t like my friend, she wasn’t like me, and neither of us were like the kids we were sitting with.
Friendship is demanding, but in our callous world, vital. It’s at the heart of change. By examining the reasons we systematically reject some people and embrace others, we can begin to tackle social injustice head-on. Sure, our upbringing and family history play a role in shaping how we view the world, but our culture is flawed, too. Taking social cues from the world around us can feel a bit like playing Russian roulette. Someone’s bound to get hurt.
So, why do we naturally prescribe to this way of thinking when logically no one benefits? Can't we all agree that where we come from doesn’t have to define who we are or who we can become?
There is true heartbreak in friendships that fall apart and a real joy in those that last a lifetime. Despite our cultural differences, a good friend is often seen as someone self-sufficient enough not to need help, but loyal and devoted enough to offer support when needed. And doesn’t that seem a little strange? When a senator can call for help from a drug lord, but a friend who might be struggling with alcoholism never will?
In my creative writing workshops, I was often told to simplify my characters - to make them come from one city, with one cultural background. I rebuffed: I was not taught a language that reduces complex experiences. What a disservice it is to ourselves to be part of this subtle, sinister way of looking at people and their stories.
This might be exactly why the friends we choose - and the ones who choose us - in life are so important. We carry their stories with us.
** For the friends who: dance with me, laugh with me, travel with me, listen to me ramble on for hours, cook delicious meals with me, give me hugs, show up to my flat with sangria because they know I need it, cry with me when they see me cry, pick me up from the airport, proofread my posts before I publish them, collaborate with me creatively, push me to work harder on myself, call me when something terrible happens and need my comfort, share beautiful moments in their life like having their first child, and live miles, and miles away but still call me for my birthday - I love you and thank you.
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