I'm half African, half Welsh. While I challenge you to come up with a weirder combination, I shall tell you that growing up an Afro-Welshie has been unique, troublesome at times but always entertaining.
The odd pairing arose when my 19-year-old Algerian mother set off for adventure across the Mediterranean without a word of English except for a battered travel dictionary. Fate landed her in the UK, whereupon she became an au pair to the Law family, looking after a 3-year-old Jude. "He was a nightmare to potty train," she recalls. The other family she came across was my father's from the Welsh valleys. My father was 17 at the time, the older brother to the little girl my mother would look after. In time-honoured cliché, he was to run off with the nanny.
Growing up, I even had two names, a signal from both sides of the family that I was to conform to their culture. My Welsh side called me Alexandra, my nice, solid, British middle name. When I spent time with my Algerian family, my name became Aicha, also a middle name and my identity when I passed into the Arabic world. It confused the hell out of me as a child but I didn't question it.
My upbringing was a loving and often unconventional one. Being brought up with Christians on one side and Muslims on the other, I lived in a minefield of polar opposite cultural differences.
Both my grandfathers died. When my Welsh one departed, we crept around, speaking in sombre tones. The funeral was a small, muted affair and, after the cremation, we filed out neatly to eat cucumber sandwiches. I think I was the only one with obvious tear trouble and it was socially awkward; I blamed my red eyes on hay fever. When my Algerian grandfather shuffled off this mortal coil, by contrast, all hell broke loose. Every one of my female relatives squeezed into our living room and wailed. They didn't just weep; this was an all-out, letting-it-rip cryathon. I was told off for not being sad enough.
This was not the only time I had to hide my feelings.
I remember being a teenager ready to go out clubbing with friends, teetering in heels to the living room to tell my parents I was off. What I didn't know was that an English woman and my Algerian uncle were going through a pre-marital religious ceremony with an imam at the time. I remember seeing the fat, pallid, piggy-looking future bride who would be marrying my uncle, wearing what looked like a tea towel on her head; she reminded me of a toddler trying on its parents' clothes. The whole thing – including me – looked utterly ridiculous and I had to wait until I was outside before I could burst out laughing. Suppressing mirth is a skill I have mastered over the years; you have to as a 'halfie'.
My two homes sound different, feel different… even smell different but I wouldn't have it any other way. I cannot imagine a family all from one place. I used to feel embarrassed that I wasn't exactly like my Anglo-Saxon peers at school, but now I feel privileged that I have an unrivalled insight into two worlds, especially in the current political climate.
My parents cleverly chose not to bring me up with any religion at all, but it did partially result in me being an outsider on both sides. I am simultaneously a member of both families and neither. My mother's tribe is huge, affectionate and generous to a fault. They also never hide their feelings, which can result in emotional outbursts that would make any Englishman blush. On the other hand, my Welsh family is small, reserved and great believers of decorum. But resentment and bitterness over things can build and fester, precisely because no-one talks openly and honestly. Navigating my way around these two sides has been a learning experience in much the same way some children have to learn two languages.
The best way to cope with being in the middle of two cultures is to somehow melt into the background and not be noticed, in case you end up saying the wrong thing. This is the easiest option but I have also ended up inventing a whole other – more acceptable – life story to tell relatives when required. My Algerian family has no idea that I go to all-night parties and drink alcohol. However, I always tell my Welsh family about the men I am dating, as they want to see me marry. Neither knows I also go out with women, am an atheist and have no interest in having children but there is no point in riling family just yet. It's necessary to stay sane.
