My Family Were Refused Service Because We Were Black
A racist experience is an instant flashbulb memory.
Every year in the summer holidays, since I was a baby, I would travel to France. The reason behind it was that my family had a house there that they bought for mere pennies in the 80s and had renovated into a family holiday home.
Just like everything in life, the good side to that was having a house in France, but the downside is that it was in an extremely remote area in the North. There was no television because it would be impossible to get a signal, the Wi-Fi was extremely temperamental, we lived opposite a farm that slaughtered cows, so that was fun, and the nearest hospital was a one-hour drive away.
I understand why they managed to purchase the place so cheap.
Despite the downsides, the house was a home. It was our home, and every single year, it was a joy to go and visit.
One day, my family and I decided to go to the local supermarket. This was a half an hour’s drive, a drive that you had to be very cautious about because there were many bendy roads with dodgy sharp turns. You wouldn’t want to break down one of those roads in the nighttime.
