I am going to mention two incidents.

One. Fourteen year old girl, trying to fit in with her top set English class. End of the day, end of the week, the teacher thinks it’ll be fun to finish with a game of charades.

My turn.

They say: Jana of the Jungle.

They say: Go back to Bongo Bongo Land.

I grin and bear it. Scratch that,  I don’t grin. I just bear it. Names don’t kill you though, do they? I bore two years of torments, of hatred, name-calling, go home Paki scrawled on the wall of the prefect’s room.

Where was this home, this land I was supposed to go back to? I was born not far away, across the Cornish bay from the school.

Two. Years passed by. I became a primary school teacher.

One afternoon I showed my class photos from my travels and talked a bit about my experiences. So I thought they knew who I was. My temporary job ended and one year later my daughter started secondary school. She mentioned the name of a girl she shared a lesson with whom I recognised as one of my former pupils.

‘Do you remember Mrs Cornell?’ said my daughter next time she met the girl.

‘Oh, that Paki teacher?’ said the girl, thinking nothing of it.

When I heard this it was like a bolt of electricity went right through me. A shock, with no warning. Thirty years of learning to belong, of smoothing myself over, of making myself a part of a place, a community, a nation. All tazered away , leaving the curled up ball of an incomprehending 14 year old.

At the supermarket check out, the cashiers smile. But what are they thinking? Paki woman, go back where you belong?