This has been the century of strangers, brown, yellow and white. This has been the century of the great immigrant experiment. It is only this late in the day that you can walk into a playground and find Isaac Leung by the fish pond, Danny Rahman in the football cage, Quang O'Rourke bouncing a basketball, and Irie Jones humming a tune. Children with first and last names on a direct collision course. Names that secrete within them mass exodus, cramped boats and planes, cold arrivals, medical checks. It is only this late in the day, and possibly only in Willesden, that you can find best friends Sita and Sharon, constantly mistaken for each other because Sita is white {her mother liked the name} and Sharon is Pakistani {her mother thought it best – less trouble}. Yet, despite all the mixing up, despite the fact that we have finally slipped into each other's lives with reasonable comfort {like a man returning to his lover's bed after a midnight walk}, despite all this, it is still hard to admit that there is no one more English than the Indian, no one more Indian than the English. There are still young white men who are angry about that
( Zadie Smith )
[ White Teeth ]
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