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I was about 11 or 12 when my family moved into the all black neighborhood of Somerleyton Rd in London. I remember we didn't give it much thought at the time - it was a good clean street, the houses were roomy, and it was close to shops and schools. We really wanted to live in the country, but this area seemed a good one until we could achieve that.

The first inkling we had that we might have done something society considered daring - even shocking - was the reaction of some of our friends.

``Why are you living here?" they cried, and couldn't get out fast enough. Incomprehensible adults. I went to my best friend Jimmy's house and forgot about them.

Looking back, some of our friends and relatives did appear to feel threatened by the so-called `black invasion' from countries like Nigeria, and the West Indies. But I had been brought up to regard all as my brothers and sisters. My grandmother, a dedicated foster carer from way back, often had children of other nations in her home, and I was encouraged to regard them as part of my extended family.

The most noticeable thing about the increase in African and West Indian migrants, to my simple child's viewpoint, was the changing look of the food stalls at the markets - we saw more tropical fruit, and green bananas, which frankly puzzled me. How would one eat a green banana, when everyone new they only tasted good when ripe? And what on earth did you do with palm leaves?

We lived next door to a sprawling extended family in Somerleyton Rd. The youngest, Jimmy, became my best friend. Together we roamed all over the district, and he told me gory horror stories of people that had been killed on railway lines so I would know not to cross them.

His older brother had a passion for big American cars, which my father shared. They were often to be found under the hood of some Chrysler or Cadillac, earnestly discussing the problem of obtaining spare parts. Often the best solution was simply to buy a wrecked car and pillage it for parts, so there were a few half cannibalized yank tanks on the street's waste ground.

Jimmy's mum's kitchen was where we all gathered. I swear, you couldn't walk in that house without being fed. The kitchen was always full of delicious cooking smells, and it was there that I finally found out what you do with green bananas and palm leaves. You wrap the bananas in the palm leaves and roast them. They were delicious.

As Jimmy's family were West Indian, there were many parties, going on into the night and the next day. Jimmy and I would grab handfuls of food, a few soft drinks and sit out on the steps, listening to the steel band records that echoed out into the night. Sometimes one of the older relatives would sit with us and tell us about life in the West Indies, which Jimmy could barely remember.

I think we'd never been so happy, anywhere in the Big Smoke. When we finally moved out to the country, we were very sorry to leave these good friends behind. People in the street that we barely knew came to say goodbye and thank us for being good neighbors.

So, yes - I would unhesitatingly move into a neighborhood if I were the only person of my race living there - and I would do it because that statement simply isn't true. We are all one race, and share a love of community and family. Maybe things have changed today, maybe things are no longer so innocent, but it's only fear that sets up the barriers.

Many people go alone to far countries and live among its people with great success - like our West Indian friends. If we remember that all people are our brothers and sisters, there is nowhere we cannot call home.

Learn more about this author, Gail Kavanagh.
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