The case of Stephen Lawrence feels like a grim glance into my city's history
Stephen Lawrence was murdered before I was born. And yet his name was in the air when I was growing up. I can recall events in the news as the case developed and remember asking my mum what had happened. And I would overhear the conversations of relatives, provoked, perhaps, by reflections on Stephen's death, as they shared the sorts of struggles they'd experienced in a London far less tolerant than the one I've known.
However, being too young to draw much meaning from it all, I suppose I grew up unaware of the true tragedy of Stephen's murder. Also, I felt like a stranger to the challenges faced in the London of that time, the London of 1993. In fact, the case of Stephen Lawrence feels, in many ways, like a grim glance into the history books of the city, where true hatred existed in an almost casual fashion and tensions could become inflamed in the most heinous fashion.
My worries when travelling to and from school on my own – I live in Edmonton, north London, and go to school in neighbouring Hackney – or when going out with friends have never had anything to do with possible racial attack. The London I know has never been a place where I've feared for my life because of the colour of my skin, so it's massively disconcerting to imagine a time when it seemed routine for people to feel that way. Far more prominent in my memory are the warnings of my parents to keep my mobile phone out of sight.
So, from my perspective, it's tempting to consider the days of racial hatred as a ghastly chapter of London's history. But perhaps racism has taken on more subtle forms.
What's more, it's perhaps easier for me to take an optimistic view than it would be for my male peers. The disproportionate number of black and ethnic minority males who are stopped and searched is certainly a reality that my male friends and family members can testify to. I've heard of countless occasions when friends have felt wrongly stereotyped. They describe stop and search as an unprovoked and humiliating ritual.
Still, I'd like to think the London of today is a far less sinister place than it used to be. Instead, my experience is of an emphasised appreciation for the advantages of diverse, tolerant and cohesive communities. I have friends from a range of ethnicities, religions and backgrounds. Any differences between us don't tend to run along any of those lines. I take pride in the fact that where I live, go to school and work are not places dominated by a single group of people, but host a pretty harmonious mix.
And, in truth, as an 18-year-old living in inner-city London, I'm principally absorbed by a whole number of challenges that, on the surface at least, have little to do with race relations. Where will we find jobs? And the prospect of increased university tuition fees is not a particularly exciting one.
An ideal London, then, is a long way off. But it doesn't feel like the place it used to be – it's a place with problems, sure, but problems of a different order and I don't mind admitting to optimism about the direction in which we're heading.