At age 45 security guards still follow me around shops – it’s blatant racism

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This week I was left feeling pretty shit about myself as I walked down my high street. Not in a “woe is me” sort of way, I was annoyed and angry at myself for not speaking up about something that had just happened to me. This is a rare occurrence. Anyone who knows me, knows that. Advocating for myself and others is how I was raised, but sometimes you’re unexpectedly thrown into a situation where the ability to do that just vanishes.

I was running errands, picking up some shopping and doing some bits and bobs before heading into work. I’d been at the gym that morning, so I was wearing a run of the mill bedraggled mum-wear outfit of leggings, trainers, T-shirt and denim jacket. My hair was scraped back, sunglasses on my head, as my brain attempted to remember the list of things I needed to do but had forgotten to write down.

I wandered into a well-known stationery shop to pick up a 9th birthday card for my son Alfie’s school friend, when a familiar feeling washed over me – I was being watched. Every move I made in the shop, I could sense someone moving in unison with me. Every aisle I went down, the figure followed me, and they weren’t particularly discreet about it. This isn’t a story about stalking though, this is one about racial profiling. The individual in question was a security guard. I looked around and realised that I was the only black person shopping.

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Here’s the thing, this wasn’t the first time this scenario had played out – it was, in fact, the third time in a week I’d been followed around three different shops until I’d paid for my goods. And yes, each time I was the only black person in the shop at the time. But this was the first time the situation really got to me. As I stood in front of a display of bag charms looking for a present, memories I hadn’t thought about for years came flooding back – being a school kid wandering around shops with girls from school.

If I was the only black girl in the group at the time, I’d be the one followed and the others would be left alone without anyone thinking they were going to steal something. It would happen with such frequency that I became acclimatised to it. It just became part and parcel of the tapestry of my life as a young black kid in London. After a while I even stopped arguing with security guards about it. Nothing changed so what was the point?

But here I was, over 30 years later, back in the same scenario, dealing with the same assumption of guilt. And I said nothing.

I paid for the birthday card and walked to the car annoyed with myself that I hadn’t confronted the issue. I was upset with myself for even allowing that sort of thing to still get to me at my age. My head went round and round in circles. I contemplated going back and having a word, but I felt stupid.

Look, I know the figures. In England and Wales, shoplifting reached a 20-year high last year. Some shops are using facial recognition software in an attempt to identify repeat offenders, so I get the issue. I understand the impact it has on shop owners, the community and livelihoods. I can completely understand that security guards are paid to do a job that can be incredibly unrewarding at times. That aside, the most recent data from the Metropolitan Police shows that shoplifting in London is perpetuated overwhelmingly by white people. Yet, I’m the one being followed around shops. For some people data doesn’t matter, their own skewed perception takes precedence instead.

I have no easy answer to this, but I can honestly say that it feels pretty shit walking into a shop and very blatantly being identified as a prospective criminal. Not because you look a bit shifty, but simply because of the colour of your skin. It hits me sometimes. And just when I feel like society has taken giant leaps forward, I’m dragged right back, in the space of a couple of minutes.

Do you know what really irked me though? I was really feeling myself that morning. My outfit was on point, I’d hit the gym at 6.30am with my friend, taken the kids to school, the sun was shining, and I’d got loads of admin done before work. It was a good day. But not even rocking my Lululemon leggings could stop someone making me feel like I was worth less than the life I’ve worked my arse off to achieve.

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