easier to reach out for a mentor.
Dave headed the foundation course. The first day I met him, I knew he would be my mentor. He was a man in his fifties who didn’t mince his words; a similar trait to the one I saw in Mum, which I liked.
On my first few critiques, he asked what my parents thought of me studying art. There weren’t many Asians studying the subject in those days, as it wasn’t seen as an education, hence my parents’ dismay. I stuck out like a sore thumb and he clocked on from my surname that I was Muslim. I enjoyed our friendly banter; the remarks he made about the band of gold I wore on my arm, asking if it was part of my dowry; what my brothers and sisters did and where I was in the pecking order; all the time trying to piece me together. He spotted a Telegraph newspaper in my portfolio once and asked if I was a Tory. I didn’t understand politics much, except that the majority of art students labelled themselves as socialists. I was once asked to join a protest against some Bill going through Parliament but declined. Firstly because I didn’t know enough about the Bill but also because I didn’t want to be associated with a party that students signed up to just because it was seen as ‘trendy’.
Dave described my kebab shop duties combined with my studies as a 77-hour weekly shift. However, I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a stable routine that gave me time every evening, between serving customers, to work on my art projects. It diverted my attention away from useless pastimes like watching television. The shop opened up a social circle of people from my local area, who provoked discussions and debates with me on matters affecting the local people and topical news issues. Dave devised my projects around my working hours in the shop and took time out to sit with me in the canteen. I was pleased to be getting the support and recognition and so I would try to stretch out our time together by offering him more coffee and cake. It got the students gossiping, but there was nothing flirtatious between us.
Boys were not on my radar as I was too busy with my work and studies, though I did make friends with one called Mark. He was a gentle giant with spiky blonde hair and a kind smile. We would meet every morning for coffee in the canteen and go to the sandwich shop together at lunchtime. One day Mark suggested we go to another place down near the canal as it served good tea.
The tea was nice but nothing special. What was more fascinating were the surroundings. There was something about the people both serving and being served at the café that I couldn’t quite put my finger on; nothing odd,just different. More facial piercings, alternative clothing and tattoos.
‘Have you guessed yet?’ Mark ran his fingers through his hair, face flushed.
I looked at him blankly.
‘You know,’ his eyes flitted over to a group of young men sat at a table close by. ‘I’m gay.’
A strange feeling set in in the pit of my stomach. The first time I had heard the word ‘homo’ was at school, bantered around like a swearword. The second time was by a Muslim girl whose family friend had died of AIDS and the community refused to attend the funeral, saying it was God’s punishment. Now, here I was; my best friend telling me he was everything forbidden, dirty, and against my beliefs.
I drank my tea, finding the warm liquid comforting. I could see this was hard for him too, but for some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his personal life.
I heard a shuffling noise behind me, and then a man pulled a chair up and joined our table. He was over six foot, wore black leather trousers, a matching jacket, had a shiny head and a ring through his nostril.
‘Hello, I’m Kev.’ He held his hand out to me. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
I looked at Mark for help. Could this be a test from God, I wondered, pushing the most compromising sceneof them together out of my mind? I smiled back politely and
Dave headed the foundation course. The first day I met him, I knew he would be my mentor. He was a man in his fifties who didn’t mince his words; a similar trait to the one I saw in Mum, which I liked.
On my first few critiques, he asked what my parents thought of me studying art. There weren’t many Asians studying the subject in those days, as it wasn’t seen as an education, hence my parents’ dismay. I stuck out like a sore thumb and he clocked on from my surname that I was Muslim. I enjoyed our friendly banter; the remarks he made about the band of gold I wore on my arm, asking if it was part of my dowry; what my brothers and sisters did and where I was in the pecking order; all the time trying to piece me together. He spotted a Telegraph newspaper in my portfolio once and asked if I was a Tory. I didn’t understand politics much, except that the majority of art students labelled themselves as socialists. I was once asked to join a protest against some Bill going through Parliament but declined. Firstly because I didn’t know enough about the Bill but also because I didn’t want to be associated with a party that students signed up to just because it was seen as ‘trendy’.
Dave described my kebab shop duties combined with my studies as a 77-hour weekly shift. However, I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a stable routine that gave me time every evening, between serving customers, to work on my art projects. It diverted my attention away from useless pastimes like watching television. The shop opened up a social circle of people from my local area, who provoked discussions and debates with me on matters affecting the local people and topical news issues. Dave devised my projects around my working hours in the shop and took time out to sit with me in the canteen. I was pleased to be getting the support and recognition and so I would try to stretch out our time together by offering him more coffee and cake. It got the students gossiping, but there was nothing flirtatious between us.
Boys were not on my radar as I was too busy with my work and studies, though I did make friends with one called Mark. He was a gentle giant with spiky blonde hair and a kind smile. We would meet every morning for coffee in the canteen and go to the sandwich shop together at lunchtime. One day Mark suggested we go to another place down near the canal as it served good tea.
The tea was nice but nothing special. What was more fascinating were the surroundings. There was something about the people both serving and being served at the café that I couldn’t quite put my finger on; nothing odd,just different. More facial piercings, alternative clothing and tattoos.
‘Have you guessed yet?’ Mark ran his fingers through his hair, face flushed.
I looked at him blankly.
‘You know,’ his eyes flitted over to a group of young men sat at a table close by. ‘I’m gay.’
A strange feeling set in in the pit of my stomach. The first time I had heard the word ‘homo’ was at school, bantered around like a swearword. The second time was by a Muslim girl whose family friend had died of AIDS and the community refused to attend the funeral, saying it was God’s punishment. Now, here I was; my best friend telling me he was everything forbidden, dirty, and against my beliefs.
I drank my tea, finding the warm liquid comforting. I could see this was hard for him too, but for some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his personal life.
I heard a shuffling noise behind me, and then a man pulled a chair up and joined our table. He was over six foot, wore black leather trousers, a matching jacket, had a shiny head and a ring through his nostril.
‘Hello, I’m Kev.’ He held his hand out to me. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
I looked at Mark for help. Could this be a test from God, I wondered, pushing the most compromising sceneof them together out of my mind? I smiled back politely and
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