I am in the Shetland Islands wending through the crooked alleys of Lerwick, the capital. I'm here for the Shetland literature festival, Wordplay. I've had my morning walk by the cliffs and down to the town past the lodberries built into the sea where they enclose a 200m stretch of golden sand.
The shops have names like The Spiders Web and The Magpies Nest. In the window of The Magpies Nest I see a gang of golliwogs staring out at me. I catch my reflection in the window. I remember the times I was spat at in the street: "Wog go home."
I collect myself and enter the shop with a smile. The woman behind the counter rises. "Wow," I say. "I remember these from my childhood." I ask: "But do people not complain?" My smile remains. I take careful mental notes of what she says. I ask her if I can have my picture taken with the dolls. She obliges. "I think I'd like to buy one," I say. She sells me the doll. Fifteen pounds.
In 2009, following the furore over Carol Thatcher using the word, Hamleys joined the Queen's estate in banning golliwogs from its shops. Last year, on Comment is free, Richard Seymour detailed their history: "The English-American author Florence Upton invented the golliwog in a series of picture books produced at the onset of the Jim Crow laws, which mandated racial segregation in the American South. She described the character as 'a horrid sight, the blackest gnome' … He had thick lips, unruly black hair, and his hands and feet were paws." He concluded: "The most insidious feature of these images is that they were intended for consumption by children, part of their socialisation into the adult world of race relations. It is because of this that many apologists for those racist images find it convenient to lapse into sentimental fugue state, in which history is obliterated."
I recall our conversation. Each day the shop owner puts them in the window is she making a conscious decision to disregard their racist history? What statement is she making to the young and old minds of Shetlanders, and the tourists on whom the Lerwick economy depends? I wrote down my thoughts, pressed upload and the words went live on my blog.
A few days later a Shetland Times article pops up on my Google alerts. The headline reads "Shop owner considers closing after receiving criticism". They interview the shopkeeper, not me. "A visibly upset Mrs Leask, who describes the dolls using the term 'gollies' rather than 'golliwogs', told this newspaper: 'I'm in no way racist at all. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. I don't think anybody who buys them is racist.'" I have become something I did not intend to be. Have I bullied a defenceless woman?
When do you speak up? How do you retain your integrity and stem the blood flow from its wound if you don't name it, if you don't call it? And is a quiet word enough? Was it right for me as visitor to the festival, no doubt funded by the taxpayers of that island, to turn around and accuse one of its citizens of racism?
I think I was right to make that call because that is what festivals are about. Writers and artists challenge received opinion. I did also voice an objection at the local MP's office on the same high street. The blog is my window to the world, as her shop window is to hers. Should I wear a T-shirt with the disclaimer, "Careful, I may blog this"? Was I duplicitous? I want to say to you I wasn't. She is a shopkeeper. I am a customer. I am a writer.
Saying she would "close the shop because of my criticism" is a powerful commitment to selling the golliwog. I think my reaction to blog about the golly is proportionate to hers to sell the golly.
I can upload my voice at the press of a button – publish – there must be some responsibility that goes with that. Something tells me I should have told her I was going to blog. But I don't know why she deserves that.
Should I have told her my opinion? No. I choose how I do that. I have no need to challenge her in person. I know what it's like to be told I am aggressive by merely being present and articulate. I couldn't risk that. Her aggressive actions spoke louder than words, so my words rise to her action. Kurt Cobain said, who needs action when you've got words. He was right. In truth she sickens me and I had to protect myself.
Should I have written my blogpost? They're only words, right? The final words throw me metaphorically back through the window – what do I do with the very real golliwog I bought.
