Or 'Who is this Rakeem bloke and why is he white with a name like that?'
Well... it's like this... I'm a 33-year-old Scottish, muslim convert who has lived in London for most of the last eleven years. I have spent small amounts of time elsewhere, but have firmly decided that I am destined to end my days as a Londoner.
I studied media (journalism) at the University of Westminster's Harrow campus, but have yet to achieve the successes of my course's two most famous exports - Mike Jackson (former head of Channel 4) and, the infinitely more entertaining, Danny Wallace.
My main reason for choosing journalism was to further my writing skills and pay the bills while I secretly write a novel or ten.
I have grown to realise that this is a filthy cliché and that several professional types are merely treading water in their current vocation until they have the time to "write the book".
Cliché it might be, but I'm going to see it through.
I'll get to the "muslim" bit shortly, but other than that, I'm originally from Edinburgh and am still fiercely proud of being Scottish... I just happen to like living in England - something for which I am reliably informed may well earn me a "good doing" next time I'm north of the border.
In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I love being Scottish. It very similar to being Irish, in many respects, not least the fact that we love to leave our homeland, spread ourselves to every corner of the globe and then we get drunk and sit there singing about "how good home is".
As for the name... well... I converted to Islam in 1999 after meeting my ex-wife. I was told by her and her family that I had to choose a new name - something I have since learned is a custom rather than a rule.
One of the strangest things I have ever had to do was change my name.
Picture the scene: a six foot plus, white Scotsman with a book of Muslim baby names and a mirror. It went something like this:
"Abdul?" Quick look at my face. "Erm... no." Flicking of pages. "Mohammed?" Look. "No." More flicking. "Tariq?" Look. Laugh. Sigh. "Not really, no."
In the end I chose Rakeem because it means 'writer'. Strangely enough, there have been lots of friends that have said they couldn't imagine me named anything else. Even those that now know that my original name was Neil.
It has also been a very slow struggle to get those who knew me as Neil to get Rakeem into their heads. My mother - bless her - stil can't do it. Then again... her usual M.O. is to reel off every name in the family before getting to Neil anyway.
A very interesting, but not unexpected outcome of this is stranger's reactions. Whenever I book a taxi or a table at a restaurant by phone, I encounter the same reaction about 75% of the time. We finally come face-to-face, then I tell them my name and they look at me as if they've been told a lie. Occasionally, they will apologise (I can only presume for the look of bewilderment on their own faces) and say: "I'm sorry, I was expecting someone Indian."
Indian, of course, being the generic term used by many people for "Asian" or "Pakistani" - I think because saying the word "Paki" is the generic abusive term and stupidity is easier to forgive than racism (sad that they cite this without realising that the two are virtually inseparable!)
The other end of this reaction chain is when I meet people face-to-face in the first instance and my appearance doesn't match up with the name they're being told.
These people fall into three categories:
1) There are those who take it in their stride and don't get even slightly fazed by it one little bit.
2) There are those who hear the name properly or are confident enough to ask for it to be repeated and who then cannot help themselves from asking it's origins - almost always apologetically - as if I'm going to get very angry or offended for them being so inquisitive. If it was something that I had thought was going to bother me or offend me, I would never have done it in the first place...
...and my personal favourites... 3) There are those people who appear to have a total bra
in meltdown right there in front of me.
These people are hilarious and ridiculous in equal measure. I have seen the same kind of change in their faces as one might if you had just said to them that despite being 6' 2" and very hairy and manly, and dressed as a man, that I am, in fact, a woman and always have been.
It is at this point that I bear witness to conclusive proof that the human brain, when faced with something it does not believe to be true, will very often just fill in the blanks or change the information it has received to suit itself.
There then follows the only part I do not like about this category... the question...
"What was that? Ricky?"
Because, obviously, being white British, it has to be Ricky instead of Rakeem!
An aspect of the change of name that was quite a surprise to me, was the way that I seemed to take to the name so quickly. It was in the latter part of 2000 when I changed my name by statuatory declaration and by the time my sister-in-law, Tallat, and her daughter had come to visit London for the day in the October, I was already more used to it than I would have thought.
We had spent the day having a wander around Covent Garden and doing a little shopping. There were still a fair amount of tourists around; London being one of those cities that keeps it's tourist trade all year round. I had to use the public lavatory in Covent Garden and had asked Tallat to wait a moment.
I was almost at the entrance to the toilets when she shouted: "Rakeem!" across the square, to point and motion that she and her daughter would be looking at some market stalls when I returned. I waved acknowledgement and hurried down the stairs. I thought no more of it.
When I came back, Tallat was grinning at me. Confused, I asked her what she was smiling at. She replied: "You didn't even hesitate when I called after you. It was instant. Your head whipped round as if you had been called Rakeem all your life."
This made me smile too.
I have fully embraced my name now and have even begun to ask the members of my family if they wouldn't mind making more of an effort. My dad has made the switch instantly. My mother and younger sister don't even seem to try.
The only reason that being called Neil has been bothering me so much is that my trips to Scotland have been so sporadic that I am spending the vast majority of my time being called Rakeem. Having to spend a week or two being referred to by my old name is so jarring in my mind. It has, after all, been nearly a decade. Almost a third of my life.
As time has rolled all-too-quickly on, each new meeting means just one more person that knows me as Rakeem. Most of those that woulld still call me Neil are fading into the past.
I am still the same man - as much as any of us are over time - but the fact remains that I am a Muslim man, with a Muslim name, in a pale, pasty-white, Scottish man's body.
Well... it's like this... I'm a 33-year-old Scottish, muslim convert who has lived in London for most of the last eleven years. I have spent small amounts of time elsewhere, but have firmly decided that I am destined to end my days as a Londoner.
I studied media (journalism) at the University of Westminster's Harrow campus, but have yet to achieve the successes of my course's two most famous exports - Mike Jackson (former head of Channel 4) and, the infinitely more entertaining, Danny Wallace.My main reason for choosing journalism was to further my writing skills and pay the bills while I secretly write a novel or ten.
I have grown to realise that this is a filthy cliché and that several professional types are merely treading water in their current vocation until they have the time to "write the book".
Cliché it might be, but I'm going to see it through.
I'll get to the "muslim" bit shortly, but other than that, I'm originally from Edinburgh and am still fiercely proud of being Scottish... I just happen to like living in England - something for which I am reliably informed may well earn me a "good doing" next time I'm north of the border.
In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I love being Scottish. It very similar to being Irish, in many respects, not least the fact that we love to leave our homeland, spread ourselves to every corner of the globe and then we get drunk and sit there singing about "how good home is".
As for the name... well... I converted to Islam in 1999 after meeting my ex-wife. I was told by her and her family that I had to choose a new name - something I have since learned is a custom rather than a rule.
One of the strangest things I have ever had to do was change my name.
Picture the scene: a six foot plus, white Scotsman with a book of Muslim baby names and a mirror. It went something like this:
"Abdul?" Quick look at my face. "Erm... no." Flicking of pages. "Mohammed?" Look. "No." More flicking. "Tariq?" Look. Laugh. Sigh. "Not really, no."
In the end I chose Rakeem because it means 'writer'. Strangely enough, there have been lots of friends that have said they couldn't imagine me named anything else. Even those that now know that my original name was Neil.
It has also been a very slow struggle to get those who knew me as Neil to get Rakeem into their heads. My mother - bless her - stil can't do it. Then again... her usual M.O. is to reel off every name in the family before getting to Neil anyway.
A very interesting, but not unexpected outcome of this is stranger's reactions. Whenever I book a taxi or a table at a restaurant by phone, I encounter the same reaction about 75% of the time. We finally come face-to-face, then I tell them my name and they look at me as if they've been told a lie. Occasionally, they will apologise (I can only presume for the look of bewilderment on their own faces) and say: "I'm sorry, I was expecting someone Indian."
Indian, of course, being the generic term used by many people for "Asian" or "Pakistani" - I think because saying the word "Paki" is the generic abusive term and stupidity is easier to forgive than racism (sad that they cite this without realising that the two are virtually inseparable!)
The other end of this reaction chain is when I meet people face-to-face in the first instance and my appearance doesn't match up with the name they're being told.
These people fall into three categories:
1) There are those who take it in their stride and don't get even slightly fazed by it one little bit.
2) There are those who hear the name properly or are confident enough to ask for it to be repeated and who then cannot help themselves from asking it's origins - almost always apologetically - as if I'm going to get very angry or offended for them being so inquisitive. If it was something that I had thought was going to bother me or offend me, I would never have done it in the first place...
...and my personal favourites... 3) There are those people who appear to have a total bra
in meltdown right there in front of me.These people are hilarious and ridiculous in equal measure. I have seen the same kind of change in their faces as one might if you had just said to them that despite being 6' 2" and very hairy and manly, and dressed as a man, that I am, in fact, a woman and always have been.
It is at this point that I bear witness to conclusive proof that the human brain, when faced with something it does not believe to be true, will very often just fill in the blanks or change the information it has received to suit itself.
There then follows the only part I do not like about this category... the question...
"What was that? Ricky?"
Because, obviously, being white British, it has to be Ricky instead of Rakeem!
An aspect of the change of name that was quite a surprise to me, was the way that I seemed to take to the name so quickly. It was in the latter part of 2000 when I changed my name by statuatory declaration and by the time my sister-in-law, Tallat, and her daughter had come to visit London for the day in the October, I was already more used to it than I would have thought.
We had spent the day having a wander around Covent Garden and doing a little shopping. There were still a fair amount of tourists around; London being one of those cities that keeps it's tourist trade all year round. I had to use the public lavatory in Covent Garden and had asked Tallat to wait a moment.
I was almost at the entrance to the toilets when she shouted: "Rakeem!" across the square, to point and motion that she and her daughter would be looking at some market stalls when I returned. I waved acknowledgement and hurried down the stairs. I thought no more of it.
When I came back, Tallat was grinning at me. Confused, I asked her what she was smiling at. She replied: "You didn't even hesitate when I called after you. It was instant. Your head whipped round as if you had been called Rakeem all your life."
This made me smile too.
I have fully embraced my name now and have even begun to ask the members of my family if they wouldn't mind making more of an effort. My dad has made the switch instantly. My mother and younger sister don't even seem to try.
The only reason that being called Neil has been bothering me so much is that my trips to Scotland have been so sporadic that I am spending the vast majority of my time being called Rakeem. Having to spend a week or two being referred to by my old name is so jarring in my mind. It has, after all, been nearly a decade. Almost a third of my life.
As time has rolled all-too-quickly on, each new meeting means just one more person that knows me as Rakeem. Most of those that woulld still call me Neil are fading into the past.
I am still the same man - as much as any of us are over time - but the fact remains that I am a Muslim man, with a Muslim name, in a pale, pasty-white, Scottish man's body.
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