“Not Irish Enough to Be Angry”: Race, Labour, and the Price of Survival

In solidarity with Diane Abbott

Once again, we are witnessing the disgraceful public treatment of Diane Abbott — the UK’s
first Black woman MP — a woman whose political legacy, courage, and resilience should be
celebrated, not diminished. The recent attempt to sideline and silence her is not just a
personal attack; it is a reflection of the long, grinding, racialised labour demanded of Black
women in public life.

Abbott’s story is familiar to many of us who exist in spaces never designed for us — who are
constantly reminded that we are both hyper-visible and invisible, tolerated but not truly
accepted. This piece — which I rediscovered in my email drafts from 2017 — speaks to that
reality. Though written years ago, its truth remains urgent and painfully relevant.

There are vast differences in how we experience the world — and these differences are
racialised. In a racialised body, how do we experience the labour market? How does
whiteness — or the lack thereof — shape how people are seen, heard, and positioned in
society’s racial hierarchy?

We often agree that the world is stratified, yet there remains a glaring lack of scholarship in
Europe on how this stratification is maintained through whiteness and the valuation of white
skin. Let me begin, then, by describing — experientially — what whiteness means in Ireland.

Whiteness is walking into a room and feeling the eyes on you, silently asking how you got
there. It is the persistent question: “Where are you originally from?”—not out of curiosity,
but as a way to place you, to imply you do not belong. What it really means is: Why are you
here? Why do you have the right to be here? Why are you occupying a space that should be
filled by a white body?

Many white readers will instinctively disagree. Yet these same people often legitimise overt
racism through silent approval — in a vote for UKIP, for Brexit, or for Trump. All under the
guise of reducing the “inflow” — a word I detest. It dehumanises immigrants, rendering
people as unwanted, as waste to be managed.

Ireland resists viewing itself as a country that practices or benefits from white supremacy.
And yet, those racialised as “Other” encounter the supremacy of whiteness daily. This is not
because Black people are inherently disadvantaged or lacking. It is because the system itself — its laws, policies, and human gatekeepers — is racially stratified. It ensures that only the most resilient survive. And survival comes at a cost.

The journey, for many, is so punishing that even success tastes bitter. As we say in career
guidance: it is not what you achieve, but who you become in the process. What does it do to a person to constantly have to prove their worth — not just their skill, but their very humanity?

In a 2010 article, I capture this in my work on Black professionals, describing how people ofAfrican descent and Black people in the labour market often carry the weight of being “guilty until proven innocent.” Some respond by becoming “extra-milers,” constantly trying to disprove the racist assumptions projected onto them.

I often hear white colleagues say, “Well, I’ve had to prove myself too.” But here is the
difference: you’ve never had to prove that your qualifications are valid. You’ve never had to
prove that you speak English fluently. That you’re trustworthy. That you’re capable of
interacting with the public. That junior staff won’t reject you. You’ve never had to prove that
you are human enough to be entrusted with a role. That kind of constant proving is
exhausting. It’s dehumanising.

Is it racism we’re romanticising, or Irish inclusivity?

The model migrant in Ireland is the one who can get up in public and proclaim that Ireland
has been “very welcoming” — no matter what they’ve had to survive to get there. We are
expected to forget the endless hoop-jumping. Forget the colleagues we trained or supervised who progressed while we remained stuck. And through it all, we must stay grateful. Grateful to have been given an opportunity — as if we didn’t earn it.

This article runs the risk of provoking the usual response: “Well, why don’t you go back
home then?” To which I say: Exactly. That is the point. I am not Irish enough to be angry
with my country. I am not Irish enough to have a contrary opinion without being told to leave
it.

Honestly, I’ve reached a point where speaking about racial inequality in the labour market
feels both painful and pointless. It’s not that I don’t care — it’s that the cost of caring publicly is so high. Gender is often thrown at me as a redirection: “It’s not about race; it’s about gender.” I have both race and gender, but I can say with conviction: it is my race — not my gender — that has most hindered me in the Irish labour market.

In a 2015 article, I argued that when non-Black people say, “Race is no longer an issue,” what
they really mean is: “My race is not an issue.” There is a particular joy in having skin that is seen as the default — where one is pre- approved, given the benefit of the doubt, treated as competent or trustworthy, even before one speaks.

Despite it all, I want to speak to Black workers — to say: Don’t give up. Keep pushing. Your
presence matters. Your survival is already a form of resistance. Your success is political. And
your refusal to shrink yourself, or to lie about how welcoming it’s been, is a kind of truth-
telling this country still needs to hear.

✊🏾 What does solidarity with Black women in public life look like in 2025? And what are we willing to risk to make it real?