We Are Not Who You Expected Us To Be

Written By Saskia Kabongo 

By Dennis Morris

Camden is loud. 

It’s music from passing cars. It’s sirens at night. It’s aunties calling from windows. It’s children knocking on doors asking, “Can they come out?” Its estate parks are full in the summer and empty when the police drive past. It’s vibrant, it's culture. It’s pride. But it’s also poverty. It’s growing up fast. It’s learning rules that aren’t written down. It’s schools that sometimes feel more like survival than support. We played beat letters in estate parks. We ran through stairwells. We shared crisps and secrets and dreams that felt huge at the time. But as we got older, I could see something changing. Camden was shaping us.  It was shaping the boys I called my friends. The girls I sat next to in class. The children I once played outside with until the streetlights came on.

And what often goes unnoticed, what often goes unsaid, is what is happening inside those Black boys and Black girls. The quiet weight they begin to carry, long before they understand where it comes from. The way environments, expectations, and experiences slowly shape how they see themselves and how they believe the world sees them. In Natives: Race and Class in the Ruins of Empire, Akala reflects on growing up in London and describes how Black children are often navigating systems that treat them differently from an early age, shaping confidence, opportunity, and identity long before adulthood. His reflections mirror the realities many of us witnessed but did not yet have the language to explain — moments that felt personal at the time, yet were part of something much larger unfolding around us.

The way society treats us makes the human part go unseen. Labels arrive before understanding. Assumptions replace curiosity. And slowly, without being spoken out loud, you begin to realise that you are being seen not for who you are, but for what others have already decided you represent.

John: Becoming What Was Expected

John grew up just a few streets away from me. He was kicked out of state school and placed in a behavioural unit. “I come from a loving household,” he tells me. “My mum cared about me. But in school, I didn’t feel seen or heard.” He watched the older boys. The way they spoke. The way they carried themselves. What was considered “cool.” “I didn’t want to be seen as wet,” he says. “So I followed what everyone else was doing.” In Camden, reputation can feel more important than results. Being respected can feel more urgent than thinking about your future. “I wasn’t thinking long-term,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking about how my choices as a young Black teenager in London could affect me. I just wanted to belong.”

Detentions became normal. Phone calls home became expected.“It felt like they were waiting for me to mess up,” he says. “Like I was already written off. It became a pattern. And it felt like a pattern I was meant to follow, so I followed it.” No one pulled him aside and said there was more. No one tapped him on the shoulder and reminded him he had options beyond the estate. Now, he writes. The emotions that once came out loudly in classrooms, frustration, anger, confusion, are poured onto paper instead of spoken in ways that once got him into trouble. “I wasn’t bad,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling.” His experience reflects what sociologists describe as labelling theory, where young people who are repeatedly labelled as disruptive or problematic begin to internalise those identities. Once a child is seen as a problem, teachers and institutions may unknowingly respond to them through that lens, reinforcing the behaviour they expect to see. This connects closely to the idea of a self-fulfilling prophecy, when expectations are already set low, young people can begin to live into those expectations, not because of who they are, but because of how they are treated. Camden gave John energy and expression, but the education system often interpreted that energy as disruption instead of potential, shaping him into what others had already decided he would become.

 Aaliyah: Between Two Worlds

Aaliyah grew up in Camden too, but her experience looked different. She is a second generation Nigerian. Her parents were born in Nigeria, while she was born and raised in London. From early on, she felt caught between two expectations. “At home, I wanted to make my family proud,” she says. “I wanted to represent my surname properly. I knew my achievements didn’t just reflect me; they reflected my whole family.” But outside, there was another pressure. “I had to decide what to do. Do I follow the traditional path my parents expect, or do I follow what’s in front of me, what my peers are doing, how they speak, how they move?” That tension sat quietly within her. She also felt the weight of being a Black girl in school. “If I was passionate, it was seen as aggression,” she says. “If I defended myself, it was my attitude.” She remembers applying for her first job at sixteen and sensing judgment before she had even spoken. “I could see it in the interview room,” she says. “The way I was looked at. I felt like I had to work harder, speak softer, present myself differently.” Even in sports as a teenager, competitiveness felt misread. “As a Black girl, you realise quickly you don’t get the same grace. You’re expected to be strong, but no one checks if you’re tired.” The microaggressions were subtle but constant, shaping how she moved through the world. Instead of shrinking completely, Aaliyah turned inward and began to define herself on her own terms. She found faith for herself. “I grew up Christian,” she explains. “But at some point, I had to choose it for myself. I stopped leaning on what everyone else believed and started leaning on God personally.” Faith became grounding because it gave her identity beyond expectation, beyond stereotypes, and beyond the pressure to constantly prove

herself. She also turned to art, using creativity to express emotions she did not always feel safe expressing out loud. “Art gave me space. God gave me peace,” she says. Her experience reflects what feminist scholars describe as intersectionality, a concept that explains how Black women often experience overlapping pressures of race, gender, culture and class at the same time. For Aaliyah, culture was both pride and responsibility. She wanted to honour where her family came from without losing who she was becoming in London. Navigating those worlds meant constantly balancing strength with softness, tradition with individuality, and visibility with survival.

She didn’t want to lose her culture. But she also didn’t want to lose herself.

My Story: Congolese. Jamaican. Black British. Camden Raised.

 Listening to both, I hear pieces of myself. I am Congolese and Jamaican. Black British. Raised in Camden. At home, there was culture, faith, and expectation. Outside, there was influence, image, pressure. Sometimes I felt like I was choosing who to be depending on where I was standing. On the estate, you don’t want to look weak. In interviews, you don’t want to look intimidating. In classrooms, you don’t want to be labelled. That balancing act is exhausting. Growing up in Camden, I could see how it was shaping us — the boys I grew up with, the girls I shared classrooms with, the children I once played beat the letter with in estate parks. We were more than what we were becoming known for, and yet, slowly, some of us started to believe the labels placed on us. I leaned properly into my faith, not just because my family believed, but because I needed something steady. Faith reminded me I didn’t have to split myself in two. I didn’t have to choose between cultures. I didn’t have to shrink to be accepted. Camden shaped me, but it does not limit me. Its culture, community, and vibrance, its beautiful and iconic parks like Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park for fresh air and long walks, its food, Camden Market, thrift stores, tourist spots, the Amy Winehouse statue, the indoor theme parks, and all the memories that live in these streets — that is what makes me proud to call it home. That is my Camden, and that pride will always be part of who I am.

We Were Children First 

What often goes unnoticed in conversations about Black youth in London is this: 

We were children first. 

Before statistics.

Before stereotypes. 

Before headlines. 

We were kids knocking on doors asking if our friends could come out. 

We were teenagers trying to belong. 

We were young people carrying culture, poverty, pride and pressure all at once. 

When society looks at Black boys and sees “trouble,” When it looks at Black girls and sees “attitude,” 

It misses the human part. 

The soft part. The confused part. The hopeful part. 

Camden is loud. 

But inside many of its young people are thoughts that go unheard. 

We are not what you expected us to be. 

We are not just products of our postcode.

Not just stereotypes. 

Not just behaviour reports. 

We are layered. We are creative. We are faithful. We are thoughtful. We are growing. 

And most of all — 

We are human.