Primary school felt like a race in which I started a kilometre behind everyone else. When I learned to run faster, so did everyone else; there was no way I could finish first. No matter what I did, I was always behind. There were 260 pupils in the year, and most years I was the only person who didn’t have at least one French-speaking parent.

Thinking for yourself was highly encouraged: the label ‘mouton’ which means ‘sheep’ was frequently used as an insult. We were taught to question everything, to never take anything at face value. Teachers were constantly keeping you on your toes; they would ask trick questions wanting you to mess up. Questioning authority was encouraged: if you didn’t agree with something said in class or you thought a rule put in place was unfair, you were to question it. This could perhaps be part of the reason why French people always seem to be on strike. We discussed politics; when we voted for class ‘President’ we had proper ballot cards and boxes and it was to be a secret vote. Obviously, at the end of the day, like any school, it was a glorified popularity contest. Still however, we learned in depth about how voting and democracy worked, encouraging children to stand up for their rights and engage in politics. This made me perhaps a slightly untrusting person, and also caused me to always be alert, to never take anything at face value.

Our P4 teacher specifically did not shy away from controversial and heavy hitting topics. He taught around 24 eight-year-olds the n-word and racist concepts. He taught this in the context of letting us eight-year-olds know how serious and horrible an offence using language like that is; still, if that happened at a primary school in Scotland it would likely spark outrage amongst parents. Again, this teacher taught our class in depth about various celebrities’ drug habits, alcoholism and suicide, which I would argue is not incredibly relevant or appropriate for P4s. I think it certainly made us a lot less naive, exposing us to a much darker side of the world. However, again, P4s should be focusing on learning their time tables and not how various celebrities died. While this particular teacher was certainly far more unorthodox than the majority, French school in general certainly treated children as mature and able to handle and understand sensitive topics, which I think is in contrast to Scottish primary schools. Teachers also didn’t shy away from topics like pedophilia, the same teacher telling our class in depth about various pedophiles that he had encountered throughout his life. He definitely shared this with us with good intentions, trying to make us more aware of dangers that could be lurking around any corner, but I’m not sure that he went about it in the right way. I was also in French school around the time the Paris terrorist attacks were happening, and there was certainly a huge fear of terrorism from children across all ages. The attacks were a big deal, casting a shadow on the school even though we were abroad. We discussed the Charlie Hebdo shooting, teachers definitely fully in support of the newspaper’s satirical cartoons, seeing nothing wrong with the cartoon itself. While all of this was arguably not done in quite the right way, it definitely opened our eyes as to how horrible the world could be. Whether or not all of these conversations were quite necessary could certainly be debated. I’d say all of the huge, sensitive topics we talked about taught me a lot about perspectives. It was very clear that even the lives of celebrities weren’t perfect, and that they had struggles too. I think it also introduced the idea that no-one is entirely good, in the same way that no-one is entirely bad.

I think that Scottish primary schools coddle the children a lot more than the French schools. In Scotland, there is a much more inclusive message spread, that no one is stupid and that anyone can succeed if they try hard enough. I also feel that they are a lot less academic, with not much covered in the way of English. When I moved to Scotland, it was pretty much the first time I attended an English-speaking school. Obviously, it was rather different; one thing I was shocked by, however, was that I wasn’t behind in English whatsoever. I expected everyone to be much better than I was, considering I used to only study English for 3 hours a week, but I found that not only was I not behind, I did better in some aspects.

While I think that Scottish schools often aren’t harsh enough on children and don’t expect enough from them, I do think that French school can be too tough on kids. An example being a teacher I had who would throw pens at your head if, like a normal child, your mind happened to drift off. This could end in tears. Furthermore, there was no effort made to help those falling behind; anyone who wasn’t academic was treated differently by teachers. They were constantly screamed at, frequently called imbeciles or idiots. Teachers loved to talk about how the days of tyrannical teachers were over, where you’d have to stand in a corner wearing donkey ears so the class to laugh at you. However, those methods still governed our school: teachers still taught through public humiliation. For example, if someone dropped a stack of books in class or said something they deemed to be idiotic, the teacher would encourage the rest of the class to clap and laugh to embarrass the person. It was reiterated that there was no room for ‘stupid’ students.

Scottish schools place a strong emphasis on community, with assemblies and team spirit. This is in strong contrast to French schools where individuality is highly encouraged, with fierce competition and a heavy figure it out yourself mentality. Yet French school in general, I believe, benefitted me. Sometimes, it’s tricky to know which elements of myself were shaped by French school and which are inherent. I think that my argumentative streak was definitely encouraged and nurtured. Nowadays, I have no shame when asking ‘stupid’ questions, through years of having to inquire about what peers regarded as the most obvious of things. French school also taught me how to work alone, and that I’m capable of learning things that at first seem hopeless. It was a sink or swim environment, where I luckily learned to swim. Others, however, weren’t so fortunate.

You are the first daughter of two Sri Lankan parents that are new to the country. You are brought up to learn two separate languages. Your beliefs are alien to the world around you and you’re left to navigate your family through this environment. That’s my reality.

On the 5th of May 2007, my parents had their first child: me. I was not only my mum and dads first born, I was also the first child in my entire family to be born in a country other than Sri Lanka. This meant that for the next 15 years I would become our family’s sole teacher of the things around us. For a long time now, I haven’t just learned how to speak English or simpler things like writing emails for myself, but also for my parents. Let’s remember my parents only came to this country the year before I was born, so they taught me what they knew, and that was their native language: Sinhala. From the early stages of life my mum and dad only spoke to me in their native tongue. This meant that they weren’t getting many opportunities to learn English. Instead, that job was left to me. For my whole life I have been the primary source of my parents’ English-speaking skills. This meant that if I learned something new so did my parents, and if they didn’t understand or know something I felt like I always needed to have an answer prepared for them. Now don’t get me wrong, growing up with two languages is one of the things I like most about my life but it wasn’t an easy thing, always having to translate to make things easier for my parents and constantly being asked to speak in my second language. This way of life came with its ups and downs.

When I was younger, I wasn’t like who I am now. I wouldn’t really talk or embrace my ethnicity much. Whenever someone in my class would ask a question about my personal life, for instance what language I spoke or what food I ate, I never really knew how to reply. Since I didn’t willingly talk about myself, it always difficult for me to answer with confidence and without embarrassment. I think maybe due to the fact I was one of the few people of colour, even then the only person with a south Asian background, I felt as though I had a responsibility to teach these kids what was correct and this slowly turned into me having this pressure of needing to know as much as I can at such a young age. Kids being young and childish, they were all curious, which isn’t a bad thing in retrospect – they were just learning – but growing up I always dreaded someone asking me a new question. I vividly remember when I was in primary school, my mum would always give me a packed lunch but it wasn’t like a normal one with sandwiches or pasta, it usually was something different like rice and some type of Sri Lankan curry. Every day at lunch the cafeteria would fill up with the smell of my lunch and my classmates always tried to figure out where it came from. I always was nervous to open my lunch, and face what I thought were my friends’ opinions of me, never knowing if what they really thought was that I was unusual and weird. I think at that point in my life, deep down, I was secretly embarrassed about where I came from but why that was, I simply don’t know. Maybe it was the fact I grew up in a different way whereas everyone else around me seemed to share a universal experience of a childhood, or maybe it was the fact that from an early age I wasn’t exposed to much of my culture due to the fact I was born in a different country as my parents.

You would think that there was a reason behind my paranoia, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I will never understand why or where my ideas about other people’s perspectives came from, since I couldn’t have been more wrong. These people who I now call friends surprised me when they showered me with nothing but kindness and acceptance, since I was convinced I was always going to be one of the ‘weird ones’.  Maybe seeing how society and the world around me, online and offline, treated people like me was the root of it all, or maybe it was the fact I had a built-in mindset of it being ‘me against the world’. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I was the judgmental one, in my opinions of others. My friends never made it hard for me to have a relationship with them; of course they had questions and were curious but they went about it in an open and friendly way that I’m grateful for. They were always easygoing and taught me things that I hadn’t learned yet, they were patient with me and most importantly kind to me. They are the reason that I am now able to talk more openly about my ethnicity. At first it was hard and I just wanted to get the questioning out the way, but slowly but surely, I became more comfortable with talking about myself. In way it made me feel better since not only were they getting to know me as a person but they were learning about my culture and Sri Lanka and my religion, all in which was new to them.

It did take me a while to accept my roots and realise that I will never be able to fully relate to a stereotypical Scottish person but that’s fine. Being brown doesn’t come so easily, and some people do voice their offensive opinions and misconceptions but at the end of the day, life comes with its ups and downs. My down was the racism I had to endure. Racism is something that shouldn’t be taken lightly and as a child it was hard and confusing to experience this. I say confusing because at a young age you are confused about why some people call you names or make fun of you, because all you are doing is growing up like everyone else. Even now that I have grown older I do experience the odd racist ‘joke’, but that doesn’t change my opinion of myself and my culture; even that time when my family were getting harassed by some of the kids in the neighbourhood, and I stepped outside to ask them to stop and the first thing they said was ‘Go back to your own country’. This is one of the least racist things I have endured but it taught me that being someone like me, a south Asian, living in a predominantly white country is always going to be hard. These people clearly didn’t know I have just as much of a right to live here as they do because all they did was judge based on my skin colour. Situations like this remind me that no matter what there will always be somebody looking for the bad in you and that all I need to do is learn to tune them out and embrace who I am.

Growing up with different cultural events and experiencing all sorts of remarkable food is one of the more special things about being Sri Lankan. I will forever love continuing to learn about the place where my parents grew up and connecting to my cultural roots. Although being brought up a completely different culture is quite extraordinary, I love it: being part of something like this is extremely special and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Now that I am older I realise that my parents were learning, just like me, how to navigate through this new world and I think that is why my childhood was unique: we were all learning new things at the same time. For as long as I can remember my parents always told me they wanted the best for me but to stay true to who I am, and who I am is Sri Lankan. And I’m proud of it.

It was 2015; I was a young boy with a passion for cars but little knowledge of the world of motorsport. That is until one fateful evening when I happened to catch one of Lewis Hamilton’s most dominant Formula One races on television. My passion for Formula One was struck alive; and later, I came to realise that Lewis Hamilton had inspired more than just that.

Where do I begin with Formula One? First of all, I must admit that as a child, although I loved cars, I didn’t fully grasp the concept. “Why race cars on a track when you can race them on a highway?” I thought, but then as I watched the TV, transfixed and heard: “AND THAT’S HAMILTON ONE TWO THREE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS”, I got it. He was a promising young driver who made the move from McLaren to Mercedes, which at the time was like moving from Arsenal to Newcastle. It started to feel like everyone else were driving a go-kart, and the more laps he took, the more he and the car became one. Every manoeuvre, gearshift, corner, perfect. From there, my admiration and respect for motorsport drivers generally increased, but especially for Hamilton.

I went on to become more interested in the sport and began watching it almost religiously every weekend. As I delved deeper into the world of Formula One, I wondered what this speed was, where it came from, what that whoosh was, and what was that whine? Electricity? I had so many questions that I wanted answers to. I first learned how aerodynamics worked, the complex sculpts and the hours of calculations that went into them, and as time passed, I even started sketching parts, my own designs. I found the sheer amount I had to study and learn almost overwhelming at times, but Lewis’ never-say-die attitude, so evident in his interviews, kept me going.

My ability to design cars improved as I grew older. I had started initially by drawing and making sketches, slowly making them realistic; I then started experimenting with various 3d modelling softwares and started making my own ideas. I knew that I would need to work harder if I wanted to succeed in motorsports. I studied the design of the cars by taking online courses and consuming as much material as I could, starting with the classic 200 horsepower bathtubs of the 50s and working my way forward, even setting up an instagram account to share my progress and display my work. This finally led to many people taking notice; these enthusiasts ranged from local car influencers and modification shops, all the way to fully-fledged racing icons hailed for their service to the kingdom of motorsport, such as Will Power and Tom Coronel.

One of the most interesting projects I’ve been working on recently is project Strada, a Roblox game where players can customise and compete in races with in-game cars. The feedback I’ve had already has been fantastic, and it has inspired me to keep working hard. Even though I still have a ways to go, I’m committed to finishing what I’ve started. The moment Lewis Hamilton ignited my passion for motorsports is primarily responsible for that motivation.

Initially when I became interested in motorsports, my ambition was to be a driver. I was hooked with the surge of adrenaline that came with speed. I imagined myself piloting the vehicle, overcoming sharp turns, and becoming a champion. All I could think of was feeling the g-forces, and experiencing and taming the engine as you progress through a season. The good races, the bad ones, the comebacks, proving people wrong. But as time progressed, I realised it’s more than just about how rich and famous you become.

I was genuinely interested of the idea of leading the team that designs and develops the vehicles that can travel at such tremendous speeds. I started to realise that my love of motorsports extended beyond the excitement of the race, to the creativity and imagination that go into the background, especially the design of these vehicles. I remember a family member of mine saying “At end of a championship, who do you think they throw the highest when celebrating?” I answered, “Their best player” “No” he replied “their manager”. That really made me go back and think about things. I eventually made peace with myself and understood that working with the team that develops and constructs the cars was more in line with my true purpose than becoming a driver.

A topic I have sometimes found difficult to speak about is the long-standing issue of diversity in Formula One. The sport throughout its history has been dominated by white, male drivers and team staff, and especially as a man of colour from a minority background, it can feel like a type of barrier is in place which blocks people like Lewis and me from coming through and making a name for themselves in the industry. Lewis has been raising this issue in recent years as an advocate for diversity and equality in the sport, utilising his platform to make it known and push for change. As someone from an ethnic minority background from a small town in Scotland, I feel Lewis’ advocacy gives me a chance to build the future in motorsports I have always dreamed about, but which previously would have been denied to me.

Lewis Hamilton’s success in Formula One has done more than just shape my career choice; it has also had a profound impact on my perspective and approach to life itself, especially in this final lead-up straight to exams. In life, to operate at a high level, you need to start applying at the bottom, taking part and signing up to things, participating. This has taught me valuable lessons about perseverance and pushing beyond my limits. It has also helped me to believe that in times of exams and where you need to focus, help from teachers is like a pit crew to a car or a suspension rod to a car’s body. To extend that analogy, for a car to function, it needs things applied and renewed, just as people and learners we all need to both accept and give help. If we all take up small roles in supporting each other and including everyone, we will benefit ourselves in the long run; science is already quickly advancing but we may go even quicker if more people are given the platforms and support to produce things to better the world of tomorrow.

Some people have imaginary friends; he didn’t. I didn’t. Some people have a family. He did once. Not anymore. I did once. Not anymore. We were best friends. We were. He had no-one. No-one but his imaginary family.

Aiden and I were best friends; we even had the same name… well, kind of. Each day when we walked into the jail cell called primary school, we always had each other’s backs. Beating up the baddies that came in our way using our heat vision, frosty touch, superpowers only we knew. We loved the same things, especially Pokémon cards! We would battle them as if it was a life or death situation, putting every last bit of breath into shouting out words on the card that we could barely read. We would brag for days about who would be getting pocket money first just so we could get the next Pikachu card. But that all changed. On the 35th of July, a day we said was real, just hidden by aliens, Aiden was diagnosed with a life-draining spell. One that was cast by the evil witch that is fate. Each day he would come into school slightly later than usual. He sat next to me, smiling the broadest smile that anyone has ever seen, but slouching nervously at the corners. I, at that time, didn’t know of his diagnosis.

Over time he disappeared; his smile, his passion, his enthusiasm. It was my quest to bring all that back. Aiden hadn’t been in school but that didn’t stop us from playing together in the different regions of the estate. Area 51 was where the park was. There was a den that we built from which we would gaze for hours and hours up at the multiverse, waiting for a sign that Mrs Blake – our horrible teacher –  really was just a ‘strange beast’ in disguise. Other than searching for extra-terrestrial life, Aiden and I would ride our bikes for ages, as if we were Chris Hoy or Michael Murray – that’s my dad, he says he could beat anyone in a race easily – I still have the scars on my left hand, either side of my middle finger at the knuckle, from when we fell off our bikes!

The week after that he was taken for good, captured, locked in a dungeon far away from any of the regions. I wondered where he had gone.

There’s shouting. There’s sirens. Panic rushes to greet paranoia in my mind with open arms. Red light. “Doctor.” Blue light. “Doctor!” Red light. “We’re losing him!” Darkness, I’m not the same. As the miniature glass stars brought me back to a state of consciousness. People. Do I know them? How do they know me? I walked up to the window in the four-walled labyrinth – ‘mint secret’ in colour, just like Aidan’s bedroom. Murmurs. What’s happening?

A note came from the hospital, signed by Aiden. His hand must have been shaking like Scooby Doo as he wrote it.

Letters to me, to you, from you, to me. It’s as if we were the Chuckle Brothers but the irony in saying that is that the letters weren’t full of joy and laughter but the complete opposite. Aiden was telling me of the people who zoomed past him, not noticing his cries for help; the doctors that talked about ‘Alan Pecia’ and how he would be seeing Aiden soon. He was also talking about his loneliness while being kept caged, like a neglected house pet. I reassured him that his family would surely be coming to see him soon. The next letter came. It consisted of four words scribbled onto a piece of paper. “I don’t have one.”

And many messages later I realised that after all this time my best friend – a person about whom I thought I knew everything – was an orphan.

His parents died when he was very young. Unsure of the cause of death, he grew up curious yet saddened living in Rosslyn Children’s Home. “Do what any kid would do. Imagine them. We are pretty awesome at that anyway!” I responded, aiming to get his hopes back up. The doctor, a woman – the parents who he thought were his, in disguise. Two children – in his imagination, his younger brothers that he always wanted yet were never born. And myself. We are Aiden’s family now.

From Pallet Town, to the Rainbow Tulip Fields in the Netherlands, to the Hitachi Seaside Park in Japan. Anywhere which Aiden and I had either seen on TV or read in a book or played in a game, was an adventure. He would write for hours and hours, telling me about the trip that I had experienced. We had experienced. Aiden, myself, and the imaginary family.

More letters came flooding in. ‘Alan Pecia’ had arrived. He was a man of evil, more evil than Mrs Blake. He came in, shaved Aiden’s head and moved on, presumably to his next victim. For this man stole children’s hair and then stuck it on his own head to fulfil the hairless void that he had lived with all his life.

One letter came into school that morning. Just for me, no-one else. It was from Aiden. He thanked me for all the things I’d helped him do; like rob a bank in Central Canada; scale Mount Everest; perform a magic show in which he travelled to the moon and back; run faster than the Flash. All events which I had no memory of, yet he remembered them as if it were yesterday. He told me not to fear or be sad, as he was going off to college to become an author, and his imaginary family and I waved him off.

Before he went off to college, two letters were exchanged. One containing a single Pokémon card – a Pikachu one, the same one which we had always talked about. The other describing how the recipient had beamed with joy as he discovered the card that he always dreamed of, and that same card returned to the original owner with a message on the back. “You and I have had some times together. When I see you again we’ll have some more. I promise!” A smiley face was drawn right next to it; as the swoop of the happy mouth arced back up, it plummeted again in one straight line. One. Straight. Flat line.