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Once the full details of the Sam Kerr case emerged, it acted as a grim reminder. A reminder that you can be the most famous women’s footballer in the world and still hold very little power when you’re scared for your life in the back of a taxi.
Initially, news that the remarks Sam Kerr was accused of were along the lines of calling a policeman a ‘stupid white bastard’ was greeted with typical irreverence in the women’s football community. Chelsea fans instantly took it in their stride, printing Sammy Kerr’s Blue and White Bastards stickers and singing ‘Sam Kerr’s on fire, Met Police are terrified’.
There was a collective feeling of relief too. We had gone from being worried that one of the faces of our game had said something we could never forgive to realising she called a policeman “white”. I was particularly thankful. Both Sam and I’s granddads hail from Kolkata, and she’s one of the very few examples of South Asian representation in women’s football. We knew a trial was coming, but it seemed like the book would soon be closed on a minor incident.
Then, seven extremely troubling days in court began.
The events of the evening in question are believed to have unfolded like this: Sam Kerr and her partner Kristie Mewis had been on a night out, got drunk and got a cab home. In the cab, Kerr felt sick and rolled down the window to throw up. This alerted the cab driver, who apparently reacted by locking the doors and driving them to a local police station. However, Kerr and Mewis claimed to be unaware of this reasoning and always maintained that he began driving erratically with no explanation.
They asked him to stop the car, and he did not. Mewis then attempted to escape by kicking through the window. Once they were in the police station, Kerr argued that the police officer in question, PC Lovell, did not believe Kerr’s and Mewis’ accounts. Feeling belittled, Kerr referenced the officer’s power and privilege in that moment. And how he had not understood or empathised with why she—as a woman of colour—would have felt scared. That is why she called him ‘stupid and white’.
She was then charged with racially aggravated harassment.There are two major things that stand out to me in this case. One is the difference in which Kerr was treated and portrayed in comparison to Mewis. Two is the immediate recognition I and so many women feel about the taxi incident, which PC Lovell seemed so unable to grasp.
Both are a reminder that context is everything, and pretending like societal context does not exist is, at best, naïve, and, at worst, calculated and cruel.Kerr is of Anglo-Indian heritage and has stated throughout the case that she believes she was treated differently by the police as a result. And even treated differently to her white partner, who was in the same position as her. Her defence team stated: “In Mewis’ evidence, she was commended [by the police] on how polite she was. She disagreed with that. Perhaps in the minds of some officers, she fit the bill of a traumatised woman better.”
If you are from a minority background and have ever faced racism, sexism, homophobia or other forms of discrimination, you instantly recognise this feeling of othering and helplessness. This feeling that whatever you say, it will be spun against you. A feeling of vulnerability that wider circumstances are at play and that those wider circumstances have historically been used to hurt and oppress you. It suddenly goes from just being words said to you to the weight of the world against you. It is a hard feeling to explain to someone who has not experienced it.
But as Kerr and her defence team detailed, the ways in which she was made to feel like a troublemaker, while her white partner (who was the one actually responsible for kicking the glass out of the window) was presented as a helpful witness … I felt that helpless feeling deep in my soul.
And it is why any reaction of, “Oh so now I can just call anyone stupid and black if she can call him stupid and white?” is not only wilfully obtuse but incredibly nonsensical. All our words come with meaning and context, and we apply provisions for this in everything we do—even small things. It is why we would treat a brother and sister fighting differently to a boss and employee fighting. It is why any fellow Everton fan can message me to say we are a bad football team, and I will nod my head in solidarity, but if a Liverpool fan dares to say Everton had one bad game, I would tell them to leave me alone and mind their own business.
These are not double standards; they are simply just applying societal context. Because context, intentions, power and history all matter and hold weight in every circumstance in life. Sam Kerr—an hour into being questioned by a policeman who was belittling and mocking the incident that she described as traumatising—calling him “stupid” and “white” can in no way be compared to derogatorily calling someone “black” and the history and power that comes with that. Racism is not just words or actions against another race; it is the power and oppression that those words and actions hold. It feels insane to me that I even have to clarify that.
As we go through life, we build up a consciousness made up of our experiences, of history, of societal dynamics and of power and apply it to everything we interact with. And as women, we build up a collective consciousness surrounding our safety in a way that most men never have to. When I heard of Kerr and Mewis’ fear at being locked in a taxi, I immediately understood. We all have our own experiences—mixed with stories we grew up watching on the news—that are forever etched in our memories. Kerr referenced a story in Perth of a taxi driver who was believed to be a serial killer and how that shaped how she viewed this incident.
For me, I remember the non-stop campaigns of public safety in the late 2000s that told us in big, bold letters, “IF YOUR MINICAB IS NOT BOOKED, IT’S JUST A STRANGER’S CAR”. And when I was recently in an Uber, and my driver started to angrily rant at me about the state of women like me (i.e. unmarried), and then proceeded to tell me I was damaged and coldly asked if I would “be submissive to my husband”, I remembered those words of public safety, and it suddenly dawned on me that I really was just locked in a strange man’s car.
But many men have never had this worry nor experienced this context. So much so that PC Lovell, at one point, appears to mock Kerr’s worries and says, “Do you think a taxi driver that was going to rape and kill you would drive you to a police station?”. The callousness of these words sends a shiver down my spine.
Sam Kerr might be the most famous women’s footballer on the planet, but in those moments, she was just like us
The privilege, too, because what do you mean that the memory of Sarah Everard isn’t imprinted into your brain? Her case is all I think about now when I see a police officer at night, and so is that night I had in the Uber. So are the two other similarly scary experiences I have had in a taxi. So is the way the police called me up after I reported the Uber driver and told me the case would not get anywhere, so I might as well not report it further because “what are you really accusing him of here?”. So is every time I’ve seen a news story of a woman not making it home safely. So is the time I was almost home, only to look behind and realise a man who smiled at me in the shops ten minutes prior had followed me.
Context. Experiences. Power.
Sam Kerr and Kristie Mewis would have their own stories of safety, sexism and racism that would have all heavily played into what unfolded that night. And in a very meta way, as I finish writing this, I will scroll through the barrage of racist and sexist posts on X coming through at me for commenting on the case. I will close my laptop and head home in the dark, subconsciously going through every point on my internal safety checklist, and this case—and the reaction to it—becomes another example that I store away in my memory, ready to shape my future experiences, because Sam Kerr might be the most famous women’s footballer on the planet, but in those moments, she was just like us.
