Before George Floyd

“Out of the goodness of my heart, I've taken a young girl on work-experience,” Sylvia told me. I imagine Dad encouraged her to do so. Again, perhaps one of his social experiments. “I’ve agreed to pay her whilst she’s working for me, but I swear she’s useless. I’m sure she’s special needs, autistic or something. She spends so long on simple tasks, it’s costing me money.” Dad sometimes agreed with her comments, as couples do, and observed the lack of compassion from a woman, whose ancestors may have suffered under the hardship of the industrial revolution. I suspect a contributor to her attitude, was her father. I remember witnessing his anger at the success of the Brazilian football team, during the nineteen ninety-four World Cup. “Monkeys that swing from trees, when they’re not kicking a ball!” he shouted at the television screen, as the players ran across the pitch, heading for success. The idea that some humans are inherently superior to others was advocated in Sylvia’s family. ...

Lancashire’s hills are the stage for stories of the struggle of us common folk. At the foot of these hills, are the industrial towns. Within them, the imposing giants; the carcasses of the ‘Dark Satanic mills’, symbolic of the cause of dehumanisation, exploitation and deprivation. Yes, the North was one of the machines upon which the success of the British Empire was dependent.  Some inhabitants of the North are still struggling to escape deprivation. The small terraced houses, once inhabited by mill workers and their extended families, are occupied by new people. Perhaps, initially two-parent families, with the desire to be long-term. However, the pressure becomes unbearable, working long hours to provide for your dependants, not just yourself. The opportunity to see your loved ones becomes infrequent, you cease to know them. Eventually, the two-parent family ideal slips from your grasp, and the onus to both financially and emotionally support your children is solely yours. Some ...

Who was Molly? Was she Mr Rochester's Giacinta from Italy? His Clara from Germany? These female characters possessed a foreignness, which Jane Eyre's English Mr Rochester could never truly be drawn to. Yet, to completely demonise one group and to aggrandise the protagonist(s), is lazy and simplistic.  Before Molly met dad, she was a single parent, living in a small terraced house in Accrington. Not long after they became a couple, they decided to move to County Kildare in Ireland. Dad knew that Molly would be content with their decision to move, because she could be closer to her Irish family. I suspect, that although she was born in Britain, she still felt like an outsider, a foreigner. She was perhaps quite similar to my mother in this respect. And like mother, Molly had experienced difficult times.  There were similarities between Molly and Sylvia too. "She's done well for herself you know. She owns a theme park called Dollywood, and does a lot for charity," Mo...

I cannot claim to know much about anything, particularly in the case of the island of Hibernia, but I know it is beautiful, and reputed to be so, both in the North and the South. Twenty or so years ago, some of the island seemed largely untouched by man. As Dad drove through the country roads, we would only see the occasional car fly past us at incredible speeds. I was unsure if there was a set speed limit on Hibernia’s narrow lanes, but it was apparent that nobody other than my father, was driving at less than sixty miles an hour. In the night, the fast cars' back lights, were like fireflies that disappeared beyond the trees in a millisecond. There were other interesting visions in Hibernia’s night-time. We once saw an abandoned burning caravan on the roadside. "Bet they're uninsured," Dad said.  Molly and Dad would often visit Kathleen. There were very few signposts in Kathleen’s part of rural Hibernia, so Dad would rely on Molly’s guidance. When they reached K...

Cedella  A small amount of aeroplane turbulence wakes me from my slumber. I feel a chill and pull a blanket over me. I take my father's copy of Jane Eyre from my bag, and begin to read the nineteenth century bildungsroman. I meet the characters, Mrs Reed and her children once more. I remember the tragic life of Helen Burns. I think of my Helen, who did not walk until she was sixteen months. I would not let her touch the floor. I would carry her everywhere, for fear she might get hurt. Perhaps I have been over-protective over the years. My Helen is quite unlike Helen Burns. My Helen is disgusted with humanity and foists her misery and contempt on me.  I close my book and then my eyes, to concoct a mix of fantasy and reality. I immerse myself in the undisputed beauty of nature, which temporarily suppresses my unhappiness, enabling me to escape my perpetual, unrelenting existence. I will soon return to unfulfilling, low paid drudgery. Squeezing myself onto an overcrowded Lo...

Helen, June 2005 I concede, ideals and attitudes are changing within the wider society of twenty-first century Britain —slower amongst some, quicker amongst others, but steadfast within my present place of work. Yet, many of us within this organisation, whether Asian or black, were born, or came to Britain in or around the time of Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech, and the Commonwealth Immigrants Acts. So, it is disheartening to see the aspirations and opportunities of others being quashed by people who have a similar history. I keep thinking of the sacked black Caribbean mother, whose objective was to keep her children alive. What are her family’s life chances now? For many of us, I feel the chances of future employment have diminished.  Why are black people employed in this organisation in the first place? I suspect the organisation has to be seen to be diverse, but the length of time in which people stay in post is less of a priority. There must be a name or phrase, exclusiv...

Through an office window, situated on the third floor, I see the hodgepodge of decaying, red-bricked, Victorian buildings; the roof tops covered in bird excrement, and their foundations melded with the effluence of a bygone time. On warm mornings, I can smell the detritus. Even in twenty-first century Britain, this is typical of the neglected areas of London, labelled by some, as ghettos. This place reminds me of Harlem in the nineteen seventies. I hear Harlem has changed now. I’ve been told it is quite gentrified. I suspect this part of London was considered to be deprived in the nineteen seventies too. But still, in this so-called Cool Britannia, there seems to be a great deal of poverty here.  I hear unsubstantiated rumours that the commercial properties here are leasehold, and that many of the tenancies are drawing to a close. If this is so, then I wonder what will happen to the nail bars, cafes, barbers and record shops. Rumour or not, I can't help noticing that the properties...

It's a warm day and as usual, I am running late for work. I hate the journey, jostling for a space on the train, not to sit, just to stand, to breathe. I try to catch an underground train at Liverpool Street station. I try every line that can take me to work, but there is no sign of a train. Eventually a man's voice on the tannoy states that there is a power surge on the lines. I cannot afford to take a taxi to work, but I have no choice.  When I get to work, there is news of a bomb blast on the London underground. It transpires that there is more than one. My mother works in the city. I call her. She is fine, but insists she must carry on working. As the day moves on, the nature of the incidents unfold. We crowd around a television in an office and watch. Various consecutive explosions, one of the newscasters says. It is still difficult to determine when the explosions began and if they will end. Most of London's public transport has ceased, deemed unsafe. The tele...

“The Muslim community needs to look at itself. Parents and neighbours should have been keeping an eye on their kids.” This is one of the first comments I hear on my first day back in the office since the 7th July attack. The comment came from a Hindu lady in her early thirties, born in India, but raised in Britain. As she said this, she pointed her finger at her intended audience, a young Muslim boy, just nineteen, born in Britain. His parents were born in Pakistan. “Hang on," he said. "You're placing a lot of blame on a particular group's door here. The Muslim community is quite large and you’re assuming that we are a tight-knit group in this country. I don't think this is the case. I mean it sounds like most of these young men were from Leeds, not London. How can the Muslim communities of London keep an eye on what's going on in Leeds?" I tried to contribute, but my colleagues just looked at me condescendingly, and moved to another room. They did no...

A man, let’s call him an Englishman, descends into troubled parts of the Middle East in a helicopter; throwing up a swirling sandstorm, as it lands in some town ruined by a senseless war. He struggles out of the helicopter; his weight and sluggishness, although emblematic of the success of the West, hinders him a little. He enters a Middle Eastern aftermath, with a hand-towel to mop the waterfall of sweat running down his face. Despite suffering under the heat, he is dressed in a suit and tie, because he believes a suit is equated with professionalism. Accompanied by a translator, and another man; he stands over what seems to be a pile of rubble but is in fact, a demolished museum. He munches on a Middle Eastern culinary delight that he has managed to acquire. From where? Well, that will remain a mystery. But this man will always try and make sure he is able to eat. “Yep, I’m sure you know this will cost a lot of money. Nice food. I wonder if I can find this in England.” He takes anoth...

Graham It’s nearly Christmas, and I’m in grimy London, visiting Helen. I’m giving her a lift home in a borrowed car. I watch the streets of this city. "I can't understand why anyone would bomb London. I mean it's so diverse," I say to Helen. I have something to tell her.  "A little too diverse for you dad. I expect that's one of the reasons why some former inhabitants move out of the city — too much change.”  “Are you suggesting I’m not open to change?” I confess, as I get older, I feel more at ease with what I find familiar, and I have to admit I’m not fond of London.  Helen is quiet.  “I’ve discovered that London is a lonely place, despite its diversity. I sense communities keep to themselves. The rich stay in the west, mainly, and the poor live everywhere else. African-Caribbeans in one part of London and Pakistanis in another. It's not what I expected. Not as tolerant of difference as the media would have you believe," Helen tells me.  We reach t...

Helen  Over the years, Dad has hinted at having a childhood lacking in paternal love. This divide between father and son, has been reinforced by Mum’s story of how Grandad Robinson had told her that Dad enjoyed the act of duplicity. Sadly, Grandad Robinson is no longer with us, and therefore cannot support or refute this. Yet, Dad’s actions, choices, and the unhappy women who claim to have been deceived by him, shed light on aspects of my father’s personality. Conveniently, father states there are always two sides to a story. But let’s say there are many, and the many who have been affected by my father, will no doubt reveal this to be so.  I hope my observations of my father, and his behaviour, help to explain why I am suspicious of his revelation that he has cancer. Dad’s news comes, not long after I had found out that Uncle Hector has cancer. I find it too much of a coincidence. And, despite seeing what appeared to be lesions on Dad’s chest, I am unconvinced. Do...

Priorities have changed, post the London bombings. Within my place of work, the focus has shifted from the worklessness of the black community, to the anger of young Muslims, a large group, including many racial groupings. Divisions within my place of work are more apparent to me now; not just divisions between colour, but faith too.  The Hindu lady, who lambasted the young Muslim boy for the inactivity amongst the Muslim community, particularly in terms of engaging with their young, now heads a project that claims it will endeavour to engage with young Muslim people —the potential foot-soldiers. No doubt inclusive interaction with individuals, who may be influenced to act violently, is important. But I would be wary of assigning this particular lady to the task, in view of her prejudices. Secondly, there is a need to distinguish Islam from radicalisation; to understand that other factors, like poverty and isolation play a part.  I have been continuously pious about making gen...

I have moved jobs now; I have managed to escape. Although, in truth, psychologically, I feel little has changed. I still feel insecure in my work and continue to be riled that some —possibly many— believe that a symptom of being a black, plain woman, as I am; is that one can never truly amount to anything. Neither can one command the attention of a crowd, and that most of what we say and do is implausible and nonsensical.  Acceptable appearance, together with the power to portray, perpetuate and subdue, using language, chiefly the written word, is a very powerful arsenal. Even more powerful is the ability to claim ownership over the English language. Those who possess the right characteristics, often Caucasian men, can claim it, and have conquered many using it.  I think my designated racial group has been unlucky for hundreds of years — possibly more. And although we now have a black American president, a great orator; a handsome, and confident man, I still feel I circulate i...

It is 2010, and Uncle Hector has been taken from us. Cancer can creep up, unnoticed, and towards the end of our battle, it can, but not always, take us from this world at a relentless speed.  Uncle Hector had worked as a barrister up until the last few months of his life. His work would occasionally take him to England. Jamaica’s legal system is based on British common-law, and sometimes barristers are required to attend the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council in England, which is Jamaica’s final court of appeal. He had always looked well on the few occasions I had seen him. Only my mother saw him on his last visit to England. She said he looked emaciated, wearing many layers in the height of summer, to hide his ravaged frame.  I could not afford the journey to Jamaica, and so was unable to join Nathan and Mum at Uncle Hector’s funeral. But for a moment, I will dwell on the positive aspects of his life, for he seemed to have lived a remarkable one. He had achieved his go...

Summer, 2014 ‘You’re strong.’ These words have been said to me many times. I understand the insinuations, the connotations. The translation of these words is as follows: Helen can accept the put downs, the unfair pay and the label of inferiority that has been placed upon her for so long.  But you see…I cannot. Externally this may have appeared to be so, but internally…well.  I know of at least three or four family members, including Uncle Hector, that have had, or continue to have cancer, in its many forms. I should not be surprised that the curse has reached me too. There is a theory that it can be contagious. If those around you have cancer, and you panic that you may have it, then there is almost an inevitability that you will get it. I expect my poor lifestyle habits, diet, inactivity and obesity; the things that I accused my father of, before his misdiagnosis, have contributed to my ill health.  Mum is by my side in my last days. I don’t see any other family members ...

Mum talks about the Forget-Me-Nots that are growing in abundance near the hospital. She has always been fond of them. I cannot leave my room to see them. “I will sneak some in for you,” she whispers.  In the company of my depression, my mother and the nurse who tends to me, I communicate my last words, for my mind is filled with a sense of urgency. The few words that come from my mouth cannot afford the frivolity of description…for there is not much time.  For as long as I can remember, I have been told that I am out of touch, and that the level of racism, intolerance and contempt to difference has reduced in multi-cultural Britain. Well, my observations of white Britain are admittedly historical, but when I encountered racism within non-white people, it spurred me to recount my uncomfortable life as a mixed-race child growing up in certain parts of twentieth century Northern Britain.  I have been criticised for likening Britain to the United States of America, for I sens...

Graham  “So, Freddy, Buddha says, ‘Hate is not conquered by hate: hate is conquered by love.’ A great approach to life.” I am in a pub in Chester, with Freddy and Trevor. The same pub that we frequented years ago. We found one another through Facebook, a remarkable invention.  “Wise words, but hard to achieve in the modern world,” Freddy replies.  “Be positive Freddy, we could be leaving the European Union, and we will be able to trade with Asia, Africa and the Great USA; Britain’s former colonies,” I say, hoping my sense of humour is apparent.  “Yeah, like you don’t know that we already trade with countries outside of the European Union anyway, Graham. I’m quite happy with the status quo, thanks. I don’t want to go back to the dim and distant past. The food was awful here then, but now it’s pretty good,” Freddy says.  “Yes, I think the chef is Polish,” Trevor says. “My cleaner is Polish, she’s great.”  “You’ve got a cleaner Trevor. How can you afford tha...