As Wide and as Deep

Claire Williamson has been leading writing and drama workshops in Bristol as part of Small Island Read 2007. A selection of some of the poems and material written by her students can be read elsewhere on this website and will be included in the evaluation report, along with other examples of creative writing that has grown out of this project. Here is one of Claire’s own poems inspired by the Small Island themes.

You are a child
face open to the world
wide with potential
as the Atlantic Ocean.

Your ancestors have been sketched
written, documented
digested

and then perceived
by minds as small
as sugar grains.

You are a child
who will slowly be informed

that your wild-wind thoughts
your sun-drenched dreams
your vision

may be a little too passionate
too faraway
too luminous
for what is expected

and these hints will be transmitted
through smiling averted eyes;
pitiful cocked heads

that can only picture
people yoked like oxen;
the sound of waves
accepting those unwanted on voyage;

intimations made by people
with minds so small
there is no space for their ideas to lie down
and think.

But your face
is miles away
receiving ovation;
swimming in the Caribbean;
you have dreamt of a hundred closed doors
and opened them all in your sleep;
you are holding a child in your arms
face open to the world
telling them of your love and dedication
as deep as the Atlantic Ocean.

Small Island

Poem by Paula Worth from Cornwall inspired by reading Small Island.

Small island,
Kaleidoscope of colours,
Hopes and dreams.
So much to give,
So much to lose in exploitation...
Another island,
Not so small,
The fight to keep her freedom
Has her back against the wall.
She sends the call to arms
Throughout the lands.
From far and near they come
Leaving hearth and home
To save the Mother Country...
Long years,
But now the battle’s done
And with the victory comes
Another challenge;
A land for heroes to create
For black and white
A brotherhood of man;
Where all may share with equal right.
And diamonds, rough or polished
Can hope to find their place
Within that plan.
But not so simple to replace
Mistrust, on either side.
Injustice, prejudice and pride
Can soon destroy ideals.
Careful men must watch and learn
Lessons of history discern,
Or soon this brave new world
Repeat mistakes,
And freedom found, again denied
As in oppression’s reign
They exchange one form of slavery
For other cruel chains.

The Colour of Money

'A devout Christian, Curtis was asked not to return to his local church, for his skin was too dark to worship there' – page 326

This sentence reminds me of a module I studied as part of my degree. The course reflected the growth of religious diversity in post-war Britain and examined the rise of ethnic religions and, amongst other things, their acceptance into our society.

Sadly the British, at this point in time, were largely unfamiliar with first-hand experience of living with people from other cultures and relied upon the written word and impressions provided by our empirical pioneers. Acceptance into our established Christian places of worship was lacking, regardless of any alleged breaches of the law. Thus migrants from countries such as Jamaica were forced to practice their religion, Christian I believe, in their own front rooms, or pay for the hire of public rooms in which to worship. In some cases unused church buildings were rented or sold to ethnic groups for worship, owing to failing church attendances of British
worshipers.

Wasn't it the British and other European nations who were happy to invade new world countries, to take control and enforce our ways upon them? Didn't we seek to tame their so called heathen ways to a more civilised way of life? Happy for Jamaica to be part of our Commonwealth, to fight for us in the Wars, to take their money. Why then not to worship in our churches the same doctrine we sought to inspire their lives with. Is it any wonder that elements of segregation continue to exist in our society?

Small Island is a fantastic book full of humour and thought provoking issues which highlight our mid-twentieth century repressive attitudes towards foreign culture. My partner is Jamaican and I took pleasure in superimposing the character of Gilbert on to his body, in order to give me an image to focus upon. They share many traits.
Carol Chalk, Shaftesbury, Dorset

“I really enjoyed this book. Having been born in the early 1950's I could recall events such as the ones I read. I remember growing up in an all white area and being intrigued at the sight of the few coloured people I met. In my late teens when I worked and met some of these coloured people socially I was appalled at their treatment, particularly in work places when bosses would refuse to give jobs to them regardless of their qualifications. It is worth noting that an Irish friend of mine who arrived in England around the same time remembers lodgings displaying signs saying 'no blacks, no dogs, no Irish.' We also had Catholic neighbours who many treated as aliens because of their faith. This prejudice works both ways though. Reading the book it made me feel sad that we are still seeing different races not trying to understand each other and live together in love and respect.”
Survey response

“I thought it was a great book, and about time that somebody from the community should 'document' what went on in the past. I am close to 50 yrs old, born in Tottenham and I clearly remember always wondering that every time I went shopping with my parents how people would come up to me in the street (I must have been 3-4 yrs old) and make a fuss of my hair, my skin, and my colour. But there was always when in white company, that I should be silent and only speak when I was spoken to.”
Survey response

This story is about black GIs in Bristol was sent in by Samantha via the Small Island Read 2007 website.

I am part way through Small Island. I have got to the bit where there is a riot at the cinema. I felt very moved and disgusted to read about segregation in WWII in our own country of American troops. I wondered whether this was a big issue for the British government of the time or did
they just leave the US troops to themselves. My question was how could we allow this to happen?

I would like to share a memory that my grandma shared with me. I am in my 30's now but she told me this when I was small and it has stuck with me since. The readers' guide mentions a riot at the bottom of Park Street
between black and white GIs so this memory has even more poignancy for me now.

She was walking in Queen's Road, Bristol with her Dad. She was a young woman at the time. A couple of black GIs were walking along towards them on the
same pavement but they then stepped out onto the street and crossed over. This, it seemed, was the norm. Black GIs always crossed or stepped out into the road even when there was plenty of space on the pavement to pass. But her father shouted out across (in a Bristolian accent) 'yer what you crossing the road for? You're in our country now and you don't have to do that here.' He was very angry at how they were treated.

When I recall this story I feel proud that my ancestors stood up in a small way for injustice and have instilled in me a sense of tolerance and acceptance of others. I feel proud that Bristol gave a temporary home to GIs during the war but also really sad to know that prejudice existed and still does. When I myself am intolerant of others this family anecdote helps me.

My gran also remembers the GIs stationed around Wraxall/Tyntesfield with affection as mentioned in the readers' guide because she worked on the buses with her route up that way.

Sometimes when I’m making beds
or pressing hot creases into sheets
like a young girl’s secrets wrapped in paper,
while the smell of heated cotton warms the room;
sometimes I think, were it not for the sounds
of cars outside, and the television sets
like squat black beetles in each of the rooms,
the vacuum cleaner I drag behind me
like a reluctant dog being walked;
were it not for these –
I could be an African servant girl
brought back two centuries ago
from Jamaican plantations by a trader,
my master, his mulatto child in fact.
The view over Lyme bay, misty now,
is much the same as it must have been then,
the neatly trimmed hedges and lawns,
lavender beds and the red-earthed driveway
curling around flowerbeds like a slowworm, sleepy
in the heat; the rooms with their polished dressers,
curved legs and white lace mats, the sounds of birds,
the clock in the hall.
Little has changed here, up at the big house
with me, the servant girl, being treated jolly well
having praise heaped on me like spoonfuls of sugar
for washing clothes, or folding sheets well,
while I make beds and think I know
how the magpie they keep in the garden
wrapped in wire must feel,
bruising its black and white wings against the cage,
pretending I was born for this,
smiling and dusting and cleaning white people’s rooms,
with the smell of hot cotton warming my skin,
pressing hot creases like frown lines into sheets.

© Louisa Adjoa Parker

Oh, to be black in Dar-sett (Dorset)

and be stared at in the street -
differing degrees of stare according to my shade -
and have silence fall on me like cold rain
when I walk into a country pub
on a Sunday afternoon;
and be called coloured by people who think
they’re being politically correct,
and have to travel miles
to get my hair done
(or not, and feel I look like shit)
and have people think I’m OK
when they get to know me but still call black
people darkies
and text racist jokes to their friends;
and have people joke about my hair
and not be able to react or be accused of
having issues;
and have my children be taught at school
that the crayon for skin colour is pink,
and have racism swept like cake-crumbs under
a carpet, to gather dust, and grow
thick and furred with mould;
and be told that there’s no problem here
(there are no black people in Dorset
– there have never been, in fact)
and to count the other brown
faces I see, and feel my heart lift slightly
whenever I do
(and feel I may have missed out),
and have everyone think all black people are
footballers and rappers
and hear teenagers say stuff like
I really like black people, they’re pretty, they’re nice.

© Louisa Adjoa Parker

Mulatto girl

See the mulatto girl walking
down country lanes and fields, her
head held high, her skin the colour
of caramel boiling on the stove. See her smile
in the knowledge she is not the first
to walk this green and pleasant
countryside, she has history stirring within her limbs.
she has Africa’s heat and England’s cold rain
pumping through her blood, her
DNA a beautiful mix of gene pools
scattered across continents, she is strong.
She shows Africa in a way the English hide.
She shows an eighteenth century master’s love for slaves.
She shows a slave’s contempt.
She shows twentieth century people brave enough
to cross a line made of different tones of skin,
to love in spite of hate.

See the mulatto girl walking
down country lanes and fields, her head
held high, her quadroon baby girls
held on her hips, her hair thick and frizzed, lips
half full, there are no
white men dressing her in robes and jewels,
but see her smile, see her sway, her head
held high as she walks.

© Louisa Adjoa Parker

Geography
Depopulation of the Scottish Highlands

We did it in Geography

Miss Jeffrey leaned over
more like a diva
than a geography teacher
smiled her lopsided lipsticked smile
and listed the reasons:

Unemployment
Lack of resources
Mechanisation
Education
Railways

My Mum did that

I said to Jean

- What?

Depopulated the Scottish Highlands

Got up one day
said That’s it
I’ve had enough

Caught a train

– Really?

No

Miss Jeffrey lost
her lopsided lipsticked smile
leaned over further
and warned

– You two
if you’ve got something to say
to the whole class
you shouldn’t be talking

My Mum did that
I nearly said

But I didn’t

I would have had to
list the reasons

and all I could think of
was a crowd of people
rushing for the train

racing for the border

© Fiona Hamilton

South

Mum’s Rs rolled out
like blue hills levelled

into back gardens, front gardens
patches of green, hedged,

her vowels fished
out of her throat

and caught at her tongue’s tip
parting her lips

no longer lingering
at the back of her mouth

sheltering from wind
or pattering like echoes of rain.

Not that I noticed –
to me, it was her voice

unique –
how she had always spoken.

But people remarked
after hearing her on the phone

how Scottish she sounded.
I didn’t realise

as if down the line
the Englishness was netted

and all that swam free
was the sound of her voice.

© Fiona Hamilton