Cruelty by design towards British Caribbean elders

windrush flags 70 years


Information about the cases of the Caribbean British elders being systematically targeted and often deported from their British homes has been widely circulated in the past few weeks. Many members of British society, included the affected British elders, were unaware that they were a part of a group of people who were not officially categorised as British until they tried to access health care or were required to provide additional documentation for their employers in line with the online Employers’ Checking Service for Biometric Residence Permits (BRP) that began in June 2012.

This anomaly has arisen because the Government system has failed to correctly file papers relating to the adults and children of Windrush generation – the British subjects who migrated to the UK from the Caribbean and other parts of the Commonwealth in the late 1940s and 1950s to help to rebuild the Mother Country.

As the shock of this situation reached across the British nation public figures such as David Lammy MP, and celebrities, including David Harewood, and Sir Lenny Henry – who is himself descended from Caribbean British parents – have called for the public to sign a petition created by Patrick Vernon OBE, requesting an amnesty for anyone who was a minor that arrived in Britain between 1948 and 1971.

To be considered for a debate in parliament, petitions have to obtain at least 100,000 signatures, this petition, created on the 6 October 2018, has already exceeded this amount of signatories. The Government is also required to respond to all petitions once they obtain more than 10,000 signatures. As a response to this public outcry, the Government has finally, on 13 April 2018, published some guidance around this matter. This appears to be the first Government response to repeated requests for guidance and information around the process that has targeted this group of British citizens.

The information on the Government website has been produced by the UK Visas and Immigration department that is part of the Home Office. The Government provides information for this group of Caribbean British elders that they are now referring to as ‘Undocumented Commonwealth citizens resident in the UK.’ The page is careful to note that the information therein is not a substitute for immigration advice, although it does note that if “you entered the UK before 1 Jan 1973 then the chances are you are entitled to live here permanently. Your status is only broken following a long period outside of the UK (2 years).

There are a number of steps that these Caribbean British elders will now have to undertake in order to verify their status as British citizens and prove they have right of abode in the UK. The first step is to apply for a “no-time limit” biometric resident permit (BRP), followed by applying for British Citizenship if they are successful with the initial step.

The “no-time limit” biometric permit application is for someone who already has indefinite leave to enter or remain in the UK. There is a standard associated cost of £229 per person, and applications can also be made at Premium Service Centres for same day consideration of the application – at the premium cost of £610 per person. A mobile super premium service is also available at the cost of £10,500 per visit – this final service tier means that you will usually get your decision with 24 hours, as you can decided the location and time of the visit (between midday and 3pm, Monday to Friday) when the premium service staff will visit you to get your biometric information (fingerprint and photo), and your signature. This last service option may have to be used in a desperate final effort to stop impending deportation because the process of challenging the Home Office decisions increases in complexity and cost when a person has been forcibly removed from their British homes and relocated to a different country.

BRPs were introduced in the UK in 2008 and have automatically been distributed to members of the British public when they have replaced old documents; these cards are used to confirm identity, the right to work and study in the UK, and the entitlement to access any public services or benefits. The BRP is a card issued by the Home Office that contains evidence of immigration permissions (also known as leave to enter or remain), and includes a microchip with two of the resident’s fingerprints and a digital photograph. The BRP is required documentation if the resident does not have indefinite leave to remain (ILR) endorsed in a current passport.

The current procedure for obtaining permanent British residency dictates that once a resident gets ILR they cannot apply for British Citizenship for at least 12 months and have to have been in the UK for five years preceding application for citizenship. Therefore when these Caribbean British elders, who have been living and working in the UK for their entire lives, do obtain their official ILR they will still be faced with another delayed wait for a year before their British Citizenship is confirmed. British Citizenship is now dependent on where you were born (in the UK or a qualifying British overseas territory), when you were born (before or after 1 January 1983) and your parents’ circumstances at the time of your birth.

The Government website states that, “All citizens of Commonwealth countries were British subjects until January 1983,” therefore this should be a straightforward matter for those Caribbean British elders who have been subjected to extensive questioning regarding their status. Yet, a raft of recent cases have proved that this has not been the situation that many, like Elwaldo Romeo, Sarah O’Connor, and Albert Thompson have found themselves in.

The Home Office have also published a blog to say that Government policy around the rights of Commonwealth citizens has not changed, however because of the introduction of the hostile environment towards migrants in the UK who wish to work, live and use public services, there have been new laws implemented to ensure that these migrants have the correct documents to demonstrate their right to be in the UK and entitlement to use public services.

On the same fact sheet page the Home Office claims that there are existing solutions available to obtain the correct documentation for settled status, and that they “have no intention of making people leave who have the right to remain here.” These solutions all involve hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of pounds in application fees, forms and tests for people who have been British citizens for their entire adult lives.

The facts of the cases already listed above and in previous posts seem to contradict the statement that the Government made saying it has no intention of making people leave because many Caribbean British elders have already been detained, deported or refused entry back into the country after a lifetime’s work here.

The Home Office also states that the government makes “no apologies for our commitment to build an immigration system which works in the best interest of the country and prevents vulnerable people from finding themselves at risk of exploitation.”

These newly implemented laws have highlighted an error in the Government system relating to the right of abode for long-term British residents from the Commonwealth. These people, have somehow mysteriously remained undocumented and ignored in central government systems – despite paying taxes, having National Insurance numbers, and decades of employment records – and they are now being unfairly treated and labeled as people with ‘no status’ and therefore categorised as not being the British Citizens the 1983 law identifies them as.

As Gary Younge, from the Guardian newspaper, succinctly states, this is cruelty by design as people like Michael Braithwaite have violated no law; it’s the law that is violating themTherefore  all financial charges relating to proving British citizenship should be waived for Caribbean British elders who have been long term residents in the UK – that’s justice. They should not have to pay for an error that has been created by the Government systems that are supposed to be in place to protect them.


National Geographic continues to fail

Nat Geo cover 1

April 2018 cover – “Black and White: These twin sisters make us rethink everything we know about race”  – the National Geographic (Nat Geo) says it’s covering and addressing its past racist coverage, yet in the article associated with the cover photo of the April 2018 issue, Patricia Edmonds continues the form of reporting that Nat Geo says it’s moving away from.

The fraternal twin girls shown on the cover, Millie and Marcia Biggs, are described thus: “From a young age the girls had similar features but very different color schemes. Marcia had light brown hair and fair skin like her English-born mother. Millie had black hair and brown skin like her father, who’s of Jamaican descent.” Therein lies the continuing problem of discriminatory reporting.

“English-born mother … and … father, who’s of Jamaican descent.”

As an English-born person who is of Jamaican descent this description is problematic for me because Edmonds’ article insinuates, in standard Nat Geo racist tones, that the white mother equates to the English-born descriptor and the Jamaican descent father is the black hair and brown skin ‘other’ in the equation.

Nat Geo is still reinforcing the idea that to be English-born you are automatically viewed as white, whilst Jamaicans are generalised as black; this diametric opposition is what was the root of Nat Geo’s historical reporting, and this issue, as well meaning as it is supposed to be, has failed to reposition itself away from stereotypical statements, photographs and phrases like ‘very different color schemes’.

Some of the questions that arose for me when reading this article were: from what nationality does the English-born mother, Amanda Wanklin, descend? Where was the black hair and brown skin father, Michael Biggs, born? If it is important to describe the birth place of one parent and the descent of the other parent, then in an effort to reduce racial stereotypes and promote equality surely the same conditions should be applied to both parents?

Isn’t the tone of this article reinforcing the same stereotypes ingrained in white American culture that the editor-in-chief, Susan Goldberg, suggests that this issue is supposed to be pushing its readers beyond? To me, this article resets the tone as one of continued racial divisions based on both birth location and heritage.

Or have I completely missed the point?

In the Nat Geo “Black and White” essay Alicia Martin, a statistical geneticist is referenced as stating that the traits of fraternal twins that emerge in each child depends on numerous variables, including “where the parents’ ancestors are from and complex pigment genetics.” As this article does not directly address where the twins’ maternal ancestors are from, the reader of the article is left with the assumption that ‘English-born’ relates to an unending line of similarly born ancestors who will be categorised as white and therefore quintessentially British.

Afua Hirsch has an essay in the same issue that continues the analysis on what it means to be British – Hirsch investigated this concept in her recent book: Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging. Hirsch notes that, “Britishness, as an identity, is in crisis. It is still linked in the imagination of people of all races to the concept of whiteness.”

Nat Geo may have had good intentions, but from my reading of this issue they have faltered and failed on the first steps to explore race and diversity in America. I know that many people have lauded the publication of this issue as a wonderful event, yet I still see it as a P.R. exercise to excuse a back catalogue of discriminatory reporting, and to feed the American white supremacist’s and far-right’s angst about them again becoming a minority in the country they invaded: “In two years, for the first time in U.S. history, less than half the children in the nation will be white.” (From the editorial by Susan Goldberg).

National Geographic, you cannot correct past mistakes by perpetuating them.

Maybe Marcia and Millie should be left to define themselves in line with the Nat Geo’s hashtag: #IDefineMe

© Marjorie H Morgan 2018

Travelling while Black

Travelling while Black N'shire

I do this every day, I walk the local streets, I drive and often take taxis, buses, trains and airplanes to destinations all around the world – I travel while Black.

I chose not to notice it at first, wishing that it was an aberration of my mind, but it’s not: I have an (in)visible label stuck to me that identifies me as different – my skin. But it’s not only my skin, it is also my hair – especially when I had dreadlocks.

Driving around the UK as me (I cannot change myself, you see) is problematic for others, especially the police. Here is a typical example – sadly non-fiction – that occurred more than once, imagine me (late 90s) dressed in my Burberry coat, with my Samsonite briefcase next to me on the passenger seat, driving my brand new VW Golf GTi. I am on my way home from the local train station, after working in London for the day as a computer consultant. As I near my home I am pulled over by the police for … for nothing, it transpires, apart from driving while Black.

“Can I help you, officer?”
I am tired of the stops but used to them. The weariness is evident in my voice.

“I stopped you …”


“I stopped you to see what you are doing in this area?”

“Pardon?” Although I am well used to this type of enquiry I have no desire to make things easy for people who approach me with discrimination plans clearly shining from their foreheads.

“What are you doing in this area?”

This has to be one of my favourite questions from police officers, especially as this is a public road, and as far as I am aware apartheid pass laws have not been implemented in Oxfordshire, or any other part of the UK.  I really can’t wait to see where this scenario will lead.

“I’m going home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Why do you want to know that?

“I’m trying to ascertain what you are doing in this area?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“I’m not sure, I’m asking the questions.”

“Are you stopping all vehicles or just me?” I say this as other cars, my neighbours in fact, drive pass without hinderance.

“Please confirm where you live.”

“For what reason? Why have you stopped me and why do you want to know where I live?”

“Just answer the questions!” The irritation level is spiking in the police officer because I do not roll over and show my belly.

I exhale a deep sigh and say, “I live just around the corner … do you want to come and see?”

“Whose vehicle is this?


“Oh. Do you have the papers?”

“Of course.”

“Alright then. Carry on.”

“So what did you stop me for?”

“You can go now.”

Long days sandwiched by ignorance do not make a tasty mental snack.

First the skin: this is a passport to discrimination from ignorant beings. The negativities encountered when in one’s own private vehicle are contrasted when in public. Having black skin proves useful when on crowded buses to trains because the seat next to me, or opposite me is always the last one to be occupied, gingerly, by some desperate passenger who has scoured the whole of the transport for an alternative. Some people choose to stand for the entire journey rather than sit next to me. I still point out the vacant seat, and sometimes they respond saying, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not going far.” They may still be standing when I leave the seat and alight at my destination, or they suddenly change their mind about sitting when another seat, elsewhere in the carriage, becomes free.

I’ll replace my bag on the chair and carry on. Comfortable with space around me. Uncomfortable with the ignorance or hatred around me – from people who do not know me at all.

However, it does feel like I have a communicable disease when there is a quarantine-like space around me. I am not contagious, but they think they can get something undesirable from coming in close contact with me. It saddens me more than it amuses me.

I am a signifier to people – they appear to have applied value to my blackness and my cultural appearance. To them my dreadlocks mean I am a drug-dealer and always in possession of vast quantities of marijuana or, at the very least knowledge of where to readily get some if my ‘personal supply’ has run out. This is pure ignorance as I have never smoked or taken drugs in my life. My dreadlocks are the best way of maintaining my hair as well as a connection to the culture of my fore-bearers. This became a regular occurrence, so much so that I had to start making a joke out of it because my frustration at the frequency of the inquiries was mounting as much as my hair grew.

If a conversation was started, it usually contained the ubiquitous question, “Where are you from?” in the dialogue. 

“I live in Abingdon, Oxfordshire”

“No, I mean where are you from.”

“Oh, Wiltshire.”

“No, I mean where are you from.”

“Trowbridge, Wiltshire in the West Country.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where do you come from.”

“I told you. The only other detail I can give you is graphic – my mother’s vag…..”

“You don’t get me … “

(I understand them completely but I’m not entertaining this vague question again.)

“What precisely do you want to know?”

“What nationality are you?”


“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I was born in Wiltshire. I’m English.”

“Can’t you just answer the question …”

“If you ask the question you really want the answer to, then I will answer it, if I can. What do you want to know?”

“What are your parents?”


“This is silly.”

“Yes, you’re right. It is silly.”

“You can’t be British. You’re Black!”

“I am British, in fact I’m English. The same way a person born in Wales is Welsh, and a person born in Scotland is Scottish, and a person born in Ireland is Irish. I’m English, but like so many people I sometimes say I’m British. My parents are British, too.”

“How can your parents be British? They’re black too, right?”

“Yes, they are British citizens.”

“But where are they from? They’re not from here, are they?”

“No, they’re not from Oxfordshire, our family home is in Wiltshire. That’s where we’re from. But I see the question you want to ask is what’s our family heritage. Is that right?”

“Yes, where are you from?”

“My parents came to England from Jamaica in the Caribbean. But our family heritage goes back further. My name is Morgan, a Welsh name, my maternal name is Sutherland, a Scottish name, and my genetic roots are also from West Africa, and the Indian subcontinent. So, the answer to ‘Where am I from?’ is all over the world. I guess my family has roots everywhere, a bit like the Queen who has German ancestry: in 1917 they changed their family name from ‘Saxe-Coburg-Gotha’ to ‘Windsor’ to sound less German – especially as the country was at war with Germany. Did you know that Queen Victoria’s first language was German? But she also learnt to speak English? She married her German cousin, Albert and they both tried to assimilate into the country where they lived: England. In fact, Queen Victoria became more Scottish the longer she lived.”

“Oh. I didn’t know some of that.”

“Because I am constantly asked that question based on, I suppose, the colour of my skin, and the style of my hair, I like to share facts about where people are from. Especially people who are seen as quintessentially English as the British Royal Family, who are seen as being as English as fish and chips, or a cup of tea. So where are you from?”


“Where’s here? Where are your parents and grandparents from?”

“My parents are from here as well, I think. I don’t know about my grandparents.”

“Maybe you should have more answers before you ask so many questions.”

So, I continue to travel whilst Black armed with answers that people often do not expect and I wonder how long will it be until I can just travel and declare, “I’m English,”  to any enquiries about where I’m from; to have that accepted without being grilled about the ten generations that preceded me would be a lovely journey down the road, across town, on holiday or just across the back fence.

I’m English and I’m Black. It’s not unusual.

Marjorie H Morgan © 2018

Breaking the silence surrounding Black female infertility

Diagnosis - Infertility. Medical Concept. 3D Marjorie H Morgan © 2018

How often have you had a conversation about infertility amongst Black women? Not very often, I would suspect. Or never. There appears to be a silence surrounding Black female infertility, although white female infertility is frequently discussed and treated. Infertility is often viewed through a colour-coded prism.

Historically myths surrounding Black women, and the image of the Black female body, are associated with constant reproduction, so when a Black woman realises she is not able to conceive there are usually feelings of inadequacy and failure. In many cultures motherhood is associated with social status, therefore being childless can mean that a woman feels shame to be seen as barren.

Since the start of recorded time there has been infertility amongst women, it is not new. The Bible refers to Sarah and Rebekah who remained ‘childless’ for decades. Many contemporary Black women resort to religious behaviour when they believe they are cursed by God, and some women may implement acts of superstition, like sleeping with baby clothes under their pillows, to increase their chances of conception. The National Health Statistics Reports (2006-2010) show that Black women are 1.5 times more likely to experience infertility than their white counterparts. So, why the silence?

There are many health and genetic reasons for this higher level of infertility in Black women, including the prevalence of fibroids, dysfunctional ovaries, endometriosis, and PCOS. Premature ovarian failure is also a condition that affects the infertility of Black women: this is also known as primary ovarian insufficiency and it is a condition where ovulation times are uncertain because there is a loss of eggs associated with premature menopause. A woman’s ability to conceive naturally each month declines as she gets older.

According to the WHO (1993) the clinical definition of infertility is the absence of conception after 24 months of regular unprotected intercourse. For many women the realisation that they may be infertile is a shock that may lead to isolation and embarrassment.

In 2016 a study into the experiences of nine Black and minority ethnic women living in Wales was undertaken at Cardiff University; this study shares the views and experience of this group who had current or previous experiences of infertility. The women talked about the pressure they felt to become mothers, the negative impact of not being able to conceive, and their ongoing concerns and hope for the future.

When any woman who wants to reproduce finds that her personal biology has denied her the opportunity to do so, there are often feelings of failure because fertility is frequently equated to womanhood in pronatalist societies. Each time the conception cycle passes unfulfilled the potential mothers may enter into a pattern of grief for the loss of the unborn, unknown child they were preparing for, and grief for their own body’s inability to conceive; this is often repeated for months and years.

When personal reproduction proves impossible some Black women may choose to foster or adopt to experience motherhood. This can occur after the high costs and expenses of many rounds of IVF, artificial insemination, and possibly miscarriages and recurrent pregnancy loss (RPL).

Between the moment that a Black woman discovers she is infertile, and the time she chooses to either embrace the state of childlessness or to foster or adopt, there is the desert time when she is alone with her body. During these stages, women can undergo a wide rage of emotions directly related to the cycle of procreation; this may include self imposed isolation from family and friends because she may feel ostracised from the normality of their worlds, and periods where she may spend much time crying in silence behind closed doors. This  can be a time when some women may find themselves experiencing suicidal thoughts and episodes of mental illness because of the social stigma and the stress of repeated failures to conceive.

Infertility can remain undiscussed in the wider community unless there is more publicity around the issue. It has helped when people like Beyoncé, Tyra Banks and Chrissy Tiegen also raise the emotional aspect of the issue.

It is important to get more Black women to talk about infertility to demystify it and to break the silence and isolation of those who experience involuntary childlessness. 

Figures show that nearly 60% of people in America do not undertake fertility treatment because they are unaware of the options available. It is vital that Black women realise that infertility is a common problem experienced by 1 in 6 women between the ages of 15 and 44, in Britain these women should have full access to the NHS fertility treatment which, according to a 2006 survey, shows that there was unequal access to treatment and no clear criteria for who should receive this NHS-funded fertility treatment.


It’s time to talk.

Useful links:

WHO – World Health Organisation (Rowe et al., 1993)

Objectification and sexualisation of the Black female body – from Sara Baartman to Beyoncé

Beyonce Yoruba

by Marjorie H Morgan © 2018

Since the 15th century – in the Americas and the colonised world – the Black female body has been seen as a product to be used to produce more products in the same image; this has some parallels with the Black African tradition where the Black female body was viewed as a source of social success and family wealth, the commonality between these two views is patriarchy.

Objectification of the Black female body renders the black woman a commodity that others can enact their will upon, e.g. rage, lust, anger, disgust, desire.  Therefore Black women need to regain control of the image that they project of their own bodies. Beyoncé is one Black woman who appears to be controlling the representation and reflection of her concept of the Black female body.

During her performances Beyoncé often uses her body in a sexualised manner as a signifier of her own feminism. Her stage and public appearances contest the whiteness of mainstream feminism,

although Dr bell hooks, a black academic feminist, described Beyoncé as a ‘terrorist’ who potentially harms black girls with her sexualised performances (2014).

After the release of Lemonade (2017) hooks also suggested that Beyoncé used that opportunity to exploit “images of Black female bodies” in a way that was neither “radical nor revolutionary” and that it glamorised the gendered dichotomy and “glamorizes a world of gendered cultural paradox and contradiction.

Black female bodies have historically had repeated collisions with masculinity, power, and whiteness; these bodies constantly exhibit strength beyond the imposed theories as they continue to disrupt the masculine narrative of superiority, because without them Black life does not continue.

When Black bodies were viewed as products they were also categorised as sexual and economic property where the sexuality and reproduction were strictly controlled; in this manner they are systematically dehumanised and positioned to be subject to the white patriarchal system. A prime example of this occurred in 1814 when Sara (aka Sarah or Saartjie) Baartman, also known as the Hottentot Venus, was displayed in a cage, and objectified as a deviant savage who was an inferior being. Baartman was described has having “abnormal sexuality and genitalia”. 

Sara Baartman was in fact a Khoikhoi woman – an aboriginal South African – who became a domestic servant to Dutch coloniser Pieter Willem Cezar in Cape Town, South Africa, before she was employed by English ship surgeon William Dunlop and Cezar’s brother Hendrik.

Apparently Sara Baartman signed a contract on 29 October 1810 with the terms stipulating that she would be a domestic servant in England and Ireland for Dunlop and Hendrik Cezar in addition to being exhibited for entertainment purposes. The contract allegedly stated that Baartman would receive a portion of the earnings and would also be allowed to return to South Africa after five years. However, after four years in England Baartman was sold to Reaux, a showman in France, who showcased her alongside his animals.

Baartman died in France in 1815 after being exhibited and studied as a science specimen by French anatomists, zoologists and physiologists. Baartman was used to emphasise the theory that Black Africans were hyper sexual and less human than Europeans. It was through this initial commodification process that black bodies were positioned to be subject to the white patriarchal system. As Iman Cooper (2015) says essentially “the humanity of the black body was ruptured into an object to be bought and sold, in order to satisfy the economic desires of the white slave owners.”

Baartman is symbolic because her Black African female body was used as imagery to represent, reflect and affect the nascent European held opinions of ‘savage sexuality and racial inferiority’ of the time. The physical presence of Black bodies in the world is undeniable, however the concept of racism made the power and self-agency of those bodies incomprehensible and refutable in the eyes of white colonisers, but the black body has always remained self-defining and disruptive to global theories of cultural being.

This originally European social conceptualisation of the black body has remained widely unchallenged by mainstream society, especially in media outlets that are controlled by heteronormative white men. Therein femininity is also codified as Christian, white, docile, chase and pure, while Black women’s religious characteristics are not viewed in the same way as their white counterparts they have historically been viewed as uncontrolled, loud, wild, lewd and evil. Both black and white female bodies have been regulated according to the diametrically opposed assumptions held about each other, largely based on the overriding global standard rooted in racism.

With the exception of talk show hosts such as American Oprah Winfrey and British Trisha Goddard, Black women on television have mainly been represented as “crude stereotypes of exotic animalistic hypersexuality (black women) … or sexual submissiveness (Asian women)” – this is often represented as lacking in ‘feminine’ behaviour. Sexualised women are also frequently depicted as working class – all is dependent on the ‘viewer’s’ gaze. In this instance who is the viewer? Male, white, middle class.

Black women performers like Beyoncé often use their bodies as a means to reclaim and contest the control of the image of the Black female body from their personal perspective: powerful, sexual, self-regulating.

Who is right, Beyoncé or bell hooks? Can’t they both be correct? Black women have a right to control their own image and decide on the sexualisation of their individual bodies – that is their agency and feminist right of self determination.

Bodies will always be sexualised and objectified by the gaze of the ‘other’ be it the gaze of a man or another woman (Black or white). Therefore Black women are justified in deciding their own degree of visual sexualisation according to the pervading and overarching social mores, nevertheless I do not believe sexualisation can be ignored or viewed in isolation without considering the history of objectification and sexualisation of the female body, specifically the Black female body.

As Nora Chipaumire suggested in 2014, the Black female body can acknowledge her own power and presence, and negotiate the way others look at it or see it in her own way, on her own terms.

Black female bodies are engaging in the freedom of expression as their own subjects, they are no longer mere objects.

Jenny’s Journey

Empty cradle

“Jenny, where are you? Call me back, now! C’mon, Jenny. I’m getting worried now. Please. Call me.”

There was urgency in his voice. It was the twelfth message he’d left in the last hour. I already miss him. This morning he said goodbye as usual and after kissing my forehead he drove off to work. A regular Tuesday we both thought. But it wasn’t to be.

I want more than anything to go home to Paul, but I can’t. I know that he won’t understand. And, anyhow, I can’t now. It’s too late. There’s no turning back after this.

Paul has been the same since I can remember. He’s the best husband I could’ve asked for. He’s patient and supportive – but then we both are to each other, so that’s nothing spectacular between us, but he’s the bring-you-breakfast-in-bed type of man that you read about in stories, but he’s real. I was always the lazy-I-don’t-like-mornings person. And right now he’s pulling his hair out, well that’s just a phrase really because Paul has shaved his head for the last five years or so. It suits him, the bald head, the smoothness. He does still grow his beard though, which I love – it makes him even more good looking. Although he hasn’t really changed his image much since our wedding. And he can still fit in his wedding suit, because he’s always doing something – football, squash, weight training … I sometimes lose track of all the things he does. He says exercise gives him more energy. It’s never made sense to me, but it works for him.

He stays the same and I change more every day. I didn’t plan this, and I usually plan everything. But right now I feel like my mind has been invaded by alien thoughts that are controlling everything I think or do. I guess it’s just a matter of time before someone says that I’m having a mental breakdown. And they could be right, I’ll check with the overwhelming convictions residing in the core of my brain to find out. I mean I’ll check if I can be bothered.

Opposites attract they say, and where exercise is concerned I guess they are right with me and Paul, whoever they are that say all these things. You see, I lost my will power to exercise, to care about anything, in a packet of biscuits. Bourbons I think they were at the time. I stopped discriminating over packets ages ago – that was when days like Tuesday started and ended in familiar shapes. I eat anything now. Since I’ve got no chance of fitting into my wedding dress again it doesn’t matter. It’s not like we’ve any likelihood of renewing our vows. Paul’s never going to forgive me for this.

I started eating more after we’d lived in our new home for about three years. We were totally settled in, all the boxes were unpacked and the rooms decorated to our own style. We were feeling quite satisfied with ourselves. Even smug, yes, we were smug. I’ll admit to that now. We both had good jobs that we loved, a great circle of family and friends, our beautiful home, in fact back then we had all the things we wanted in our lives.

The people who lived in our house before us had bizarre tastes I think, but we saw the potential behind their decor. They were more1970s style hippies, we’re more clean lines, organised storage and high tech. When we bought that house we were ready to start the next chapter of our lives, but … nothing happened. So I ate more. That was something I got good at, because in every other area my body betrayed me.

“Shall I renew your gym membership? The notification’s come through for both of us,” Paul’s voice was cautious and gentle that evening after we had eaten. We were sitting on the sofa as the TV watched us from the corner of the room.  For months I’d been like an angry bear around him. The energy emitting from me was toxic. I’d had too much time to think between hospital and doctor appointments. After I gave up work my days became saturated with charts, needles, hormones and timing. There was an optimum time for everything. The only problem was my body didn’t get the memo. It remained out of sync.

But Paul didn’t do anything wrong. All he wanted was a family, with me. Children who had his curly hair, and maybe his mother’s dimples, or someone who had my smile – when I used to smile a lot – or my eyes. It’s what we both wanted. Then we started trying. Trying, and repeatedly failing. So, no. I didn’t want to renew my gym membership. That was just something else to fail at. I cut my eyes at him and he turned away unsure what to do next. Then moments later he got up and walked out of the room. I was instantly sorry, but I didn’t apologise.

I lived on the edge of anger every day. At first I blamed it on the injections. I did the ones in my stomach, then Paul took over and did the ones in my butt. My skin doesn’t normally bruise, but repeatedly puncturing myself with hormones leaves dark purple bruises that look like squashed blueberries plastered under my skin. Yet in true Marquis de Sade fashion I continued with the ritual for over two years.

“Is it worth all this pain?” Paul asked one morning, after I burst into tears again. I hadn’t been sleeping as usual, so I snapped at him again, “Just stick it in, please!”

“But, you’re crying …”


“Jen, can’t we … you know, stop this now?”


“Jen, c’mon. We can do something else. We can try …”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Paul, this is me trying! I’m trying to have a baby, your baby, my baby. Just stick the damn needle in my ass, please!”

“Remember … remember all this,” he is hesitant with his words and his movements, he tries to hold me, I reject him again.

“All this,” he is pointing to the lines of medicine bottles and the needles that look suspiciously like an addict’s drug paraphernalia, “it’s no guarantee. They did tell us that.”

“Paul. Are you going to do it or not?” I scream at him. I’m desperate, I don’t recognise myself any more. The only thing I am familiar with every day is fear. The fear of more failure and my firework-style emotions.

In the middle of the experiment to alter the biology of my body I discover that my relationships are all crumbling around me. I don’t accept that I am the common denominator until … well, until I’m surrounded by piles of dust.

Mum, and the aunts give me the look all the time, but they don’t say anything anymore. It’s the same at every wedding, funeral or party. Just two words, “Any news?”

When I shake my head they return to sharing out the food again, or doing unnecessary tidying up. The pity in their eyes is mixed with the shame that gnaws at me from inside. I know that I’m a failure. I can’t make my body be different. They know it’s my fault. I know it’s my fault. You see, Paul had a child when he was younger, a previous relationship, so it’s me that’s not working properly, not him.

“I feel like a fraud.” I confide to my diary because people find it awkward to talk to me now. Or do I find it uncomfortable because I’m checking them checking me? Especially my female friends. Especially my female pregnant friends or any mother. Literally any woman with a child, I feel their eyes bore into my permanently vacant uterus. All the random people I see in the street. I’m looking at them and I feel them judging my because of my emptiness. I’m an outsider now because I can’t do it as easily as they did.

“My body feels hollow, like the bits that are supposed to be there are missing or not joined up properly, and I can’t see what’s going on or move any of it around. I wish I had something else to focus on apart from this. Paul is scared of me now, I see it in his eyes. I’m sorry, but I can’t stop, I have to fix my body. I’ll do anything it takes to be a mother. I never thought I’d have to ‘try’. I thought I’d just ‘be’ pregnant one day, like my sisters. It’s not fair. Why me? Why do I have to be the monster? Frankenstein?”

I was a visitor to the hospital that day. Tuesday it was. I went to see my sister who had another baby. I both wanted to and didn’t want to be there, but because it’s a family tradition and I’m not allowed to be the one who breaks the rules, I went. The babies popped out of Emma like she was shelling peas. Her and Stuart have four children now. Three boys and a girl. The boys came first, the twins Simon and Saul, then Patrick, and finally, well I think it’s finally, Chloe arrived. She’s perfect, and looks a bit like our mother. Beautiful ebony skin and brown-blue eyes. She is stunning, and she smells like all newborn babies. Delicious, fresh and new. The whole family is there. We congratulate Emma and Stuart and then the awkwardness in the room reaches out and grabs my ankles. I excuse myself to go to the gift shop. I need space, and as I leave the room I hear it filled with the sound of them all exhaling relief at my absence.

I walk around the hospital grounds for about an hour before I make my way back to Emma’s room. I ignore the ringing phone in my pocket. Acidic thoughts rise in my throat as I reflect that there is scarcely time to get used to each new baby before Emma’s stomach is swelling again, and our family is not even Catholics. I don’t see what their hurry is. But I love the babies, all of them. I guess I’ll just have to be satisfied with being the best auntie there is. Maybe that’s my destiny. That could be the way to bury the feelings of constant loss when I instead focus on celebrating the lives of these beautiful innocent babies that have joined our large family, and then I’ll continue to privately mourn the non-existence of my own.

I can smell the sympathy that people have for me when they see that I’m still not expecting. But I’m always expecting, I’m expecting my own miracle, it just doesn’t come to me no matter how many babygros I put under the pillow, what statues I rub, or how full the moon is. I remain empty.

If they do talk to me about my barren womb it’s usually words that I want to grab from their loose lips and stab them in the eye with.

“You’ll have a full, rich life without children,” they suggest. “Imagine all those exciting, different holidays you can go on!”

“You and Paul will have such adventurous experiences now,” my cousin said in a phone call as his children were playing in the background, “you’re not tied down.” Karl won the prize for the most insensitive comment of that week: that’s one of the regular awards that I give out to people I interact with. I have to do something to amuse myself as I mostly pace alone with my thoughts weighed down by biscuits and my internal inadequacy.

Dr Fitzwilliam, one of the line of doctors who stared at charts, then at me, said that it often took time for the drugs and treatment to take hold. I felt like I ran out of time and then I saw her, just lying there, in the corridor. I’d just come back on the ward, on my way back from the gift shop. I had a soft yellow duck for Chloe. 

The nurse had turned away for something and abandoned her.

So, I took her. I had to.

Immediately she filled the hole in my heart. The years of mourning disappeared because I found her. She’s perfect for me.

I call her Jasmine. I’m her mother now.

I’ve turned my phone off so she can sleep in my arms undisturbed. I’ll be her mother for as long as we remain in this linen cupboard.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2018

Chasing Status – Short Story

Chasing Status by Marjorie H Morgan © 2018

Rusty chains

“Yes, Sam. What is it?”

“It’s about the paperwork, Roy.” She hesitated, and looked over her shoulder. Then lowering her voice she stepped closer to him. “Sorry to bother you on your way home, but … we, hmmm, we still need your proof of I.D. Can you bring something in after the weekend? A passport will do.”

“Passport? No, not me. I’ve never been the travelling type. No need for a passport – you don’t need one to go to Wales, do you?” Roy’s face wrinkled in laughter and his eyes nearly disappeared in the folds of his weathered face. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and with difficulty bent slowly and placed his worn leather satchel on the ground between his feet.

“Well, something official will do. It doesn’t have to be a passport. Just something which proves who you are …”

“Who I am? Sam, you’ve got everything on me in there.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. I bet you know more about this company than I do! How long have you been here again? 22 years?”

His face smoothed out as he remembered back to the time when he didn’t have pains constantly shooting up his hip and effortlessly ran to the crease of the cricket field to deliver the perfect fast ball for the company’s cricket team.

“Yes. That’s right. 6th of August was my start date here. And before that 13 years at the council. Only nine sick days in all that time. Nine. The flu, you know. The flu in 2010. That was a bad one. Eight years ago? Something like that. Three days off then. In bed all the time. I couldn’t move. Taken the flu injection every year since.”

“Makes sense. My mum takes it too. The doctor recommended it – it’s her age you see.”

“Yes, gotta do what the doctor says. When you’re getting up there, you know, when the grey hairs are more than the black ones, then you’ve gotta listen more. Time to slow down now. Truthfully,” he leans towards her as if in conspiracy, “I’ve got a few aches and pains – especially here,” Roy gingerly touches his left hip as he looks at Sam trying to read her face because he saw her shoulders were held tight and square. “But that’s another matter. I’ll see the doctor when I get a moment. Anyway, a few more years then I’m going to retire.”

“That’ll be nice, I’m sure.” She is looking everywhere except at his face, “The only thing is, Roy, and this is odd, that’s why I stopped you – I’ve never seen this before, the thing is, I know you, but we got this letter saying you’re not registered in the system. It seems strange that they can’t find you.”

“The company?”

“No. The Government.”

“Ha ha! That’s a good one. You nearly had me there.” His laugh sounds like a drink of hot chocolate laced with rum. He picks up his bag and swinging it across his back he turns to leave.

“Um … Um … wait a minute, Roy. Actually I’m serious. Sorry.”

“What? What?!”

“Hold on, let me explain … ummm, your paperwork’s out of date.”

“What does that mean? You’re having a laugh. Sorry. What I mean is this is a joke? Right? Must be.” With a nervous smile Roy glances around expectantly. The lads in his section are masters of practical jokes. It keeps their minds fresh and each other nervous. “April Fools joke?”

“Do you want to come in and sit down so we can discuss this in private?”

“No!” Roy is as shocked as Sam at the volume of his answer. She takes a half step backwards and he lowers his eyes momentarily before catching his breath and continuing, “Everything’s been said in the open, not going to change now. I’m an open man me. Royston Hubert Francis. No secrets. Everybody knows that. Here – ask Jim.”

There is an edge of urgent desperation in his voice as he shouts. “Jim! Jim! Come here a minute,”

“Whassup Roy?” Jim lopes across the wide corridor and comes to a halt beside his friend. Jim slaps Roy on the back and notices that Roy is stiff and upright. He says nothing else and lets his hands fall loose at his side. He’s never known Roy to be tense apart from when he was burying his wife, Maise, six years earlier. He was normally a loose-limbed man with a ready smile and joke for anyone, that’s how he thought of Roy, and how he would describe him in the future that he didn’t yet know.

“Tell this woman about me. Tell her, Jim.”

“Tell her what? Hello Sam. How are you?”

“Tell her who I am.”

Sam steps forward again and raises her hand as if she is about to shut an invisible door between them. “Hello Jim. Sorry. This is a private matter. You all got your own letters. This is between me and Roy here.”

“Sorry. What’s going on? I thought you left ages ago, Roy.”

“I tried to …”

Sam interrupts just as Jim reopens his mouth to speak again after seeing Roy’s rare grief face, “Roy and I are just trying to clear something up. Nothing to worry about, we’ll…”

“You say that now, but you keep asking me for information you already have. It’s been months. Jim, did you get that letter in … in, what month was it? March, yes, March. Did you get that letter …”

Like impatient motorists they continued to cut across each other’s words.

“Yeah, we all got them.”

“… about updating your …”

“We sent one to everyone in the company.”

“… personal details.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’ve given them everything they asked for and they say they can’t find me in the system! Me!”

“Don’t worry, mate. It’ll be alright …That can’t be right? It’s not right, is it, Sam?”

“As I said to Roy, it must be an administrative error that we’ll sort out soon enough.” Sam’s clipped tones were as sharp as talons and they betrayed her frustration with the situation and the two men in front of her.

“Best do! This is foolishness. See me here!” Roy beats both hands on his chest vigorously knowing that he’s going to regret the intensity of the action later that evening. “Every day for 22 years, right here in this building. Ev-er-y day bar the few days off with the flu. I’m here.”

“That’s right! Roy’s a fixture in this place. Taught me everything I know.”

“Here all the time.” His words feel hollow as he releases them. For the first time in nearly half a century he feels afraid like he is watching the last ship from the port dip over the horizon with all he values on board. Everything in his head tightens and moves to just above his left eye, then it starts banging for release. The pain always veers left. He finds some dry words that scratch his throat on their way out, “I couldn’t teach you dominoes though! You’ll never be any good at that. Bit like me and darts.” The sound that should be laughter cracks and shatters as it leaves him.

Sam clears her throat as she does her awkward two step shuffle nearer the opened door, “Anyway, listen, let’s not get all worked up over  … something that’s nothing right now.”

“If it’s nothing, then why did you stop me again?”

“Just trying to see if there’s another way around the paperwork, Roy. That’s all. I’m trying to help you.”

“Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like it.”

The three of them stand silently for the longest five seconds of that day.

“What am I going to do, Jim? They have everything on me already. What more could they want?”

“I know, mate. Don’t worry. It’s nothing … like Sam said. They’ll sort it out. You will, right Sam?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Roy. It’s just a matter of proving who you are so they can change your records back from ‘no status’ again.”

“What do you mean ‘no status’? C’mon now. Stop the foolishness, it’s been a long week. I’m dying to get home. I’ve got that aching pain in my side again …”

“‘No status’? What’s that mean?” Jim chips in with a three line furrow appearing on his brow matching the one that has taken up residence on Roy’s forehead.

“Don’t worry, Roy, we’ll clear this up,” he hopes he’s telling the truth.

“It’s just an administrative term. Nothing to stress about. I’m sure this’ll all be sorted in the next week or so.”

“I hope so.  You just got me riled up for a minute. That’s all.” However, Roy doesn’t feel calm.

“No problems, Roy. We’re just fulfilling our legal responsibility you see. We’ve all got to do our bit.”

“I know the admin. I’ve my own pile of paperwork over there for month end. Sorry ‘bout that. Thanks, Sam. Sorry again.”

“No problems. Don’t worry. See you Monday – we’ll get it sorted then.”

“Yeh, Monday.  Sorry I raised my voice. I just don’t understand why you … you know, they … can’t find me in the system. Makes no sense.” His shoulders look like the overnight cover on a birdcage as he walks off. He shakes his head trying to release the confusion. After about 10 steps he stops and half turns his head towards the watchful eyes of Sam and Jim, “I’ll leave it to you, right? You’ll sort it?”

“Sit anywhere, this won’t take long.”

“Thank you. Who are you again? I didn’t catch your name just now.”

“Sorry. I’m Susan Thatcher. The Hospital Administrator.”

“OK. Nice to meet you Mrs Thatcher. Are you related to … you know, the old Prime Minister?”

“No. No relation.”

“Sorry. You must get that all the time.”

Susan smiles a wafer thin smile and indicates to the chairs again. Roy moves closer to a seat, but doesn’t sit down straight away. He’s waiting for her to sit as well. She does not. She blocks the air in the room with her position by the opened doorway.

“I don’t know why you’ve pulled me in here. I’ve come to see the doctor.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why we need to have a chat …”

Chivalry is increasingly uncomfortable and time consuming now Roy is in his seventh decade of life, so reluctantly he eases himself into the chair nearest the door in the small side room. Susan, the rotund woman he has just met for the first time, hesitates in front of a chair on the opposite side of the table. Placing a thick file down in front on her with a thud she spreads her fingers like two inverted steeples on either side of it. She looks as if she is about to propel herself into the ceiling. Roy laughs nervously.

“Well, we have a problem Mr Francis. I’m sorry but you can’t attend your appointment today.”

“Why? What? The GP referred me here over six months ago, she said my treatment was immediate and necessary and I still haven’t had any appointments! Why? Why? Now you’re saying there’s a problem? What problem?”

“It’s just paperwork, Mr Francis. Your file’s missing some documents that we need before we can proceed.”

“Everywhere I go nowadays people are asking for old paperwork! It’s all in the system I tell you. I’ve given you everything I have. Everything.”

“Please calm down, Mr Francis. I’m just doing my job. I have to …”

“Listen. Mrs Susan, Mrs Thatcher, I’m sick. That’s why I’m here. The GP referred me, I can’t even work too well because of the pain. You can’t stop me from …”

“Please listen, Mr Francis. I’m not stopping …”

“Barriers everywhere. Everywhere I turn. I’m so tired of it now. Sick and tired.”

“I understand your frustration Mr Francis, but please try to understand that I have to follow the rules of the hospital … and the government. We are required to ensure …”

“You’re locking me out! You’re refusing to treat me … aren’t you? Is that what you’re doing? Don’t you see the doctor’s letter? It’s in there, in the file.” Roy saw that his hands had become fists and were banging on the table. He didn’t remember starting the motion, but he consciously decided to follow the existing beat as if he was reading a music score.

“Look. I’m sick – really sick, for the first time in nearly fifty years – and you’re refusing to treat me? That’s not right! It’s not fair? How can that be fair? I only want what I put it. That’s all. I’m not asking for anyone else’s share. Just what I put it.” Like a deflating balloon he stretches across the table in supplication, “Just what I put in,” he repeats.

“Have you finished?” Her sharp sigh takes up the remaining fresh air in the room. She is not acquainted with mercy. “I’m sorry, Mr Francis. All I can say is that according to your file here there is something missing. We require proof that you are ordinarily resident and legally entitled to live in the UK or you will have to pay for your treatment yourself.”

“What do you mean legally entitled? I’ve been here in England since I was in short trousers. I came in ‘56 with my mother. She worked in this very hospital for thirty two years as a nurse! She’s buried in Highgate cemetery – just up the road.”

“That’s all very interesting, Mr Francis but I need proof for you … In the form of a passport or official bank account details or housing letters to confirm your status, otherwise …”

“Or what? What if I can’t provide a passport?”

“You have to.”

“Or what? Answer me!”

“Please don’t raise your voice, Mr Francis.”

“Keep calm, keep calm! That’s all I hear. Keep calm while I take everything away from you. Keep calm while I take your … life!”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying …”

“Oh! But I do. I understands perfectly. You’re saying that if I don’t give you the papers you need – the papers which the government already has from the time I come to this country – if I don’t give you those papers you’re not going to look after me here. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Well, ummm, yes. Unfortunately, my hands are tied. It’s the law, you see. It’s not me, I’m just doing my job … so, sorry. I had to tell you that you’re now restricted from free access to the NHS unless you can prove your settled status.” Susan knows that her words are like injecting neat acid into an IV yet she doesn’t blink. She sits down at last and pulls the file close to her chest. “But …”

“But what?”

“Well, we can still book you in for your chemotherapy if you pay the charges for the treatment in advance.”

Now they are both gasping like goldfish starved of freshly oxygenated water, the atmosphere is heavy and damp as they stare at each other across the table.

“How much?”


“How much is the treatment to save my life?”

“Ummmmmm. Let me see.” The sound of the paperwork moving in her thick hands reminds Roy of a butterfly caught in a jam jar.  The noise suddenly stops. “Ummm. That will be £54,400.


“£54,400 to be precise. In advance.”

“I don’t even have £500 pounds to my name anymore. I’m about to lose my job because of … lost paperwork! Maybe my home too, and now … now you plan to take my life away as well!”

It took Jim two weeks to knock on Roy’s door. They barely recognised each other.

The rum is still familiar and smooth as they sit in silence and look at the floor between them.

Roy is the first to speak.

“I’ve got to leave.”


“Here. My house, and … England.”

“Fuck off!” The rum becomes a spray ejected from between his lips and teeth. “Don’t mess about, Roy.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“I got a letter. Home Office. Said I’m not legal here, so I’ve got to go … don’t know where I’ll go.”

“You’re messing, right?”

“Listen, Jim,” Roy had abandoned patience in his speech when he left the hospital weeks before, “I found out I’ve been working all my life for nothing. I’m sick, bad. Real sick. But I can’t get treatment …”

“You’ve had too much rum, old man! Stop with the riddles. When you coming back to work? We miss you in our section.”

“Jim Jones, for the 15 years I’ve known you, when did I ever not come to work? Never, that’s when. They asked me to leave.” Jim poured himself more rum to stop his hand from shaking.

“What the actual fuck?! Sorry mate, you’re kidding right? No, I know you’re not. Bastards! Fucking bastards.”

Picking up the nearly empty bottle he poured another glug of rum. 

“What can I do to help you, Roy? I know, I can talk to …”

“I’ve done it all. I’ve talked to everyone. Night and day. It’s no use. They say I don’t exist in the system. So, it’s like I’ve been working all my life, paying my stamp, and now they say I don’t exist. It’s shit, that’s what it is. It’s slavery. They’ve had me in chains all this time.”

Jim lowered his reddening face to his chest.

“Remember that day when Sam said she needed my passport?”

“Yeah, I thought that was all sorted …”

“I wish … I’ve had government visits here and everything. I’ve got two weeks to leave or they’ll deport me … me and my cancer.”

“You’ve got cancer?”

“Yes. Couldn’t get treatment because of no paperwork. Now they’re shipping me off. To a country I don’t know any more. I don’t know anyone there. This is my home. Well, it was my home …”

“They can’t do that! They can’t! Can they?”

“They’re doing it. Two weeks. So take what you like … I can’t take it with me.”

Marjorie H Morgan © 2018