In this phase, we crafted new stories about place through four series of workshops with writers and storytellers in community organizations, through a PhD in Creative Writing and Cultural Studies funded by the Stuart Hall Foundation. We partnered with Ageing Well Barking and Dagenham, AgeUK Stones End Day Centre, Cody Dock, Pepper Pot Centre, and University of East London.
I am early productive mornings, but I am also the longest, laziest lie in. I am two pairs of socks in all seasons except summer – I do not trust the cold. I am a black tea, no sugar; however I am not a sugarless coffee just yet. I am the red and black fruit… continue reading »
My family moved house when I was seven years old and so did the devil. He blended into the darkest corners during the day and into the darkness at night. We moved into the four-bedroom terraced house late one evening. Exhausted from the drive and from unloading the hired van, we slept on a mattress… continue reading »
Walking I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands. – Linda Hogan There was a line somewhere. It was faint, like cutting through a patch of mist, and crossing its threshold effected… continue reading »
I sat upon the green softness My tired legs welcomed the relief of rest You were nestled inside Sleeping and still Here we took a moment Here in the garden We connected And here, I hope we will meet again. Three weeks earlier. November 2018, London Three years after becoming a mother to my… continue reading »
I I didn’t go to kindergarten until I was four. I was an innocent child, growing up in my nanny’s arms. She had dry skin, proving that she was old enough to tell me about life, but not perfect enough to believe in heaven. Discipline was what her eyes were always screaming, kind discipline. My… continue reading »
It’s my first week in London and the learning curve is steep. I am staying at Susi and Fra’s place near Turnpike Lane, in the draughty front room of a Victorian terrace, where I sleep on a fake leather sofa and an Ikea catalogue. I’m only the last in a long line of friends who… continue reading »
“I can’t find peace here. This city is as tight as my skinny jeans.” Still, for someone who didn’t even want to come live here, nearly eight years is a long time. This thought catches me nearly every day, when I see the first ray of light coming through the blinds in the morning, when… continue reading »
Loneliness Aidan and Mitchell were always around. There were times of anger and frustration. They didn’t like me that much; they were always making fun of me. Mom was busy with them and not me. I felt lonely. I would wander around my yard, to the pond, the woods, or to my neighbour’s house. I… continue reading »
From the life of Pearline Donaldson By Marta Guerreiro — Not all stories have a thread. Often, our life becomes easier to tell if we remember just some moments, pieces: a puzzle of loves and battles, which we preserve within us, in places that can be poetic – a treasure chest made of faith –… continue reading »
From the life of Lynford Cornelius Thompson By Erica Masserano — When Lynford moves from Westmoreland, he is 20. Westmoreland was green, green, green, but his family lived in a house built out of wooden boards; concrete was for richer people, and stone for the slavehouses like the one his grandfather fixed up and lived… continue reading »
From the life of Alba By Daniela Bragato — They say I’ve got a nice smile, but I don’t smile often these days. “What’s the matter Alba, c’mon, where’s that smile? Where’s that smile?” they say. “Oh, I’ve lost it.” I lost it the day my husband left me and my children to go off… continue reading »
From the life of Edwin Rolle By Sandra Wilson — The hot sun blazed down on the inhabitants of the small island of Dominica. The sea breeze blew very gently every so often to cool them as they went about their daily business. The sky was a bright blue and the sun shone onto the… continue reading »
From the life of Ferdinand Maxwell By Erica Masserano — 1, 2: Barbados What Barbados is like? Summer throughout the year, sunshine every day. I was born there in 1941. Growing up there is a lot better than what I see the kids doing who grow up here. My dad was police and my mom… continue reading »
From the life of Ernest Forde By Claire Dougher — I am from the West Indies, Barbados, St. Phillips on the West Coast. I lived there with my granny from when I was about three months old and then moved here when I was nine. Back in the day, your parents came over here first… continue reading »
From the life of Claire Chatelet By Naida Redgrave — ‘I’m warning you, I jump from subject to subject. I’ve got a form of dyslexia. I’ll take you somewhere, then I’ll loop back and forth. The problem is, I find it very difficult to find salient points. I view everything as equally interesting and important.’… continue reading »
From the life of Rosie Joyce By Nacima Khan — We met on a boat, Rosie and I. Affectionately named the ‘River Princess’, the boat was charming yet weather-beaten and floated in the waters of Cody Dock, a less frequented and quiet part of East London. The boat smelled damp; the ghosts of past legendary… continue reading »
From the life of Sarah Bancroft By Erica Masserano — Sarah says she’s late because she saw a seal in the Thames. “It was like an arrow in the water”, she mimes, swimming around the room in broad strokes; it’s Kate Bush interpretive dance meets your local fisherman measuring a fictional catch with his arm…. continue reading »
From the life of George Freeman By Sam Dodd — When I was first born, in 1948, we lived in North London: a two-bed flat in Wenlock Barn, Hoxton. Then the rest of my siblings came along and a bigger flat came up in Bethnal Green. That’s where I consider my childhood home to be,… continue reading »
From the life of Joy Berry By Sandra Wilson — Barking had been the area that Maisie had dreamt about living in for years. Posh, idyllic, with tree lined houses. She had married Peter and those dreams had come true. She had often spent her time thinking about it as she sat on the blue… continue reading »
From the life of Steve Brooks By Zach Ekpe — 1880 My family were Sephardi Jews from Portugal. That would be my grandfather, his father and his grandfather, they were in a pogrom – a pogrom is where the state turns against part of its inhabitants and expels them. They took their money and their… continue reading »