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readyourimgaines · 5 years

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Chapter Three: New Starts and New People

I actually have a tag list going on this now. @iamnotbrianmay @board-certifiedbastard If you want to be added, shot me a message. And as always, thank you to @thatbarricade for everything you do with this.

“I was left to my own devices; many days fell away with nothing to show.” Enjolras’s voice carried slightly from the shower to the nearby kitchen. “And the walls came tumbling down into the city that we love.”

Grantaire sat up from where he had fallen asleep on the floor the night before, the fluffy blanket still under him. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and yawned. He caught the scent of bacon, something similar to bacon, and the sound of faint singing. The painter stood and stumbled into the kitchen, going into the fridge for the carton of milk before finding a glass.

“Who’s singing ‘Pompeii?’” he asked Combeferre.

“That’s Enj.” He flipped a piece of bacon on the griddle.

“Come again?”

“The singing. It’s Enjolras,” Ferre elaborated. “He’s got a pretty good voice, huh?”

Grantaire blinked. “I thought he was recording.”

“He’s a talented guy.” Ferre grinned. “Want some breakfast?”

“Sounds good, thanks.” He paused. “What’s the weird smell?”

“This fake bacon stuff I picked up from the store for Enj. He doesn’t eat meat, so I figured he’d like it. It kinda tastes like turkey bacon, actually.”

“Is Courf still asleep?”

“Yeah. At some point during the night he just went to our bed instead of sleeping in the living room. He was still asleep when I went to get dressed.” Ferre plated some of the bacon and started getting eggs from the fridge.

“Do you want help cooking?”

“Can you cook?”

“I’m not terrible at it.” R shrugged. “I know what a whisk does and that a fork works better and faster.”

“Good enough for me. You wanna cook the eggs and I’ll try waking up my lazy boyfriend?”

“I can do that.”

*****

“Okay. So Enj’s got work at one, Courf’s got his shift starting at three, mine’s at five. Uh… On the way to my shift I’ll stop by the café and give you your key to the house so you can get in when you get off…” Ferre ran a list through his head making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

“There’s food in the fridge, freezer, and cabinets; help yourself- obviously- to whatever you want. R, you always find a way in.”

“I pick the lock on the back door.”

“Are you seri- you’re being serious.” Ferre shook his head. “I think I covered everything. Okay. I’ve got to get some stuff from the shop and do some other errands. I’ll be back later. Courf, please don’t cut yourself with a box-cutter again.” Ferre pecked Courf on the forehead.

“Enj, don’t freak out too much, okay? Eponine’s really chill and is going to help you along as much as she can. And if you start to panic, remember: inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale over eight.” Enjolras rolled his eyes when the older young man kissed his forehead.

“I’m not kissing you.” Ferre stopped in front of Grantaire.

“Awe. Why not?”

Ferre kissed the palm of his hand and patted it against R’s cheek once.

Enjolras laughed at the mockingly wide grin Grantaire responded with.

“Okay. I’m off. Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone please.”

“Bye, Ferre.”

“See ya.”

“Bye, Love.” The three replied together. Ferre waved and walked out the door.

“What do we wanna do for half an hour?” Courf asked.

“Well, my shift starts at one, but I’d like to be there a little earlier if that works.” Enjolras glanced to R.

“Works for me. Whenever you wanna go. I get free coffee anyway, so I’m good whenever.”

“Why do you get free coffee?” Courf asked.

“I’m friends with Eponine and I babysit her little brother sometimes. I don’t get paid to watch Gavroche, so I just get free coffee when I want it.” He shrugged.

“Gavroche?” Enjolras looked a little confused. “Isn’t he the little kid that’s always running around town?”

“Yeah. That’s him.” Grantaire grinned. “That little guy gives me life sometimes, I swear.”

“But it’d be cool if I grabbed my backpack and we went?”

“Sure thing.” Grantaire checked his pockets for his keys. “Oh fuck, not again.”

“Ferre put your keys on one of the hooks by the door last night.” Enjolras said as he got off the couch and went to his room to grab his backpack. It wasn’t a school sized backpack like R thought it was going to be, but rather one that was about half the size of a regular backpack. From the handful of rants, explanations, and his sense of humour, R thought the bold red colour of it fit the blonde well.

“I’m good to go.”

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Courf asked from where he now laid on the couch.

“I don’t want your super-herpes.” Grantaire’s voice had a false empathy to it.

Enjolras opened the door and stopped, turning to face the darker haired man and held his hands up at shoulder height. “No homo. Wait.” And slowly backed out the door making both of the other men laugh.

*****

“That was well played.” Grantaire was still laughing as they got in his truck. “Why do you carry that bag around?”

“It’s functions as a purse, but I don’t get laughed at because it’s backpack. I’ve got a whole bunch of random stuff in here. I probably don’t even need half of it.” Enjolras now had the bag sitting on his lap as he strapped in.

“Fair enough. I should carry one around with me so I can have my

sketchbook and shit with me. Oh! That’s another thing I wanted to ask. How come you don’t swear like everyone else in our generation?” Grantaire looked over his shoulder as he reversed the truck into the street from Ferre and Courf’s driveway. Well, he was half parked on the lawn and half in the driveway since the space wasn’t big enough for two cars.

“I could. My father swears a lot, so I probably could have gotten away with it. My theory is just that with how versatile the English language is- seeing as it borrows words from almost every other tongue on the planet- there are so many other words that can be used to get a point across that aren’t vulgar and offend some people.”

“That’s an interesting take.” Grantaire nodded. “Alright, so on how to go the Musain… I don’t know street names for shit so I go by landmarks instead. There aren’t a lot you can go by, but there are a couple. There’s a dollar store three blocks from Ferre and Courf’s, and the Musain is two blocks up from that.”

“So three to the left, two up?”

“Yep. It won’t take long before it’s on autopilot. I had to think more about telling you how to get there than actually driving there. I graduated high school two years ago and Eponine’s been working here since we were juniors, so it’s not something I have to dwell on, you know?”

“Wait. How old are you?” Enjolras wondered.

“19- 20 in February.”

“Want to know a secret only Ferre knows?”

“Why not?”

“I was supposed to graduate when Combeferre did but my parents can be kind of stupid sometimes so-”

“I could have told you your parents are dumb.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras laughed. “We moved up here the summer between my Freshman year and what should have Sophomore year. They did some paperwork wrong, or didn’t turn it in on time, or something, so my credits didn’t transfer and I had to repeat Freshman year.”

“You’re fucking serious.”

“Yeah. Had to take a whole year over again and I still maintain a 4.0- including the first time I was a Freshman.”

“How have you not slaughtered your parents in their sleep?” Grantaire shook his head.

“Five years of High School. Personally, I’m 80 percent I would have killed myself. High school was terrible.”

“I’ve known Ferre and Jehan for four years so they help a lot. There’s this weird kid- he goes to a different school but comes to all our sporting events and such- he keeps things interesting, too.”

“Who’s that?”

“Marius Pontmercy. He more or less stalks one of the girls at the school. He’s not dangerous- I’ve talked to him- he’s just...weird.”

“Off topic, but Ferre mentioned yesterday you’re going to college for law, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever considered going to into acting?”

“Not really. I’ve been in a couple school productions and I’m in the school’s choir, but I don’t think it’s something I want to do for a living. It’s a fun hobby though. But being a lawyer? It’s something I’m interested in— the world, especially America, needs fewer corrupt lawyers. There are so many stories on the news about lawyers being paid to keep quiet about something, or that turn down clients because of the pay. That last one is unconstitutional, actually; it’s in the Miranda Rights.”

“How do you know all this? You aren’t even taking classes yet.” Grantaire was more impressed than he was willing to admit.

“Like I said, it’s something I’m interested in. Besides, I do my homework. I’m not going to choose a career that pays well because it pays well. I couldn’t care less about the money; I care about seeing that people who don’t deserve punishment evade it, and that those who do deserve it can’t buy or slither their way out of it.”

“Since lawyers do get paid well, what would you do with the money if you don’t care about it?”

“Invest it in charities. Save some aside in case someone needs it for hospital bills— if they need it, or if someone needs a place to stay a couple of days. I don’t know but there are too many people in this world that need help and money for me to consciously live in a fancy manor like some do. I wouldn’t want it that way- I just got away from that kind of mess.”

*****

“So this Enjolras?” asked a curly haired girl as he and Grantaire walked into the Musain. Enjolras guessed her to be around R’s age.

“Yeah. This is him.”

“Alright. So, with you being under 18, you can’t legally work here by yourself or use a couple of the machines, but there are plenty of things that you can do.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, ‘Ponine.” R walked behind the counter and grabbed two cups.

“Right. Sorry. I have a lot of fun training new people and we don’t get them often.” Eponine shifted from one foot to the other and twirled a curl around her forefinger.

“When you work you’ll mostly be working with me, but there are a couple of other workers here, too. Grantaire fills in from time to time if we’re desperate.”

“Which we are about three times a week.”

“Anyway...if you come over here, I can show you how the cash register works. I’ll be looking over your shoulder or a couple feet over if you have a question about something. And don’t worry if you press a wrong button or mess something up. It’s easy enough to fix.”

Grantaire placed the second cup he had in front of Enjolras. “Tally ho, boys.”

*****

The bell over the door jingled as Combeferre walked in and he laughed at the wide eyed look on Enjolras’s face. “Everything okay?”

“Apollo’s doing better than he thinks.” Grantaire said from next to Enj.

“Apollo?” Ferre raised an eyebrow.

“16 people have called me that today. I have a name-tag and everything and they keep calling me Apollo.” Enjolras wiped his hands on the white and red striped towel on his shoulder. He shook his head.

“I don’t get it.”

“Ferre!” Eponine grinned as she came around the corner from the staff room. “I don’t know where you and R found Enjolras, but he’s amazing, and I wanna keep him.”

“He’s a friend of mine from high school.” Ferre’s smile was still in place. “Anyway, I came by to give you this.” He handed the key to Enjrolras.

“It’s for the front door. The back door doesn’t have a functional lock.”

“I may have broken that when I was first learning to lock pick...I’ll buy you a new door knob. Don’t worry about it.”

“So can you make drinks? Or do you only run the register?”

“I can make drinks that don’t use the steam...thing.” Enjolras answered slowly. “I don’t remember what it’s called. I’ve been here for two hours and things have happened.”

Ferre chuckled. “Are you sticking around, R?”

“I got nothing better to do. I’ll bring him home.”

“Oh! Some of the guys might be around later; Courf wanted to watch something. Enjy, if you’ve gotta recharge in your room, don’t feel bad about it. Take your time and just do what you have to. You aren’t the only one in the group with anxiety, so you don’t have to worry about someone coming to conclusions or anything.”

“Okay. Who are these ones?”

“Bahorel, Joly, Feuilly, and Bossuet.” Ferre adjusted the messenger bag on his shoulder. “They’re the only four, aside from Gav, that you haven’t met.”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“Well, not if you think about it. You know Courf, R, Eponine, and I. So then it’s those four and Gav.” Ferre sat down. “Now that I think about it, can I get a butterscotch steamer on ice to go?” He smiled fondly at the blond as he set to making the drink, and slipped a ten in the tips jar when Enjolras turned his back to get the flavoured syrup.

*****

When Enjolras and Grantaire returned to the house around 6:30, there were four young men sitting on the couch watching TV. Enjolras hadn’t seen any of them before and Grantaire caught the blue eyed blond straightening his back even more than he thought possible when the four looked over.

“You’re the new one, right?” the bald one of the four asked with a grin.

“Yeah. I’m Enjolras.” He gave a stiff wave.

“Well, I’m Lesgle-”

“Everyone calls him Boassuet.” This one was sandy-haired. “I’m Feuilly and they’re Joly and Bahorel.” Each one waved when their name was stated.

“Want some dinner, Enj?” Grantaire asked. He walked further into the house after toeing off his shoes and noted that Enjolras kept his on.

“Sure, thanks. I’m going to put my bag in my room.” Enjolras pointed his thumb in the direction of his room and R nodded.

“Hey, how come you’re just now moving in with Ferre and Courf?” Bossuet asked.

“I, uh-” Enjolras went white.

“Just time to move on from home, ya know?” R called from the kitchen. “Sometimes parents are just too damn suffocating and it’s time to go.”

Honest, vague, and to the point. Enjolras could live with that explanation.

“You’re gay too, huh?” Feuilly asked with a smirk.

“H-How did you…?”

“With that posture?” Feuilly chuckled. “After being outta the closet for a while, you develop something called a ‘gay-dar’. Hella useful when trying to find a boyfriend.” Feuilly dropped his voice so it was hushed but not quite a whisper. “R’s single, ya know.”

Grantaire poked his head into the kitchen. “And Fee’s looking to get his ass kicked.”

“Given how flexible you are, R?” Joly joked. “I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Am I missing something?”

“Just their jealousy of not being able to dance or do back flips.” Grantaire dismissed. “I can literally dance circles around these fools. Remember how earlier Ferre mentioned that my parents are fucked up too? Well, my mom made me take dance and gymnastics. My father didn’t want his son being so ‘girlie’ so he signed me up for boxing and fencing classes.”

“Bet he regretted the boxing classes later, though.” Bossuet laughed.

“What?”

“That’s a story for another time,” R’s usual carefree demeanor slipped.

*****

When Combeferre came home around midnight, Enjolras and Courfeyrac were seated on the couch beside each other playing a video game. Courfeyrac had his feet up on the coffee table and Enjolras had his back against the arm rest, his legs stretched over Courf so his knees were in other’s lap.

“Looks like you two are having fun.” Ferre laughed as he closed the door and hung his keys on the hook.

“Were you the guy that put a ten dollar bill in the tips jar?” Enjolras asked. His voice wasn’t accusing, but rather amused.

“You don’t know that,” he scoffed. “The guys have gone already?”

“Joly and Bossuet had a date with someone from the Musain.”

“Musichetta?” Enjolras laughed. “She wouldn’t stop going on and on about these cute college boys she was seeing.”

“You’re okay with them being poly?” Ferre smirked.

“Are you kidding me? It’s awesome. You never see anything like that in high school. I just- it’s so odd. I don’t actually know them yet, but they’re fun and seem cool.” Enjolras didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he spoke.

“Well, I’m gonna get something to eat quick and then I’m going to bed. Did you eat, Enj?”

“Yeah, Grantaire made spaghetti for everyone.”

“It was actually pretty good. It wasn’t just half cooked noodles and tomato paste.” Courf started pausing the game.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night, too, Enj.”

“Alright. Is it cool if I read for a bit?” Enj picked at a hangnail on his forefinger.

“First of all, it’s summer.” Ferre placed his hand over Enjolras’s to stop from picking at the dead skin. “Second of all, you’re responsible enough- I know from working on projects with you- that you can set a schedule for yourself.”

“I’m going to read for a bit, then.” Enj nodded.

“Enjoy your book.” Ferre kissed his forehead and Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “Good night, Enjy.”

“‘Night, Enj.” Courf ruffled the blond’s hair as he passed.

*****

Half an hour after Ferre and Courf went to bed, there was a rattling at the back door for a few moments before Grantaire stumbled through after having caught his foot on the threshold.

“Wanna get some soda and go for a drive?” he asked.

“Are you drunk?”

“What? No. I tripped. Grab a jacket; let’s go.”

#read your imagines #snafu and freddie's imagine shoppe #les mis fanfic #modern les amis #enjolras #grantaire #combeferre #courfeyrac #enjoltaire #combeyrac

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floraexplorer · 4 years

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Discover A World of Stories at Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival

It was a chilly autumn morning in Edinburgh, and I was late for the Storytelling Festival.

I wove my way past groups of tourists along the Royal Mile until I reached a slightly crooked corner building – painted white on one side, bare brick on the other. I rushed up the stairs of the Scottish Storytelling Centre and suddenly stood inside a warm cafe, where my glasses steamed up immediately.

I looked around and spotted a white-haired man with eagles outlined on his shirt: Robert Seven Crows Bourdon, the man I was supposed to meet. Robert, a singer, songwriter and professional storyteller hailing from Quebec, was my first introduction to the reason for me being in Edinburgh.

We were both there for the Scottish International Storytelling Festival – otherwise known as the best festival I’ve never heard of.

Wait – there’s a Storytelling Centre in Edinburgh?

You’d be forgiven for not noticing the Scottish Storytelling Centre at first glance – it blends seamlessly into the other historical buildings along the Royal Mile. But for me (and for any other story-obsessed folk), this place is a dream location.

The Scottish Storytelling Centre is an arts venue designed specifically to preserve and celebrate live oral storytelling. It’s the first place in the world to do this – and probably just one of a handful of similar centres worldwide.

Throughout the year, the centre holds numerous events – everything from spoken word performances and open mic nights to workshops and exhibitions – but each October it becomes an international hub as storytellers from all over the world flock to the Scottish International Storytelling Festival.

So what is the Scottish International Storytelling Festival?

The Scottish International Storytelling Festival began in 1989 with the intention of bringing storytellers together to share oral histories and traditions. It’s been running for the last three decades, and celebrated its 31st iteration this year.

More than sixty events take place over the twelve day festival, and although the majority are held at the Storytelling Centre, there’s also associated talks and exhibitions scattered throughout Edinburgh too.

The theme of this year’s 2019 festival was ‘Beyond Words’, which showcased how music, dance and song all share their own stories. It also focused specifically on storytellers from First Nation Canada: something of a coincidence, seeing as I’d just spent a fortnight in Atlantic Canada with First Nation Mi’kmaq people learning about their traditions.

It also meant I was fascinated to know more about how Robert’s First Nation ancestry influences his storytelling.

Read more: a fortnight spent exploring Atlantic Canada

“Storytelling performances are a big trend now,” Robert told me. He said that oral storytelling is becoming more like theatre, where the focus is on the ‘show’ instead of the rapport between speaker and listener.

At a festival, everyone’s sitting and waiting with bated breath, but the tradition he comes from treats storytelling as something effortless. Nobody has stage fright; nobody’s afraid to disappoint.

“In our world there’s dogs running around, there’s kids jumping over you, the elders are talking…It’s not a performance. I invite you into my world — but I’m not saying you must listen to me. The storyteller’s job is not to be listened to. His job is to tell.”

Over the next hour, we talked about the other storytelling festivals he’s performed at (and there are many – Robert’s been telling stories professionally for twenty years). I’ve been to a few literary festivals – the most memorable being Hay Book Festival in Wales and Gibraltar’s annual Literary Festival – but Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival is the first I’ve heard of which explores the relationship between a storyteller and their audience.

Before I’d even attended a performance, Robert’s words were making me understand just how significant this festival was.

Read more: Sailing to the Arctic in pursuit of storytelling

Exploring Edinburgh’s literary side

The skies were still bright blue outside on the Royal Mile. I had a few hours before attending my first performance of the storytelling festival, so I decided to visit a few of the more famous literary landmarks in the city.

Edinburgh’s fame as a literary destination is unparalleled. It was deemed the world’s first UNESCO City of Literature in 2004; it holds the largest literary festival in the world; and it’s regarded by millions as the modern-day home of schoolboy magic, thanks to J.K. Rowling’s regular writing sessions in an Edinburgh cafe.

It feels like you can’t take more than a few steps through Edinburgh without passing a second-hand bookshop, a location featured in a novel, or posters like these plastered all over the bricks.

My self-guided literary tour of Edinburgh began at The Writers Museum where three of Scotland’s most famous writers are celebrated: Robert Burns, Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Once I’d climbed up a winding red staircase in a narrow tower at Makar’s Court, I found glass cabinets filled with their childhood toys, dusty clothes, tobacco pipes, chess sets and locks of their hair.

At the National Library of Scotland, I wandered through an exhibit on how Scottish people have changed the world – and then spent ages in front of a glass cabinet filled with paper sculptures from old books.

These stunning artworks mysteriously appeared one night in 2011, left by an anonymous female sculptor in various cultural locations around Edinburgh. More sculptures were revealed over the next five years – but although the project has now come to a close, the artist’s identity still remains a secret.

I even made a quick stop at Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, the namesake of which served as the inspiration for ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde‘.

A furniture maker and city councillor by day but a thief by night, the errant Deacon Brodie swung from the gallows in 1788. Some of his furniture made its way to a young Robert Louis Stevenson’s family: the burgeoning author became fascinated with Brodie’s double life, eventually incorporating the character into one of his most well-known novels.

By the time the sun had set, it was time to venture back to the Storytelling Centre for my first festival performance.

Inside the Scottish Storytelling Centre

A crowd of excited attendees were already milling around the Storytelling Court when I stepped inside. I headed for the ‘interactive storytelling wall’ – a long row of cabinet doors containing tiny, perfect models of famous stories, legends and folk tales.

After opening a few, I found a scene depicting Flora MacDonald helping Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to the Isle of Skye. She’s one of the famous Floras I was named after, and I couldn’t help but smile!

Just then the theatre doors were opened so I headed downstairs to the Netherbow Theatre, a small auditorium with just 99 seats, to watch as the Dancers of Damelahamid appeared onstage.

An Indigenous dance company from the northwest coast of British Columbia, they draw inspiration from their origin stories and use masks to retell traditional narratives of their ancestors. I had no idea what to expect, but from the moment their performance began I was utterly enthralled.

Their movements were quiet. Almost silent. Clean and precise, their feet tapping as they stepped back and forth to a drum beat. They uttered no words and were fully absorbed in their dance; becoming birds with beaks, then shaking wooden rain sticks and gripping animal hooves in their hands. Then suddenly:

“IT’S A SHARK!!”

A young child’s gleeful voice rang out from behind me. I felt the audience twitch and stiffen: my immediate reaction was one of annoyance, and I began mentally preparing for the constant threat of disturbance.

But that’s when Robert’s words came back to me: “Storytelling isn’t supposed to be silent or one-sided!” For him, any moment of storytelling will involve possible noise and outside activity and distraction.

And in that moment, I realised I’d been looking at this festival all wrong.

So often I think about storytelling as being something static – something to be read either on the page or a device’s screen. But in fact it’s so important to remember the live aspect of storytelling. The relationship between an oral storyteller and their audience has such power because it’s so subject to changes in timing, volume, even the dynamic between the people involved.

But everything – even a child’s excitable reactions – are simply part of the overall experience.

A spooky storytelling marathon for Halloween

The next day was the last of the storytelling festival, which also coincided with Halloween. I spent the majority of my day at the centre where a steady stream of impromptu storytellers stood (or sat) to share their words.

Just like Robert had said, the beauty of this event was in the interactive aspect. I watched a dozen different people take centre stage: a girl from Poland, an elderly Irish man, a Belgian woman, a guy in a full Scottish kilt outfit, all of whom told spooky stories.

Every time I thought of leaving, a new character appeared on stage and I couldn’t go – particularly when a group of older Scottish gentlemen arrived. They clearly spend a lot of time at the centre: there was an easy camaraderie between them borne of years in each others company, and their enjoyment of each others’ stories was infectious.

Celebrating a different kind of story at Samhuinn Fire Festival

Later that night, I wrapped myself in all the clothes I’d brought with me and trudged up Calton Hill to a side of Edinburgh which seemed lifted from the pages of a folk tale.

That’s because Halloween is celebrated differently in Scotland. October 31st is the night of Samhuinn, an ancient pagan festival which welcomes the thinning of the veil between two worlds. And each year, the Beltane Fire Society hold a festival to celebrate Samhuinn tradition with immersive performance, drumming, acrobatics and fire.

Read more: celebrating Samhuinn Fire Festival in Edinburgh

The value of storytelling

As I stood amongst the crowds and watched a grinning group of costumed characters dance and spin their way across the hilltop, I thought about how many ways there truly are to tell a story. It doesn’t prescribe to any one medium: it can be dancing or singing, drumming or speaking, full of sound or completely silent.

It’s about the rhythms they choose to use: cadence, words, the lilt of their voice. It’s about the place they decide to perform: sitting amongst their audience or standing on a stage or weaving their way through a small, tight crowd.

There is always a place for stories, and for storytellers – and in Edinburgh there’s a literal building for it. I’d never heard of Edinburgh’s Storytelling Centre before this visit, but I’m so thankful I know about its existence now. Creating a real, physical space for storytellers to gather together – not to mention hosting a festival which celebrating those gatherings, and opens them up for others – is something pretty special in my book.

Pin this article if you enjoyed it!

NB: This trip was in paid partnership with Edinburgh Festivals, who kindly invited me to the Scottish International Storytelling Festival so I could wax lyrical about stories for a weekend.

The post Discover A World of Stories at Edinburgh’s Storytelling Festival appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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tarmacadamsurfacingcontractors · 7 years

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Ms Smith Goes to Westminster

Eleanor Smith was just 10 years old when Enoch Powell made his infamous Rivers of Blood speech, in her hometown of Birmingham in 1968. But she was old enough to be aware of the frightening repercussions of that speech on her parents’ West Indian community.

“I can remember my mum and dad saying, ‘I can’t believe this man. He came to the West Indies asking us to move to Britain and do their jobs – and now he’s asking us to get out.’ When an MP could come out with that, in public, it was a scare, a wake-up call. My parents were asking, ‘Was it the right decision to come? Should we go back home?’

“Some people were actually scared to come out of their houses, because of the National Front,” she adds. “But at the same time we were defiant. We wouldn’t back down.”

Her use of ‘we’ in that sentence is telling, for the 10-year-old would grow up to become someone willing to fight battles with and for others, first as a long-standing UNISON activist – peaking when she became the union’s first black female president – and now as a newly-elected member of parliament.

And in a wonderfully fitting turn-up for the books, the former nurse’s constituency as MP, Wolverhampton South West, is the very seat occupied by Enoch Powell. And in winning it, she’s become the first black MP in the West Midlands.

“I hadn’t realised how significant it was until I actually won,” she admits. “I didn’t know it was his seat, in the first place. No idea. Then when I found out, I played it down. A former MP here, [Conservative] Paul Uppal, is a Sikh, so his was an important achievement.

“But people said no, it’s significant because Powell’s speech was particularly about West Indians. And my winning this seat shows that we have moved on. You have to look forward and say, ‘That was then, this is now’.

We can all work together to find the solution for the different problems. And I’d like to be the glue

She praises the diversity of her constituency today, which includes Kurdish, Poles, Eastern Europeans, Indians, Pakistanis – both Muslims and Sikhs – and native Britons.

“They all have their faith. And that hasn’t split them, it’s brought them together. It’s what I like about this community, they support each other. For example, after those horrible events in Manchester all the different faiths got together to support the Muslims here, who were feeling very vulnerable.

“We have our issues, but they affect everyone across the community. What I’ve said is that we can all work together to find the solution for the different problems. And I’d like to be the glue.”

Appropriately, U meets Ms Smith in her new constituency office, a large, handsome detached building, which is still in the midst of a major paint job – the MP sidestepping the painters in her heels while giving an enthusiastic tour.

She chose the building because of its location – on a busy street, close to the city centre, in an area that includes homes, offices and student residences.

‘Accessibility’ is her byword. “I want people to see me.” She’s moved home from Birmingham to Wolverhampton. And as well as meeting constituents in the office, she’s struck up an agreement with a nearby Sainsbury’s for her to hold a surgery in the supermarket cafe, where mothers in particular may find it easier to see her, while shopping with their kids.

She seems to love talking to the public. “You start by talking about everyday things – giving your daughters swimming lessons, the rubbish that’s on YouTube for kids, having trouble reading small print without your specs. You get paid for the month, but after three weeks there’s no more money.

“Sometimes you have been through the same thing, and that’s where you can connect. People don’t want to be patronised, but to feel that you’ve been there too. And then you can see them relax and you take it from there.

“It’s the same as when you’re a union rep,” she adds. And then she laughs. “I’ve always felt that I have the Oprah effect.”

First and foremost she wants to be a good constituency MP. “I want to make a difference for the people I represent. My aim is to put Wolverhampton and my constituency on the map.”

So she’s pleased as punch about one local success story that she’s already had a hand in, that of Brian White, a Zimbabwean-born orphan who was adopted by a British couple, moved to Wolverhampton at 15 and won at place a place at Oxford University – only to face losing it when threatened with deportation.

“I was made aware of Brian’s case through parents from his school. I went to the school, was introduced to him, and helped with the campaign on his behalf. I took it up with the Home Office, and got him to do an online petition which went viral.

“And this morning we got the news that he can stay here, and go to Oxford. I felt so proud. I’ve asked him to formally open my constituency office.”

On a larger scale, homelessness and youth unemployment are the “burning passions” that she wants to tackle in Wolverhampton. While in Westminster the nurse of some 40 years expects to be fighting many a battle on behalf of the NHS.

For me to make any kind of difference, particularly for the NHS, becoming an MP felt like the only way

Ms Smith was one of the record 208 women elected in June. Within days of her landmark victory she was entering Westminster as an MP.

“It was so surreal at first. As I was walking through the building somebody said, ‘These are the corridors of power’. And I thought, ‘Oh my gosh. I’m in this position now.’”

She gets very excited when relating the Commons traditions, including her favourite – the prayer card. Backbench members can guarantee a particular seat by placing a card with their name behind it, which also commits them to attending prayers in the chamber – whatever their faith – before the day’s business begins.

“As a Christian I like the idea of going to prayers first, anyway.” And what seat did she bag? She smiles. “There were three of us, who just wanted to be near the front, in the thick of the action. Then when everyone came in we realised we were just behind Jeremy.”

While her two grown-up daughters (a nurse and an events coordinator) took a while to get their heads around their mother’s new role, her six-year-old granddaughter is taking it in her stride. “Tia has told everyone that ‘Nan’s an MP’. I took her to Westminster last week. She kept her security pass, of course, but then lost it, so she drew another one with a picture of herself and the words Tiana Smith, MP. She’s creative like that.”

After her own parents moved to Birmingham from Barbados, her mother worked as a caterer in a children’s home, her father as a paint sprayer in a small garage. She believes that it was all those years ago, at the family’s kitchen table in Birmingham, that she developed her social consciousness.

“We had politics in our house all the time. That’s why I’m Labour – you couldn’t vote any other way. My parents were Pentecostal Christians, and the values they had, about helping and supporting other people, were very much Labour’s.

“And we’d talk about what was going on in the world – what was happening with race relations in America, in South Africa, and comparing those places with the UK.”

She cites her mother, a member of NUPE back then, who’s since passed away, as her biggest inspiration. “She was resilient. She had seven kids, and brought us up all to be independent. She told us that as a black person – woman or man – you’re going to have to up your game, and work harder than your white counterparts. And she used to tell us, ‘Don’t be jealous of anybody.”

It was through conversations with her mother that she decided to become a nurse. Though she worked in intensive care and A&E, it was as a theatre nurse for 30 years “where I found my passion”. She’d love to keep her hand in, “but realistically, I don’t think I can’.

She joined NUPE during a pay and grading dispute at work, which was affecting her as she returned from maternity leave. After her successful appeal, she trained to become a steward so that she could represent her colleagues who were still being affected.

Over the years, and as NUPE became part of UNISON, she moved through the ranks, from branch secretary, to the region, to the National Executive Committee and, in 2012, president.

And it was the union presidency that inspired her to run for government. “It felt like the right thing to do, to take my career to the next level. For me to make any kind of difference, particularly for the NHS, becoming an MP felt like the only way.”

She’s off to a flying start, with shadow home secretary Diane Abbott asking her to become her parliamentary private secretary, which will give her an immediate proximity to and experience of the shadow cabinet.

Considering her breakthroughs as a black woman, both at UNISON and in Wolverhampton, does she regard herself as ground-breaking?

“No, I don’t actually. And you know what, it should have happened a long time ago, particularly with the parliamentary seat. Why has it taken this long in the West Midlands? But anyway, it’s done now, and hopefully there will be others to follow, and others to think that they can do it.

“If I’m a role model, I want it to be for ordinary people, not black people. I want everybody from a working class background to feel that they can achieve what they want.”

This article first appeared in the Autumn 2017 edition of U Magazine.

The article Ms Smith Goes to Westminster first appeared on the UNISON National site.

from UNISON National https://www.unison.org.uk/news/magazine/2017/11/ms-smith-goes-westminster/ via IFTTT

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