Last week was a bittersweet moment for many black people in the UK. The racist demonstrations (not anti-BLM or ‘patriot’ protests, let’s call them what they are) exposed the undeniable, Nazi saluting, beer slurping truth for all to see. Britain has a problem with racism.
Not a tiny one either, thousands of racist ‘football fans’ – an oxymoron if ever there was one, as 33% of premier league football players are from Global Majority backgrounds – spilled onto the streets of London. Twitter feeds were awash with videos chronicling their football-like chants of ‘We’re racist, we’re racist and that’s how we like it’. It was enough to make your stomach turn. Yet, it was there, undeniable, for all to see. The arrest numbers for a single day of racist protests in London dwarfed those of the fortnight of UK wide BLM protests that preceeded them.
Images of violence, racist gestures and downright disrespectful acts filled front pages and news bulletins. The picture of a drunken lout relieving himself on a monument dedicated to hero PC Keith Palmer was particularly hard to forget. These thugs had even less regard for their own personal safety, with few wearing the masks or gloves that had been omnipresent during the BLM protests.
So, imagine my surprised when I saw timelines and comments sections devoid of any response from white people to the unfolding events. Gone was the outrage and indignation of the weeks that preceded the racist protests. Likewise, I could not find the same level of concern about these thugs risking a ‘second wave’ of coronavirus, as there had been for BLM protesters. There was a deafening silence on my newsfeed, more pronounced given many of my white friend’s vocal, widespread condemnation of the BLM protests. As well as their outright denial that racism existed in the UK in the first place. It appeared that people preferred to bury their heads in the sand and deny the overwhelming evidence of racism on home soil.
Maddeningly, newspapers remained laser focused on debates concerning the removal of statues, and stories highlighting MPs who had, or hadn’t, taken the knee. While, many local councils pledged to review road names with possible slavery links. Streaming platforms took it upon themselves to remove movie classic Gone with The Wind and racially insensitive TV show’s such as Little Britain. Furthermore. Rugby Union bosses considered imposing a ban on the song Swing Low, Sweet Chariot due to its links to slavery – this song is said to have links to the freeing of enslaved Africans through underground railroads. Commendable as these gestures are, they are not the changes that most black people want or need.
While, it is vital that people understand Britain’s history and how past actions have impacted the current lived experiences of black people; BLM conversations should remain firmly focussed on the unequal structures, policies and practices in our society. Such as, the government inactions that allow black people to continue to go unshielded from a virus which is 4 times more likely to kill them. Their failure to protect the residents of Grenfell Tower and their actions to deport black people who worked to rebuild this country after the war. While they’re at it, there’s also the small matter of the systemically racist policing practices that allow police officers to racially discriminate and kill black people, seemingly at will.
The conversations around racism in the UK have been diluted and hijacked into never-ending arguments about racist symbolism, which is doing little to help the black community. The cynic in me wonders if this is an intentional strategy for derailing the BLM movement. This matter has been further complicated by the heroic actions of Patrick Hutchinson and Marcus Rashford. Their actions have been seized, by mainstream media, as an opportunity to not only celebrate black excellence, but attempt to brush all of those pesky BLM protests under the carpet by exemplifying how black people should behave. While it’s undeniable that these acts are admirable and worthy of praise, this country still has some serious racial inequalities that must be addressed.
The fact that there has been little meaningful conversation about the significance of the occupation of the man rescued by Hutchinson, is a testament to this. Millwall fan and alleged ‘patriot’ statue defender Bryan Male, was a former detective who worked on the burglary and mugging team for the Metropolitan Transport Police. Ironically, his boss Sir Paul Condon (the Met commissioner at the time) held the view that “Very many of the perpetrators of muggings are very young black people”.
In the UK, we aren’t quite as vocal as our American cousins. Yet, people here possess a unique talent for saying very little, while sending quite clear messages. Consider, for example, Boris Johnson’s decision to appoint Munira Mirza to lead the UK’s race inequality commission. Mirza is a woman of colour who has previously stated that institutional racism “does not exist”. Likewise, Dominic Raab’s refusal to take the knee and his belief that this gesture is culturally rooted in Game of Thrones – as opposed to a historic civil rights movement – betrays an astounding level of ignorance for the UK Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs.
Most black people don’t want you to kneel Mr Raab, we want a cabinet willing to show an ounce of empathy. We want leaders who are determined to root out the white terrorists who are banging on the front door of this country, without challenge or objection. We want people to open their eyes and see the structural injustices which we experience every day of our lives. Above all, we want people to do something to change the systems and practices that make life, for black people in the UK, a daily struggle.
The BLM movement is being deraiiled by trivialisations and symbolic platitudes. Most black people are less concerned about statues, street names, TV shows and songs, than the systems of oppression and marginalisation which we experience every day of our lives.
Who do you believe, me or your lying eyes? A well-rehearsed story, repeated by enough voices, can make even the worst sins disappear. Consider Donald Trump, a man with more than 30 felony convictions and one who was found liable for sexual abuse in a civil trial – conduct a judge said ‘fits the common definition of rape’. The narrative shielding him was that of a political outsider, a champion of working-class (white) Americans, a man who would end corruption and (sigh) Make America Great Again. Millions of Americans bought into this story not once but twice, helping him secure the presidency, despite his convictions and legal defeats unfolding after his first term in office. The story of men rising to positions of power and status, despite allegations of sexual misconduct, is not a new one and it’s not exclusive to the right.
A reluctance to respond to allegations plays into a right-wing narrative that the left ‘refuses to act’ on Violence Against Women and Girls (VWAG), especially when the perpetrator is a person of colour. This is the narrative currently being pushed by right-wing commentators regarding Laurence Westgaph, a high-profile local historian who was able to work in arts, cultural, and activist spaces across Liverpool despite mounting allegations (published in The Post) that he posed a serious risk to women. National Museums Liverpool (NML) is under scrutiny after Liverpool Post newspaper revealed that they worked with him for four years (from 2020 to 2024) despite knowing he had a conviction for the statutory rape of a 15-year-old in 2000 and a 2009 conviction for GBH and in the face of fresh allegations of sexual misconduct from other women. This article has sent shockwaves across the city, with many questioning how one of the biggest cultural institutions in the country failed to act.
A judge’s acknowledgement that a 15-year-old whom Westgaph met in a nightclub ‘gave every impression’ of being older, combined with his lenient community sentence, fueled the narrative that he had been mistreated. The antiquated 1956 Sexual Offences Act, which Westgaph was tried under, offered no legal defence for statutory rape for men over 24 who were not married to a girl under 16. The ‘reasonable belief’ defence – where a defendant can avoid conviction if they can prove that they reasonably believed the child was 16 or older – was only introduced under Section 9 of the 2003 Sexual Offences Act years after Westgaph’s conviction. This legislative shift created a window for Westgaph and his supporters to argue that, had he been tried under later laws, he might never have been convicted. In 2020 when the news broke of his appointment as NML’s historian-in-residence and Twitter exploded with rumours, this distinction was central to the narrative about whether he should continue in the role.
I was new to the activist scene at this time. It was during my second year of university, when George Floyd was murdered, that I founded a collective for anti-racists across Merseyside in response. It hadn’t started smoothly, and I made mistakes while trying to engage with the L8 community. Often regarded as the heart of Black Liverpool, L8 was where the oldest Black community in Europe settled following the abolition of slavery. For more than ten generations, the people who lived there had faced marginalisation, oppression, racist riots, and police brutality. The small, tight-knit community, which had historically led the 1981 uprisings, or ‘Toxteht Riots’, was, understandably wary of outsiders.
Although I was born in L8 and had lived there briefly, I wasn’t considered ‘from’ L8 because I had grown up in Knowsley. Despite being Black, I was treated as an outsider and regarded with suspicion by many – something I hadn’t responded well to initially. However, I was determined to earn people’s trust and began engaging closely with elders and key voices in the community. Laurence Westgaph had been flagged to me as someone I must work with if I wanted any success advocating for Black lives in Merseyside. He wasn’t just a historian but a key figure in the L8 community, well-respected and well-connected. I first met him in the summer of 2020 when I attended one of his walking slavery history tours to interview him for our social media platform. While it was clear he knew his Black history, two things struck me about him that I hadn’t expected. The first was the surprising fact that his tours were attended primarily by older white people. He was a well-styled man in his early 40s and I had expected his tours to appeal to a younger, more diverse audience. The second was just how guarded he was. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but he regarded me with the same cautious air I had encountered when I was a police officer, off duty, and told people what I did for a living. I don’t think I’m merely projecting backwards when I say that Westgaph felt to me like he was a man with something to hide.
When revelations about Laurence Westgaph’s historical statutory rape conviction resurfaced in August 2020, they were vehemently rebuked by many Black leaders and community elders. Some believed that revisiting a nearly 20-year-old case – one they regarded as a miscarriage of justice – was nothing more than an attempt by the far right to derail the biggest civil rights movement the country had seen. It was difficult to argue against this when many of the accounts criticising Westgaph appeared to be linked to the far-right, and a decorated community leader, was in the same comment threads, dismissing the accusations as a smear campaign against a Black man. Surely, a woman as high profile as this would not risk her many accolades and career to defend this man if he wasn’t innocent? Surely the most high-profile arts, media and cultural organisations in the city would not risk their reputations on this man if he were dangerous? These were some of my thoughts, as those I looked to for guidance deftly stuck with their guy.
It was difficult for me to have objectivity here, I am someone who has been groomed, abused, stalked and raped, all before the age of 17, by men considerably older than me, while I was in local authority care. I have historically held a rigid black-and-white view of offences such as statutory rape but it was my time as a police officer that revealed the grey areas. I’d come across plenty of young men who had turned 16 a few months before their girlfriends, facing a conviction because their girlfriend’s father had found out they had sex; as well as those post-nightclub one-night stands with someone who had lied about their age. I knew that cases such as these were not always the same as the grown men who knowingly groomed vulnerable teenagers into sexual relationships, like those I had encountered in my youth. Nevertheless, Laurence Westgaph being in a museum, a space usually half full of children, was something that did not sit right with me and I phoned the museum to raise my concerns. While the exasperated customer service agent at the end of the line was not able to answer my queries about Wesgaph’s DBS clearance, he did log my concerns.
I quickly realised that my actions were out of step with the wider activist scene, where many were standing firmly behind Westgaph. This caused me to reflect on my perspective. Being chosen to lead a civil rights struggle by your community is not just a great honour, it is a vote of confidence in one’s ability to withstand scrutiny. Historically, civil rights leaders were not always the first to take a stand, but rather those the community deemed best suited to represent the cause. Their selection was not based solely on the significance of their actions but also on how they would be perceived by the wider public. Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus in 1955 became an iconic moment in the fight against segregation. But she was not the first to do so. Nine months earlier, 15-year-old Claudette Colvin had also refused to give up her seat, yet she did not receive the same support from movement leaders. Colvin, a dark-skinned teenager, who became pregnant out of wedlock shortly after her protest, believed that civil rights leaders feared her circumstances would be weaponised by opponents to discredit the movement. Instead, they chose Parks, a light-skinned, older, well-respected woman, with a background as a seamstress and NAACP secretary. Parks was the more palatable figure for the public and media. Similarly, Martin Luther King Jr. was not the first to call for justice, but his ability to inspire – combined with his perceived respectability – was part of the reason he was chosen to lead the Montgomery bus boycott. This process of selection, shaped not just by a person’s knowledge or actions, but by how their personal lives could be used for or against the cause, has been crucial to the success of civil rights movements. Ignoring this reality comes at the peril of our movements.
It’s unclear whether it was an unwillingness to look closer or a genuinely held belief that Westgaph was a wronged man, but the arts, culture, and activist scene moved on from the scandal fairly quickly. Westgaph was embraced by museums and featured front and centre in many of their social media campaigns. He continued to build his media presence, appearing on documentaries, Black History campaigns by football clubs and local radio. He worked with local theatres and remained a key member of community groups such as the Liverpool Black History Group and Mandela 8. For the next year, as I rebuilt my relationship with L8, it became clear that as an activist with a far smaller profile, I would have to put my feelings and personal traumas aside and campaign in a space dominated by a man who was not only linked to some of the most prominent organisations in the city but also most of its Black leaders. Yet, as my relationship with L8 slowly improved, I spent more time in the community speaking with people from the area who shared stories about Laurence Westgaph.
“Mistakes are a fact of life. It is the response to the error that counts.”
Nikki Giovanni’s words come to mind when thinking about the correct response to new information. This idea feels particularly relevant in the wake of Trump’s first few weeks in office, as many Americans express buyer’s remorse following his absurd plan for the U.S. to ‘take over’ Gaza and the reality that they are unlikely to be better off under the leadership of an elite serving billionaire and his friends. This has sparked a broader debate about society’s ability to forgive those who got it wrong – not something the left excels at when the consequences are this dire, but something we must get better at if we are to prevent a stubborn digging in of heels by those unwilling to admit they made a mistake, and if we are to win back those reeled in by those with hidden agendas.
It had been over a year since I first raised concerns about Westgaph when alarm bells started ringing again. This prompted me to revisit old reports about his convictions. While he conceivably might not have known the girl in his statutory rape conviction was under 16, reports on his 2009 GBH conviction told a very different story. These reports captured the voices of his ex-partner, Natalie Inge, and Ben Blance – the man Westgaph had kicked down a door to attack. Their accounts contradicted the narrative that Westgaph had merely stumbled upon his best friend in bed with his partner. Instead, they described a jealous ex who had twice been reported to the police by Inge, in the second instance forcing his way into her home before punching Blance several times and fracturing his eye socket.
By this time, I was campaigning under the more formalised structure of a recently constituted group. One of the first decisions I put forward to the group was the need to draw a clear boundary: We would not work with Westgaph or share space with him. The support of my peers gave me the confidence to speak up in other spaces, too. I began refusing to be on a platform with Laurence and sharing what I knew about his convictions. I was also freelancing with an anti-racist educational organisation that was eager to develop a working relationship with the museum. I wasn’t sure how they would respond to my stance on platforming Westgaph, but they were very supportive, which allowed me to try to tactfully disengage.
Unfortunately for me, Liverpool is a small city, and word seemed to have reached Westgaph’s camp that I was trying to raise the alarm. I soon found myself the target of social media attacks from some of his most ardent supporters, prominent Black Women who used their considerable platforms to reprimand me for not including Wesgaph in my work. At this time, I noticed that I was receiving fewer invitations to art and cultural events in the city. I had already blocked Westgaph on social media, so I was disconcerted when he attempted to gain access to a sold-out online talk I was giving in October 2021. I set a firm boundary with the organisers that I did not want him there. When I later learned that he was still trying to access the digital event, just hours before it started, I tried not to let it shake me. Until this point, I had enjoyed a good working relationship with the museum, but I noticed a change here too. After a hugely successful International Women’s Day event, they cancelled plans for a second event (one focused on Black women) altogether. It’s impossible to say with certainty whether these decisions were directly related to my stance on Westgaph. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered if this was the case.
After this, it felt safer to step back from L8 community spaces and focus on my wider work across Merseyside. I enjoyed working on education campaigns and community projects around the county, alongside national and international civil rights work as my profile grew. Occasionally, people from L8s’ Black community would reach out with allegations of Westgaph’s violence, intimidation or worrying behavior towards women – It was now an open secret that I wouldn’t tolerate him – but, as someone with no formal role in the city, all I could do was offer them my belief and solidarity.
It wasn’t until the summer of 2022, when Westgaph was alleged to have spat on and verbally assaulted writer and mental health advocate Faris Khalifa at Africa Oye (as detailed in The Post’s investigation) that I took further action. Faris called me to raise his concerns after the alleged attack, and my priority was supporting him during a police investigation into the incident. So I removed Westgaph from a small Facebook group of campaigners I adminned, as the group included them both. This didn’t feel like a particularly significant action, but soon afterwards, I found myself on the receiving end of several angry phone calls from women I respected. One woman went as far as to tell me: “I won’t let you try to ruin a good man”. I was forced to leave a Black wellbeing group because a woman who said she did not want to share space with me was using the group to discredit the allegations against Westgaph.
A few days later, while attending an activist event in the city centre, I tried to resolve the matter and was verbally attacked by the same woman, who made allegations about the mental health of those speaking out against Westgaph. She was so angry she had to be dragged away by her partner. This moment made me reflect on a police briefing I had attended about sexual harassment in the workplace. Specifically, how perpetrators of abuse recruit and manipulate women in positions of authority to defend them against allegations. It appeared that Westgaph was surrounded by well-respected women who were ready to protect him from any accusation that came his way, meaning he had to do very little to defend himself.
This encounter prompted me to call Janet Dugdale, the director of NML at the time.
It felt like a repeat of my 2020 call to the museum, but this time, I was speaking to someone with the authority to act, and there were fresh concerns I needed to raise. Dugdale justified Westgaph’s appointment by saying his conviction was ‘spent’- a term used to describe a conviction that can be disregarded for disclosure after a certain number of years. However, there is an exception: employers can ask for details of convictions if someone is working with vulnerable people. I was shocked to read the museum’s statement in The Times, which suggested that Westgaph had a clean DBS check. Spent convictions aside, a sexual offence should always appear on an enhanced DBS. The conversation with Dugdale did not fill me with confidence, but I left her with something to think about. I pointed out that I had acted on the new information I had received and that it was important that the museum did the same.
That day has come and with it allegations that few but the museum’s leadership will have known about. While Dugdale’s rebuke was predictable, and I’m familiar with Westgaph’s disconcerting behaviour – More recently, Wesgaph turned up at a Black History Month Event I was speaking at, a ticketed event with just me listed as a speaker, but he chose to come along and sit nonchalantly at the front as I tried not to let his presence unsettle me – I was not expecting the silence that has followed the Post’s report. Those who continue to close ranks around Westgaph know that the allegations against him will be used as a cudgel by the far-right, misleading the public to believe that crimes against women and children are only committed by melanated members of society (despite statistics showing that crimes such as group-related child sex offences are more likely to be committed by white people). So it’s understandable why many people from diverse communities might choose to respond to safeguarding risks privately. Black men have long been brutalised and disproportionately killed at the hands of the police, and Black women experiencing domestic abuse often refuse to engage with the authorities for this reason. To do so can feel like a betrayal — one that could risk a Black man’s life. Paradoxically, several Black men known for decrying police brutality are now refusing to engage in a dialogue about the allegations against Westgaph until they hear the outcomes of a full police investigation.
Civil rights movements have never waited for the police or the criminal justice system to legitimise an injustice, believing that the only way to expose such wrongs is to amplify the voices of oppressed people. The sceptic in me wonders if deferring to an institutionally misogynistic organisation — one that contributes to a rape conviction rate that currently sits at just 2% — is merely a way of ignoring those who speak out. Shying away from a broader community discussion about these allegations would mean missing an opportunity to demonstrate a proactive response to the women and girls in our community, at a time when many are asking what men are doing to keep women safe. Merseyside, and specifically Knowsley, where I live, was recently named as the constituency with the highest rate of femicides in the United Kingdom.
Ignoring The Post’s investigation might seem like the safest option for those who have known or defended Westgaph in the past. But this is a crucial moment to reflect. It is only through reflection that we can recognise the warning signs and the webs of influence that might mislead us. And it is only through brutal honesty that we can admit we might have been wrong about Laurence Westgaph. Laurence Westgaph’s response to allegations made in The Post: “I have been presented with a long list of wholly unparticularised allegations made against me. Notwithstanding this, I categorically deny all wrongdoing. I have been told that these allegations have been referred to the police. I am committed to fully co-operating with the police with any enquiries they have. I have however not been charged or questioned in connection with any of these allegations (some of which are 23 years old). Although very serious allegations have been made against me (which I emphatically deny) it would be inappropriate for me to comment further on matters which have been referred to the police”.
She was a woman who left a legacy in the hearts of many across Knowsley. A legacy so big that there was no shortage of quotes or fond memories for this article. Joan Edison was many things to me: a protector, a caregiver, a confidant, and, of course, a mother. Or, to use her official title, my foster mother.
I came into my mum’s life in 1989, at the age of 2, and I have fond memories of a home filled with children and laughter. Our large dining room table was the heart of social and family life. We gathered around every morning as Mum laid out a feast of toast, cereals, eggs, and bacon for us to tuck into before school.
It was commonplace for new faces to appear around the table. Some were brought by social workers in the dead of night—with nothing more than a black bin bag full of their most treasured possessions. Others were sent by parents who knew their child would get a hearty breakfast (and a clean school uniform) at Joan’s.
As one of the few Black families in Halewood, we couldn’t help but stand out in the 90s. While there were several notable hostile encounters, many approached us with curiosity. “Are you one of Joan’s girls?” neighbours would ask when they saw me walking around the estate. I would proudly confirm that I was, wearing it like a badge of honour. Mum didn’t exclusively care for girls, but we rarely had boys placed with us. For the most part, I grew up in a house full of girls, and this came with all the drama one might expect. I have a particularly painful memory of losing a tug of war to my younger sister, who wanted my Princess Jasmine doll. This might have been fine, had the tug of war not taken place at the top of the staircase. I spent the next month limping around the house with my toes bandaged together.
Chantelle and Joan in Halewood in the 90s
While there were plenty of tears, our house was a joy-filled place, and Mum encouraged us to connect with the community around us.
“I remember kids would climb over the garden walls when they heard the music coming from our back garden. They didn’t want to miss out! Mum would welcome them in!” – Lian Edison
“Everyone got a birthday party, no matter how long you had been with her,” my sister Lian said as she recounted some of our mum’s fancy-dress parties and the many bouncy castles she ordered for our special celebrations. Lian was initially fostered by Mum but went on to be adopted when she was 9 years old. She wipes away a tear as she laughs at a memory of Mum enthusiastically jumping onto a bouncy castle at the end of one of her parties and having to be heaved off by a few of our neighbours when she got stuck. Lian and I both recalled our Mum organising street parties to celebrate VE Day and community coach trips to local theme parks when we were younger. But we were both children of the 80s, and I was interested to know if this had always been Mum’s way.
Joan and Lian at a party in the 90s
I reached out to my ‘aunty’ Cathy Sutherland—like many working-class Scousers, I have several unrelated aunties who are family friends.
“Any child that ended up with Joan was very lucky. She was so lovely; she adored children. Her foster children and her own children were her life.” – Cathy Sutherland
Aunty Cathy met Mum in the 70s when she was a youth worker at the Hilton Grace Youth Centre in Halewood. She remembered Mum volunteering while her two daughters attended the youth centre. She wasn’t fostering at this time but, in classic Joan Edison style, she was helping out—arranging trips for the children in the community, and supporting other mums by organising Christmas savings schemes and informal community childcare. “The term ‘community organiser’ wasn’t around in the 1970s, but she was someone who did that, at a grassroots level,” Cathy noted.
Mum and some of Liverpool City Council’s newly recruited foster parents in the 80s
Andrea Mensah was friends with Mum’s daughters and remembered Mum babysitting her and her sister Lisa.
“My mum probably couldn’t have worked the way she did and, you know, got us what we had, like, good clothes and stuff, if it wasn’t for your mum. Because she’d help, she helped out so much!” – Andrea Mensah
Andrea recalled how my Mum struck up an instant friendship with her late parents, Cliff and Vera Mensah, when they moved into Halewood in the mid-70s. “She was a massive part of our lives. Joan, I can only describe her as kind. That’s the definition, it’s just kind. She would do anything for anyone, and she wouldn’t take.”
During the 70s, the town of Halewood underwent large-scale property developments as the area became a housing overspill for the city of Liverpool. Many new families moved to the area. Pauline Skidmore’s was one of them.”Joan was a very good friend of our mum, both of whom were new to Halewood and bringing up young children on their own. I can remember when my brother died at the age of 19. Joan was really supportive of our mum. Sadly, Joan’s daughter Lesley died suddenly at a very young age only two years later. Joan and our mum supported each other through those sad times.”
Lesley passed away in the 80s, shortly after Mum had started fostering. She was 17 and died of complications related to sickle cell anaemia. Lesley died at a time when not much was known about the disease or its prevalence within African and Caribbean communities. While I arrived after Lesley’s passing, Lian was living with our mum at the time. Mum ensured that we knew everything about Lesley growing up. She would regularly share photo albums and stories about her eldest daughter.
“I know we’re not here to talk about Lesley, but she was a massive part of my life, massive, and I just loved her. Honest to God, loved her. She was probably one of the nicest friends me and Lisa had, and it was such a shock. We just loved her,” – Andrea Mensah
Mum carried the grief of Lesley’s passing for the rest of her life. As with many personal traumas, she used this as motivation to help others, making sure the Black children she cared for were tested for the sickle cell trait and knew their status, at a time when awareness of the disease was low.
“Joan loved those children. They mattered. Their being happy mattered. Getting on well at school mattered. She gave them a sense of self-worth because she valued them as people.” – Cathy Sutherland
Joan and her girls in the 90s
Although Mum had been at the heart of Halewood’s community for more than three decades, times change, and communities do too. By the early 2000s, many of the old guard had left Halewood, new families moved in, and working life transformed. People socialised less; there were fewer street parties and community gatherings, and hostility towards people who looked like us grew. We left Halewood in 2001 and moved to Toxteth in Liverpool. Mum’s health and mobility declined quickly after the move, and she retired from fostering in 2003.
Joan with Lian and Liah in 2002
While she had to step back from fostering for health reasons, children were never far away from Joan Edison. The 2000s were when Lian and I had our own children and mum’s eldest grandchild, Liah (Moran), was born in 2002. “Nanny Joan was fun. She never took anything too seriously, and she was always making a fuss over us.” Liah smiles as she remembers her nan. “People in Halewood still remember her. Even now, when I say she’s my nan, they always say what a lovely woman she was, and I’m so proud of that.”
Joan, Lian, Chantelle and her second Grandson in 2009
As Halewood’s Deputy Mayor and a Town Councillor in the community I grew up in, I have regular conversations with residents who remember my Mum as fondly as she remembered Halewood. She loved taking a trip down memory lane whenever she would visit us. Mum lost most of her mobility in the 2010s and had one final trip to Halewood a month before passing away in 2016. This was for the christening of her last grandchild, my youngest son. He was a bit of a clingy baby, and I’ll never forget Mum’s delight when he toddled over to plant a huge kiss on her cheek and wrap his little arms around her the week before she died. “Look at that, Mum, there’s not a kid on this planet who doesn’t adore you!” I quipped, delighted he’d finally given her the slobbery seal of approval.
The question of heritage will always be a complicated one for people who grew up in care, but this piece has been one of the easiest things I’ve ever written. Being Black and care-experienced in the 1990s meant the world did not always love kids like us, but Joan Edison did, and that was more than enough.
Joan and Chantelle at a community event in the 90s
If you didn’t get the memo, last week it was announced the The Metropolitan Police are now under ‘special measures’ by Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary (HMIC). Hard not to get this particular memo though, it’s been splashed across every news bulletin, headline and media outlet in the land and the move has been welcomed by Priti Patel. If the media’s mood is anything to go by, people should be cracking open the champagne at this latest blow to an already bruised police force. Alas, everywhere I look, the mood is one of cautious optimism at best. This development essentially means that The Met, will join 5 other UK Police Services (Greater Manchester, Cleveland, Gloucestershire, Staffordshire and Wiltshire) who have been placed under increased scrutiny and made to report to inspectors more regularly.
Whilst it’s great that something is being done about The Met, I do have to wonder, what were their other options: Continue to be filmed brutalising black bodies? Aim to solve fewer crimes than their current 5.8% overall (1.3% for rape) record low. Drive away the few women who still trust them? Or, promote the other half of the investigation team whose institutionally homophobic failings were deemed likely to have contributed to a serial killer continuing to kill young gay men. I’m not sure it’s possible for The Met to sink any lower, Something had to be done. But before we break out the bunting, the one thing many of us are keen to know is the same thing that HMIC has been less forthcoming to share. What happens if The Met don’t make significant improvements? What if the police continue to ignore crimes against women, fail LGBTQ+ people and enact violence against the black community? We know what happens to schools and hospitals that ‘fail to improve’ after being put in special measures, they’re closed down. Yet, I’m doubtful that this would happen to the UK’s biggest police service. Special measures for the police is a bit like the £50 fine handed to politicians for the lockdown parties; a public slap on the wrists at best, a PR ‘damage limitation’ exercise at worst.
It’s likely that the Met, and wider UK Police Forces, will continue along the same violent trajectory, beating down bystanders in a public demonstration that it’s ‘business as usual boys.’ Last week’s video of Merseyside Police gave us our weekly reminder that institutional racism persists in policing. Officers were filmed pointing rifles at innocent black teenagers whilst telling them to ‘Shut Up’ and, allegedly, tightening handcuffs when one of the boys complained about his treatment. A worrying trend that this video highlighted was the police making threats to seize the phones of those trying to film the incident; this was a blatant intimidation tactic. My grim prediction is that we are months away from a shiny new law protecting the police from those pesky phones and authorising them, and only them, to film such incidents – and we all know how often officers ‘remember’ to turn on their body cams.
Special measures is more of the same, the police investigating themselves and accounting to nobody. I might have more faith if HMIC’s chief inspector was someone other than my old boss, former Merseyside Police Chief Constable Andy Cooke, a man who recently made headlines by declaring a ‘war on woke’. Cooke believes that the solutions to the Police’s many problems is to go back to ‘kicking down doors’ and to step away from ‘kissing babies’ and ‘small p’ politics. This was widely believed to be an indication that the Police will be paying even less attention to misogyny and transphobia. We know how it ends when the police investigate the police, it does not lead to the radical reform needed but a gentle tinkering with a broken system. We need autonomous scrutiny and reporting to independent bodies, made up of the communities who the police cause the most harm to. Until this happens, nothing much will change.
The Police must commit to taking full, public ownership of their institutional racism, misogyny and homophobia or communities will continue to withdraw consent. Pride London are the latest to withdraw consent, responding to calls from LGBTQ+ campaigners who have long questioned why police officers, who have a history of wilful neglect and harm towards the LGBTQ+ community, are given pride of place at the front of marches. Add to this Pride’s radical roots in protests, that were almost banned earlier this year under the PCSC Act, it would be nonsensical to allow this to continue. Thankfully, London Pride has read the room and banned uniformed officers from attending Saturday’s procession. This has led to campaign group Reclaim Pride Liverpool calling for Liverpool Pride to do the same.
It is unlikely that this week’s special measures announcement will change the public mood. With the unrepentant ‘we’re not racist but’ Merseyside Police Force refusing to apologise to the young boys who were terrorised by their armed officers, I’d argue that HMIC should add a few more names to their special measures list.
Not everybody has seen the ugly side of addiction close up.
My name is Chantelle Lunt and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic. It’s been 12 months since my last drink.
I can’t talk about my sober journey without talking about my birth mother, Maria. She was the biggest influence when forming my relationship with alcohol and she is the reason why I decided to change this relationship.
The most prominent memory I have of Maria is her hands. Swollen, red, sweaty, shaking hands. She would clasp her palms together to keep them from shaking, but this would often trigger violent tremors across the rest of her body. As a child, I despised those shakes. They were a visible reminder that she hadn’t just lost control of her life but her body too. So, please imagine my horror when I experienced shakes of my own.
On the morning of December 22nd 2021, I woke up after a Christmas night out and saw that my hands were trembling. This, quite literally, scared me sober. I promised myself, there and then, that I would not touch another drop for a year.
“Making light of symptoms that had frequently featured in my childhood trauma terrified me, but not everybody has seen the ugly side ofaddiction close up.”
Now, it wouldn’t be right for me to suggest that I was an alcoholic or that I have overcome alcoholism in the past 12 months. So, here’s the disclaimer: I don’t think I was an alcoholic, I was a social drinker and a binge drinker. I could have a glass of merlot and call it a night and, equally, I could go months without a drink, without even thinking about having a drink.
This isn’t some form of denial, I’m just hyper aware that there are people out there who are physically addicted to alcohol and my pathway to sobriety might not look anything like theirs. I did not require any medical intervention or therapy, I just decided that I wanted to stop drinking and did it.
The hand shakes were a big factor in my decision though. That morning, I read a cosmo article and was shocked at the casual manner in which ‘the hangover shakes’ – aka mild alcohol withdrawal – were written about. The article offered hangover cures in response to the shakes and suggested that readers might want to contact a doctor if the shakes were happening more often after drinking, not for an AA referral but to check for alcohol allergies – jesus wept! There was no mention of alcoholism or addiction in the entire article. Making light of symptoms that had frequently featured in my childhood trauma terrified me, but not everybody has seen the ugly side of addiction close up.
(Maria as a young girl in Liverpool in the 70s)
Maria shook every time I saw her at the contact centre, violent tremors punctuated by the odd word. She would try her hardest to make conversation with me while her body rattled in protest at her temporary sobriety. Maria was only allowed to see me under supervision. Alcohol drove her to abandon me and my brothers in a flat while she went out drinking and it prevented her from fighting for us when we were taken into care. Alcohol is the reason why, at the age of one, I was separated from my brothers (who were housed together in our community) and put in foster care in another area. Placed under a full Care Order, indefinitely.
All of the Care Orders in the world couldn’t shield me from her addiction though. Quite often, she would turn up to the contact centre drunk. The social workers would never let her in and I would listen as Maria screamed abuse from the front desk, calling my name, begging me to come with her and cursing every social worker in the building. On occasion, I would see her in the street when I was out with my mum Joan, who fostered me from the age of two.
Chantelle and Joan Edison in the 1993
Maria hated my mum, she would make this known, loudly and publicly, whenever she’d had a skinful and came across us. Her rage came for us both, swaying so close that she would almost knock me off my feet. She would scream ‘that’s not your real mum!’, ‘You don’t call her mum!’ Her pain was palpable, it rendered me mute and I would hide behind my mum, who would fiercely protect me. ‘Go home Maria! You’re drunk and upsetting your daughter’. Painful as these encounters felt, they were nothing compared to the times that Maria stood me up.
I’ve lost count of the hours I spent in the contact centres as a child, watching the door hopefully as the social workers pulled out various toys and games to distract me. My mum’s tone would soften as she told me that I could choose what we had for dinner that night. I always knew what it meant, that Maria wasn’t coming, that she’d chosen alcohol over me again. They’d usually give her an hour before they broke the news but I’d know within the first 15 minutes that she wasn’t going to be there.
” Family members would always marvel at how much I looked like a young ‘Mimi’ or how my sense of humour was just like hers. They weren’t talking about the bloated, sweating, shaking addict I knew but the carefree young woman she had been.
By the age of 7 I’d had enough, I told my mum and social worker that I didn’t want to see Maria any more, it hurt too much. This was the moment when I stopped feeling like a child, my first grown up decision was to cut off contact with my birth mum. Maria plagued my thoughts long after I cut off contact. I was angry that she persistently chose a brown fizzy liquid over me and my brothers but I always held onto the hope that she would stop drinking and come to take us home one day, then we could all be together again.
Maria still popped up in my life after I ended contact. I used to stay with my birth family in London during the summer holidays and she would sometimes be there. Maria was less tense when she was at relative’s houses, when the tremors came helpful family members would offer her cans of superstrength lager to alleviate her symptoms. It would do the trick, not by making her drunk but by easing her withdrawal enough that she could make clumsy attempts at bonding with a young daughter fixated on the can in her hand, her one true love.
In London, family members would always marvel at how much I looked like a young ‘Mimi’ or how my sense of humour was just like hers. They weren’t talking about the bloated, sweating, shaking addict I knew but the carefree young woman she had been. I had no memory of this person and, as the years passed, I lost hope that I would ever know her.
Maria at a family party in the 90s
My hope was reignited in my teenage years when I moved back to Toxteth (where we lived when I was a baby) with my mum. I wasn’t happy about the move but, in seeking a silver lining, I managed to convince myself that being closer to Maria might change things, bring the old Mimi back. I spent hours walking the streets and popping my head in the local pubs, trying to find her, to find a way to connect with her. Maria found me, of course, she must have heard that I’d been looking for her and came to my house after last orders. She hammered on the door and shouted the usual insults at me and my mum,‘you don’t call me mum do you!’ This was true, I had stopped calling her mum years earlier. I couldn’t bring my mouth to form the words anymore, Maria had failed to tick any of the mum shaped boxes and it didn’t feel right to associate that word with her.
Chantelle and Joan in 2016
Joan was such a wonderful caregiver and she barely touched a drop. The word mum fitted her perfectly, she was made for the title and most of the children she cared for bestowed it upon her – despite her protests that we could call her anything. That night, my mum convinced Maria to go home but I was wracked with guilt from my failure to form the words she wanted to hear. It was Mother’s day in a few weeks and I did something that I’d never done before. I bought Maria a card, wrote the word I could not speak and wished her a happy Mothers Day. She died just over a week before Mothers Day and I never got to give her that card.
Maria died from alcohol poisoning, I was 14 at the time, she was just 37. Her death was the catalyst to a downward spiral that spanned the rest of my teenage years. In my grief I almost became her, finding solace in the substance that destroyed my family (along with a few others) and reckless behaviour. But all of that changed when I became a mother, 3 months shy of my 20th birthday. I remember being in bed, recovering from a wound infection after my emergency c-section. The midwives had told me not to get up but my baby boy was crying and nobody was listening. Crossing that room to get to him took every bit of strength I had. I felt like the stitches would tear from my body and my legs would give way but I got to my son and I held him close. As he lay content in my arms I told him that I would always be there for him and I would always put him first.
This wasn’t as easy as it sounded, I slipped up, I messed up and I tried again. I persisted and pushed with everything I had, going to night school, getting promotions at work, moving to a different area (away from bad influences) and creating some ground rules around alcohol: No getting drunk at home, no getting drunk around your child, no drinking when you’re sad or in a negative head space and, most importantly, no drinking alone. Looking back, it’s easy to see how I became a social drinker.
” I would experience blackouts and have no recollection of where I’d been, what I’d done or how I’d gotten home. I relied on friends to fill in the blanks while I hid beneath a duvet, consumed by beer fear.”
The rules served me well and I did not deviate from the parameters I had set myself, not when my mum died when I was 29, not when I was bullied at work by racist and misogynistic Police Officers, not even when the pandemic hit and everyone was cracking open bottles of wine at home. These were times when I didn’t touch a drop. After the lockdown there was a collective blowout and, due to the many lockdowns that followed, a sense of needing to embrace the good times while they were here. A combination of studying at Uni, leading a Black Civil Rights group, family life and work meant that I was busier than ever and, in the rare hours that my schedule allowed, I really wanted to let my hair down.
This meant that I drank a lot, in very short spaces of time. I would experience blackouts and have no recollection of where I’d been, what I’d done or how I’d gotten home. I relied on friends to fill in the blanks while I hid beneath a duvet, consumed by beer fear. The flashbacks were the worst, they came out of nowhere. Fragments of my toe curling behaviour came at the most inconvenient times and caused me to physically cringe with shame. I was drinking within the rules I had set out though, not a regular drinker but a social drinker. I worked non-stop and felt justified in letting off steam whenever I could, especially at Christmas.
Chantelle with her Husband and Sons at Big Feastival in 2018
People are quite surprised to learn that I stopped drinking before Christmas. For me, the date was irrelevant. It was the moment that mattered. The morning of the 22nd December 2021 was the moment when I realized that I could never have a healthy relationship with alcohol. Such a thing did not exist for me. I’ve always worried that I would become my birth mother, wondering which drink would be the drink that did it for Maria and if I might be heading the same way. It’s bad enough that I’m convinced that I’ll die young like she did.
My big brother is the only one who understands this, he believed the same until he turned 38. I still have a few years before I’m there and I’m acutely aware of the clock ticking away, urging me to tick every box on my bucket list, to squeeze out every drop of life before it’s too late. I might slow down if I make it to 38, my chances have felt much stronger since I gave up drinking. I have 2 boys now and, while I’ve always been around, I feel present all of the time, like hangovers haven’t robbed them of any of my time or attention.
I feel in control too, autonomy is important when you grow up in care. So much of my childhood was out of my control, no say in where I went, who I lived with or when I left. As an adult, it’s liberating to know that these things are based on my choices and mine alone. Sobriety has been such an easy choice to make, I don’t think I would have gotten through 2022 if I was still drinking. I earned my Masters degree, worked across the UK and engaged in national and international civil rights campaign work. Being sober has allowed me to truly enjoy my downtime, the highs feel higher and the lows aren’t so low. I feel closer to my family now more than ever.
Chantelle Leading a Kill the Bill Protes in 2021
It was elating to welcome in the new year in a nightclub with a diet coke in one hand and my husband’s hand in the other. I’m blessed with a partner who knows me inside out and chose to support my sober journey by giving up alcohol too. Maria gave up everything for alcohol and I still live with her decision 20 years after she passed. I’ve given up alcohol for everything and everyone I love and I have no plans to go back.
Chantelle Lunt is a writer, PhD researcher, lecturer and activist. She is a national civil rights campaigner and the founder of Merseyside Alliance for Racial Equality CIC (MARE), a non-profit organisation committed to promoting racial equality, across, through grassroots community-led education and training.
Chantelle is a Bloomsbury published writer, she writes about current affairs, the contemporary civil rights movement and UK policing for national grassroots campaigns and independent media publications.
Chantelle was one of a handful of writers selected for the BBC Writers Room ‘Write Across Liverpool’ Screenwriter development programme andshe is currently developing a television script.
The UK has reached crisis point and many activists and community leaders can see that we are on a collision course to national riots. Economic downturn, racist Policing and hostility towards migrants and minorities are often the standard preludes to uprisings. We currently have all 3 elements of this toxic cocktail prevalent throughout the UK. There are eerie similarities to Mark Duggan’s case in this week’s Police admission that Oladeji Adeyemi, who was tasered 3 times in the moments before he fell to his death from Chelsea Bridge, did not have a weapon in his hand, as was widely circulated.
The killing and defaming of Duggan, who Police initially said was holding a gun before they shot and killed him (this was later found to be untrue) are believed to have been the cause of the 2011 riots. Just over a decade later, Adeyemi’s case shows that we are in danger of history repeating itself. However, one thing that has changed since 2011 is that black people aren’t the only ones who can see the Police for what they truly are, a racist, misogynistic white boys club. The UK’s biggest gang.
The Police are currently facing a crisis of legitimacy and public confidence is at an all time low. A recent strategic review of Policing in England and Wales reported that only 55% of the population think the police are doing a good job. The 2020 wave of the BLM movement highlighted the deep rooted racism that lies at the heart of policing. While the black community has always known this to be true, it appears the rest of the country has woken up to this reality too. The tragic murder of Sarah Everard in 2021, by a serving met police officer who used his warrant card to assist in his kidnap, rape and murder of Everard, exposed the misogynistic underbelly of the force and their violent opposition to women protesting against them.
Police brutality, misogyny, corruption and racism has continued to dominate conversations over the past year, with countless social media posts and news reports highlighting incidents such as the Child Q Report. Throughout all of this the government seemed happy to look the other way, ignoring calls for reform and a better police service – but why would they intervene when their new BFF’s are securing politicians £50 fines for illegal lockdown parties, while our brave NHS Nurses were fined £10,000 for protesting for better pay.
The police and government further targeting black and minority communities through draconian immigration policies such as the Nationality and Borders Act and infringements to our rights to free speech and assembly (via the Police Crime Sentencing and Courts Act) was only ever going to end one way, resistance. The Child Q report lit a fire in the bellies of black communities, showing us that not even our babies are safe from state and police violence.
Since then, campaigns such as Operation Withdraw Consent have been calling for radical police reform, community refunding and better accountability. While we endeavour for this to be a formalised, community led process, it is clear that people are already voting with their feet, withdrawing consent to the state waging war on their neighbours through immigration policies. Videos from Peckham and Dalston show the Police being chased out of communities by crowds of hundreds of people. The walk of shame they endured was truly a thing of beauty. While these videos are inspiring sights to behold, it is clear that they have not deterred the police who continue to violently target marginalised communities.
We have an institutionally defensive force that is blatant and unapologetic in its racism, misogyny and corruption protected by an equally corrupt government that has, seemingly, declared war on minority communities. All of the signs say that there’s only one way this is going to end, but nobody wants it to come to civil unrest and community uprisings. The government often uses these as an excuse to roll out harsher legislation and hand down arbitrary sentences to those who dare fight back – 10 years for damaging a statue anyone?
What we want is communication and meaningful policy changes that not only serves but uplifts our communities. Until this happens we will continue along this collision course. With RMT transport workers on strike this week they are already calling this the summer of discontent, if, or when, communities follow suit don’t say that you weren’t warned.
Institutionalised racism is a term often thrown about when talking about the police force. It became a part of public discourse as a result of the 1999 MacPherson report into the death of Stephen Lawrence and was a useful tool when trying to describe the inherent racism within the Metropolitan Police Force. The 2017 Lammy review was similarly damning in its analysis of institutional racism in the criminal justice system. But what does ‘institutional racism’ actually mean? In short, if a public institution (such as the police force) is racist then we can surmise that they’re operating under a structure which maintains and perpetuates racism. This racism can come in many forms – from policies and practices which disproportionately target Black people (such as ‘stop and search’) to officers who abuse their powers to the detriment of Black people.
As a Black woman and a former police officer for Merseyside Police, I am very aware of this structure. I’ve seen racism in action, I know how it works, how it talks, walks and moves easily throughout all levels of policing. In my experience, police forces are disinclined to do anything to address this. Within 9 months of my policing career, I had been subjected to (and witnessed) enough police racism to fill a 13,000-word report. These incidents were perpetrated by my colleagues and some of them were so serious they were recorded as hate crimes against me. The result? Well, action plans were made, and meetings were held. However, no actions were taken against the officers involved and they continue policing to this day.
When I saw the horrific murder of George Floyd, it struck me on a number of levels. As a Black woman, I was shocked, saddened and terrified to see a public lynching occur on the streets of America in 2020. As a former police officer, I was unsurprised. The George Floyd murder exposed a culture of bullying and toxicity, where serious breaches of misconduct go unchallenged and prejudice and oppression are normalised.
The problem is not about a ‘few bad apples’
The culture of the police force is not too dissimilar to high school where popularity and power is determined by a certain form of extraversion – ‘cool cops’ are those who tear up the rule book as soon as they walk out of the trainings centre. Many don’t even bother with it during their training. Whereas, it’s only the ‘nerdy’ police officers who adhere to the College of Policing guidelines. Often, these ‘cool cops’ are rewarded and celebrated by their colleagues whilst dedicated, caring and professional police officers are ridiculed and taunted.
I remember a colleague telling me how he had talked a young person out of self-harming, only to be taunted for their compassion once they returned to the station. This officer was one of the good ones. Yet, as time passed, I watched that officer suppress his caring nature as he adapted to the culture; changing his behaviour to fall in line with the ‘cool cops’.
On paper, the principle of policing can present as a good idea, but the second you walk out of the training centre the rules change. Bad officers are quick to use force and will do anything for an arrest. The good officers, and those who challenge them, become outsiders. Put simply, policing is a culture which often destroys good officers, while upholding the bad ones.
This culture is the reason why a white officer could confidently strangle the life out of a Black man in front of the world, feeling safe in the knowledge that his colleagues would protect him. This culture is not exclusive to America though, it is rife in the UK and it has to end.
Where are the discussions on institutionalised police racism in the UK?
Amongst all of the talk and posts about Black Lives Matter. I have noticed that institutionalised police racism has remained fairly absent from local discussions. The sceptic in me wonders if this is a deliberate oversight.
I am often asked why I don’t talk in much detail about my experiences of racism within the police force. The short answer is, I am frightened. There is a long, well-documented history of Black officers who have spoken out about racism in the UK and felt the full wrath of the police force – like a patrol boot on our necks. If this comes as a surprise to you, then please familiarise yourself with the stories of Kevin Maxwell, Carol Howard or Vinny Tomlinson; former police staff who have all tried to address racism within the Police Force. There are many more Black officers who have done the same. Most of them have been ostracised, disregarded and gaslight by an unrepentant Police Force. If I were to list them all I’d be typing all day.
The police are like a political campaign group, they have a slick PR machine and dedicate a lot of time and resources to protecting their public profile – including the recruitment of young professionals to manage their social media accounts. It takes a lot if bravery to officially challenge the Police and it’s been disheartening to see such an unwillingness to take them on. The past 3 weeks alone have been littered with stories of UK police racism, both within the ranks and beyond, yet nobody seems willing to talk about our own police forces. Why?
Police racism is happening right now
Less than 3 weeks ago, news broke that 2 police officers had been arrested for taking selfies with the bodies of 2 Black sisters, Nicole Smallman, 27 and Bibaa Henry, 46. The sisters had been murdered, their bodies should have been treated with dignity and respect. Instead, they were dehumanised and humiliated.
The apathetic and lacklustred response from the police, in response to the missing person reports filed by the family, prompted the family to take the lead and conduct their own search – resulting in them discovering the bodies of their loved ones. The trauma this must have caused the family is unimaginable; for the police to then mock the victims (and potentially compromise the crime scene) is truly disgraceful.
Last week, an innocent man named Ryan Colaço had his car window smashed by the police and was dragged from his vehicle while heading home. This happened while he was returning from an interview about institutional racism, after being stop searched in his car the previous week.
This week, Bianca Williams, a British Team GB sprinter and her partner, Ricardo Dos Santos, a Portuguese sprinter, were pulled over, handcuffed and searched by the police while their 3-month-old son was in the back of the car. I’ve seen the video footage of this incident and am very concerned by the escalation of police tactics. In the case of Williams, she was distressed that her partner had been pulled out of the car and was concerned for her child. She did not need to be handcuffed, she did not pose a threat or risk harming herself or others around her. But the minute you antagonise a mother in a heightened emotional state, by pulling her away from her child with little explanation, you might quickly find yourself in a threatening situation. It is a credit to Williams that she managed to keep her cool under these circumstances.
The fact that these incidents are still occurring at a time when the police are under intense media scrutiny is telling. Yet, I wonder at what point institutionalised police racism will become a topic for real debate and action. We do not need a UK street execution to spur us into action, we’ve had young Black men who have been restrained until they died within the past 5 years. Even then, such deaths were explained away.
Institutional racism, misogyny and bully culture are toxic pillars of policing. In my experience, this culture is upheld and maintained by the majority of officers and it’s a culture which only seems to benefit the white middle classes – often given the benefit of the doubt or considered inherently good people by the police. Black people are never afforded such treatment and are often regarded as guilty for being Black.
Some might not understand the harm in police attitudes, but an assumption of guilt or danger, in an officer’s head can impact everything from their tone of voice to their use of force. There are countless examples of officers handcuffing co-operative Black people – a use of force that could be considered an escalation of tactics by officers. If somebody is complying with your enquiries, there is no need to incapacitate them. Handcuffs are uncomfortable and agitating. Even the most peaceful of people will often lash out if they feel that they are being restrained without cause or warning.
The use of handcuffs is something thar can be very easily justified by officers as it’s measured by their personal assessment fear, harm, or potential violence. Handcuffing can be used as a subtle, justifiable action to goad people into a negative response and escalate to an arrest. The big question on my mind is, why are Black people being perceived as a threat by officers so often?
The only way we can truly understand this is through research. We need comparative data on crime statistics linked to the ‘stop and searches’ of Black and white people. Not just considering the volume of such searches, I would be more interested to know how many officers were turning up to searches involving Black drivers, compared to their white counterparts. I would like to compare the highest level of force used to the outcome of searches. I would like the police to disclose how many Black people pulled over actually had drugs or prohibited items in their cars. In Ryan Colaço’s case, the police are said to have pulled him over because they could ‘smell’ drugs. Smelling Cannabis has long been disputed as the sole grounds for a stop and search, as it is the ‘suspicion’ most likely to be abused by officers who are eager to search a person or vehicle.
Equally, we need clear data on the experiences of Black officers within the force. I am more interested in knowing how many Black officers retire from the force than how manu joined. We need to start talking about police racism in the UK. It’s the first step in holding those who are handed great power to account. I am tired of being the only person in the room talking about police racism, but if I have to use my outside voice, I will.
When the news of the plans to host a ‘Straight’ Pride march in Boston broke, I didn’t have to click any of the links on my twitter feed to know that the organisers would be straight white men. Such entitled drivel could only possibly come from the mouths of people who are among the least likely, on the planet, to experience discrimination. Straight White Men – a group holding the monopoly of power in western society – have few things to feel discriminated against. Yet, this didn’t stop the 3 organisers of the Boston Straight Pride March (who themselves have links to far right, nationalist parties) from spitting their dummies out and loudly complaining about being the ‘marginalised majority’ – is that even a thing? These groups have now reached such a heightened state of delusion that, in their pampered little heads, they are worthy of a seat at the marginalised groups table. Move over Stonewall rioters.
Now, I’m not for one second suggesting that all Straight White Men are winning at life, or that they don’t have their own struggles. Such as, the decline of men’s mental health, increasing substance misuse and toxic masculinity. However, statistically speaking, they are less likely to face daily discrimination because of their sexuality. They are much more likely to have a high earning job, a sense of self-worth and a place in society. Most Straight White Men can happily hold their partner’s hand or kiss her in public without fearing an attack.
The reason you don’t hear the POC, people with disabilities or women complaining about the LGBTQ+ Pride marches is because we get it. When you’re a member of a marginalised group, you tend to have a lot of empathy for the plights of others who are discriminated against because of who they are.
As a black woman, I have (far more times than I care to remember) been on the receiving end of some ‘marginalised majority’ white bloke lecturing me about why we should have a ‘White History Month’. Some question if I am aware of how this dangerous #metoo society has caused Straight White Men to be positively discriminated against -this occurs when the 1 job in every 100 given to a capable but ‘diverse’ candidate and it causes uproar from the aforementioned heterosexual white blokes, who feels slighted.
Pride month is a chance for LGBTQ+ people, and those who support them, to stand together and take pride in who they are, and everything that makes the LGBT community unique. These are things which, more often than not, make LGBTQ+ people the targets of violent behaviour and discrimination.
Sadly, in the current pro-right climate, homophobic attacks are on the increase. The most recent You Gov Poll revealed that, at least 2 in 5 LGBTQ+ people had been the victim of a hate crime due to their sexuality. This figure is likely to be significantly higher due to the number of incidents going unreported. June is a month that should be a cause for celebration for the LGBTQ+ community. Yet, this month, it has turned in to a reflection of those statistics.
Types of hate incidents LGBT people have been afected by in the last year because of their sexual orientation or gender identity. (Image Credit: Stonewall.org)
In the past two weeks alone, there have been reports of attacks on a female couple in London, who were both punched in their faces for refusing to kiss for a group of men on a bus. In Southampton, several performances of Rotterdam (a play about an LGBT couple) were cancelled due to two female cast members being assaulted when the inhabitants of a passing car threw something at their heads, while they were kissing in the street, causing one of the women to be knocked to the floor.
Being able to publicly show affection towards your partner is something many of us take for granted, but the world is being dragged backwards. We have a gang of misogynistic, racist, Straight White Men at the helm of this Pro-Brexit, Pro-wall Armageddon and we need LGBTQ+ pride month now more than ever.
It might be an idea for these blokes in Boston to stop looking for an excuse to feel ignored (heaven forbid), learn about the LGBT community and start thanking their lucky stars for the many freedoms and privileges life has bestowed upon them.
This Triggered Millenial 