WHEN MY OU studies coincided with my cancer diagnosis, a dividing line emerged. A before and after. A sort of epiphany.
Up until that point I would've described myself as a Roman Catholic, left of the left politically, but definitely English. A point emphasized when I chose to watch Frank Sidebottom rather than The Pogues at Reading in 1989. My Irish and Welsh ancestry, although known to me, seemed so completely distant. My openness to study has consequently brought the distant past to life. Especially my own.
My grandmother and her Irish mother and my aunt (taken into the home after her mother died) all lived with my grandfather. A Heyside local whose family all lived nearby. During the depression they all had to make the walk from Shaw to Chadderton for their state handouts. Two of her brothers died.Two of seventy-six million who perished in those two wars. Yet, retaining dignity, and containing sorrow, she remained a pivotal part of the church community.
Despite being highly intelligent, my grandmother was thrown into the mill at the age of fifteen. It partly explains why her children were so keen to iron out their Irish and Welsh ancestry and progress up the social ladder. Selflessly, she was driving them on. Remaining the beating heart in my mother's life, she missed her son dearly when he relocated. When she had a big win she gave half back to the church and split the remaining half amongst her two children. Keeping nothing for herself. I can only imagine what a great example had been set for her. Even in death, kicking against the hospital bed posts with the pain of kidney failure, she was defying the odds.
This mighty song, sung with such marvel and warm grit and kinship with Philip Chevron's quasi-poetic lyrics, sings to me through this truly remarkable woman. The daughter of what we casually call refugees.
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