My husband and I were walking in circles around Regent’s park the day after the May local elections, having the same conversation we have when we’re walking, drinking in the pub, or having dinner at home: the one about the workers. About how we hold such high hopes for the people we grew up among, and how they always, ultimately, disappoint us. About how we both feel a tangled mix of shame and pride in our origins, combined with guilt and pleasure at having escaped them.
That day, the BNP had won its first Midlands council seat outside the Black Country, in the ward that comprised the council estate where I spent 17 of the first 18 years of my life. To say I was disappointed is like saying I was “disappointed” to see Birmingham City get relegated from the Premiership. I was hysterical: despite the fact that I left the estate 12 years ago, it has cast a long shadow over my adult life. I felt soiled and humiliated and, for some reason, implicated in a result that was decided by just over 700 people among several thousands (the desire to exercise one’s vote on this estate has never been particularly strong), in a place where I no longer lived.
“It’s not your fault,” said my husband, clearly feeling the need to state the obvious.
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