‘Pig English’

[’Family affair’. Families aren’t always made of family blood- remembering the kids in care]

Lock down reflections about my life, my opinions and other stuff has got me writing.

Letting go of unwarranted fears has got me writing in my sketch books and tapping away on my mobile for hours. Ive tapped into lots of freebie How to ebooks & I’ve paid for an online course to help me with my Artist Statement, a Biog and also a Blog.

One of the Children’s home’s I used to board in was directly opposite a Pig farm. We’d visit the Pig sty and listen to the staff tell us how they loved Pigs, how Pigs ate everything, how they loved the smell of Pigs manure, how they used it to help grow their roses and all the rest of the crap we had to listen to while they boasted about their oh so pleasant lives.

That and trying to drown out the scary stories about the Pigs eating kids.

These were the stories that circulated around the older kids, who would share it with us youngers when they decided that we were old enough to hear the gory details.

Tales of how someone saw a kids head in the Pig bin mans truck, kept me awake many a night fearful.

We had metal Pig bins outside in one of the out-houses off the yard. One of the jobs on the weekly job list was to scrape off the leftovers from our plates, into a bucket then go outside into the yard to enter the stinking out-house and empty it into the Pig bin. It stunk. I hated it. We hated it. Though I never had that job I was too young to do it at the time, but dreaded when that time would come when I was old enough. Girls were not excluded. We were all aware of the details of the whole filthy job, we’d all seen the insides of that filthy Pig bin filled with a weeks worth of our leftovers, mixed with the kitchen leftovers, cabbage outer leaves, potatoe skins & old bread, it was all chucked in there, it was vile, sometimes slimy, like vomit, it ponged, it was ‘orrible’.

The Pig bin stank, the job stank and so did the smell in the air which wafted over from the Pig sty.

Every week the filthy Pig Man would come with his open back truck, load the bins filled with swill and leave an empty one in its place and move along to each house building numbered 1 & 2 - 12 & 13. Living in 10 & 11 we’d hear the abuse from the teenage kids boarding in 12 & 13. The kids that smoked & snogged each other behind the communal hall. The Kids with striped scars up there arms which made you wonder how they got them. Kids that swore, and fought each other and the staff often. Kids that went on hunger strikes. The Kids which sat on top of roofs refusing to come down until the Firemen & Police came. Kids that arrived in a Police car. Angry, crying, vacant Kids. Kids that gave us enormous amounts of fun and laughter along with sweets and their old roller skates, dolls, bikes and clothing past downs. One of my five Brothers was one of them who shared his marble collection with me.

They’d scream names at the Pig bin man, accusing him of murdering kids, how they had seen evidence of eyelashes and teeth, proving it to us when we were eating bacon. Those in the know would point out the white bone pieces evident in the watery bacon strips on our plate and have us all freaking out, refusing to eat it.

The clanging of the Pig bin lids being opened & shut along with the bins being slammed onto the back of the truck or slammed down back into the out-houses did my head in.

Now out of care now living on an estate in my early teen years the word Pig meant something entirely different and also plagued me in the background of my life again.

My family hated the Pigs. The filth! as the Police were referred to- the same Pigs would escort my Brothers back to the care home after they’d been found, having run away, for days on end, escaping from the difficult life, that living in care is.

The same Pigs would raid my Mums house looking for stolen goods or to look for one of my Brothers, or their friends that had warrants out for their arrests. I hated watching the Pigs hit my Brothers and racially abuse us when they did arrest them, always in front of the neighbors. For some of them this was the first time witnessing this abusive behaviour from the Police, shattering their illusions that the Police should be holding up certain standards to protect citizens and abide by rules of the law. For us youngers this became normal, observing the Pigs violent aggressive behaviour accelerate towards our Mum & Brothers. The Pigs ended up killing my Mums dogs. The verdict was left open. Our dogs hairs were found in the Pig Van. Witnesses came forward to speak about seeing The Pigs with Sugar & Ali (both named after boxers) on the top floor of the high rise at the bottom of my Mums road.

Years later now a Single parent fitting in to all statistics & stereotypes, given for care leavers. I was driven by wanting to get my own child better prospects. My journey though not a straight forward through-route- took years and started with a short 16 week pathway to art course. Then a foundation & an access then onto Uni to study Computer Science Multimedia. Every course I was required to take entry level English classes.

Though I enjoyed learning the power of words and the pen it was difficult, at times humiliating, one time being told one was using ‘Pig English’. Wtf!!!. That word Pig again loaded with all my thoughts of my experiences & instances.

I chose to just shut the f***up. Losing marks for not handing in essays or reports. In fact all of the courses I’ve taken, I’ve only ever completed the practical parts failing to get any certification.

So not bothered.

It was never about me fearing that I’d be prevented from progressing because of my colour alone, it was now through fear of my Pig English identifying me as someone who was not worthy of being where I thought I wanted to be.

Incidentally I still don’t eat bacon and I still detest and fear Pigs. Unless they’re on a page.

[Link to see Children’s Home, Out-

House & Pig Farm over the road]

http://www.workhouses.org.uk/Thanet/