My mum came to Britain from
Jamaica when I was only two years old, as part of the Windrush emigration. Like a lot of
people from the Caribbean she took that journey for a better life in the UK. I
was about nine when I joined her here and then my younger brother followed me.
It was difficult for us after that as those years of bonding were missing.
Your early years shape the adult you become.
My grandmother was a surrogate mother to me in Jamaica, and without her I
wouldn’t be who I am today. That security blanket and love from her has helped
me in my adult life.
So many things remind me of Stephen Lawrence. Her son who was murdered in a racially motivated
attack in 1993 and I get very tearful. A big trigger for me is when I see
young people get hurt or I see that people aren’t understanding them. I want to
say: “Listen to them!” There are too many times that we don’t listen to
children enough.
I’ve always been very stubborn. I don’t take
no for an answer and I always challenge things. I feel that we are all equal.
You need to treat people in a respectful way. But I would speak to you in the
same way I speak to a prime minister. I don’t feel that I have to bow and
scrape to anybody.
Stephen had a mischievous way about him. I have a little
bit of that in me, too. I do wonder what he’d be like now and whether or not he
would have a family. He’d be 43 now and I’m sure he’d be well into his career
as an architect. He was quite serious about that.
The anniversary of Stephen’s death [22
April] is always very difficult. I mark it by going to where he died in Eltham.
That’s the only place that I can go and have a connection with Stephen. I take
some flowers. I visit with the minister of the church that Stephen attended
when he was young. We say prayers and we chat about Stephen. It doesn’t make me
feel better, but it is a remembrance of him.
Some people might think that race relations in this
country have improved, but society is not as accepting as you think. Mental health is a big issue within
the black community, particularly for young black men. And, at times, if they
are in trouble, the police quickly see the criminal side of things. There needs
to be more understanding.
I don’t think I became
a better parent after Stephen’s death. But losing him focussed me more on my
other two children, Stuart and Georgina. It’s easy to take your children for
granted, to believe they’ll always be around, but after what happened I
realised that there is no guarantee of “tomorrow”.
There is a shift in attitude within
the police. Senior officers are people who understand what it is they need to
do in terms of practicing equality, but officers on the beat are never in the
room to understand the implications of their actions and inactions. Those are
the officers we need to spend more time working with to give them a better
understanding of their place in society.
There are positives that
have come from my son’s death. Laws have been changed in his name, which have
made life better for people. Then there’s the fact that I’m in a position to
talk to the prime minister and I’m now sitting in the House of Lords able to
talk to judges. It’s positive that I’ve got a voice that I can use.
In order to be forgiven, you
have to admit you did something wrong. Those men who murdered Stephen have
never done that. So it’s very difficult for me to forgive them.To say that I’ve been dignified
and strong all the time would be far from the truth. On the outside people
think that I’ve not crumbled, but I have. I’ve had to step up to the plate
because if I hadn’t, Stephen and his legacy would be forgotten, and I don’t
ever want my son to be forgotten.
Source: Guardian