10 Year Route

My British passport sits in a clear plastic slip along with my Jamaican passport and expired biometric cards.

I can’t tell the difference between the two from where I'm sitting. It’s small, and lightweight. Which irritates me, because the weight of that book does not compare to the weight I had to bear to earn it.

There have been many moments in my life where I’ve questioned my sense of belonging, whether that be social environments, among friends and family or my place in this life in general. The uncertainty and instability of the 10 year- route only reinforced those doubts. 

There was a time I was ready to give up this complex journey of searching for connection, identity and home. I mean, I didn't grow up having a comfortable enough place that I could call home anyway… I slept in a compact room, sharing a bed with my mum. Everything we owned fit within those four walls, in a house where strangers occupied the rooms next to us, communal spaces and dining areas below us  were converted into bedrooms to accommodate more people. The wooden window frames were stained black from mould and the cracks between them housed a large variation of small bugs that liked to come out and crawl around from time to time, the rats and mice made it clear that they were tenants too. But at least I learnt a few things from living this way; I learnt that rats would risk their lives for a taste of peanut butter. I learnt that a grown man could feel comfortable enough to ask a little girl to come into this room, I learnt landlords chose to house immigrants not out of the kindness of their hearts but as a way to spend less on building maintenance because in their minds an immigrant’s voice does not matter, an immigrant's  fear and silence saved and made them money. I learnt the importance of a parental figure being seen in a child's life because when a parent isn’t visible to others it leaves the child vulnerable even in places that were offered as safe refuge, even if it was offered by family. I gained an understanding of classism, I learnt that people will treat you differently if you do not have what they have or if they don’t deem you as capable enough to attain what they have, even if all they have is a legal full time job and their own living space, even if they were once migrants too, classism is still shown, even between family.

I remember when an engineer came to connect a phone line in the house, he moved the bed from the wall and the crinkled, red wallpaper was decorated with damp black mould. The shock on his face. He looked at me. I knew it was a bad thing because when I visited my friend's house they didn’t have mould on their walls, their walls were white and were decorated with family photos. I shrank inside myself after seeing his reaction but what could I do? I was just a child with no control. He then looked at my mum and said “ this is very dangerous for you and your daughter to breathe in, your landlord should seriously get this sorted”. My mum put on her best British accent and responded back in surprise, as if she didn't know our living conditions were below standard, she gave him reassurance as if the landlord did not rent the room out to us like this, as if we weren't desperate enough to accept it in this state. When the engineer left that day, I sensed regret in his eyes when he nodded goodbye to me, as if there was anything else he could have done besides  leaving us in the dreaded place.

I’ve been an immigrant in this country longer than I have been a citizen. My 10 year route to settlement started when I was 16, despite having lived here since the age of 4, making the journey a grueling climb of mount citizenship, and the call about my university application was my moment of oxygen deprivation. 

I was walking out of class when I received a call from student finance.  At this point I had already been to 2 open days and received one conditional offer from one of my uni options so when the lady on the phone said she was calling from student finance I didn’t think anything of it. I wondered how much student loan I would get, I played with the idea of putting some of the money away along with my monthly pay to help mine and my mum's circumstances. I was building a way off this mountain and it felt like a breath of fresh air to finally have options for myself. “ We just wanted to speak to you about your tuition fees” the lady said, she was upbeat, to her this was just routine. Meanwhile a lump was forming in my throat. “ t-tuition fees?” I mumbled, as far as I was aware, students in the UK get student loans, “ yes, tuition fees you will need to pay as an international student, we wanted to know…” She lost me after “international student”. I swallowed the lump and it sat heavy on my chest. I explained I have been living in the UK since I was 4 and now have my visa and a residence permit so I shouldn’t be classed as an international student. I said this with much certainty in my voice because I was sure this was a mistake. She explained I was classed as an international student due to the type of visa I had which excluded me from being eligible for student loans which meant I had to pay for each year of my course out of my own pocket. The pockets that had been empty for years, the pockets that had only just been granted the right to work two years before this, the pockets that had only just started  earning minimum wage one year before this. With the lump sitting heavier on my chest, the air thinned and suddenly everything became uncertain.

The lady was not not mistaken, as I sat in front of my solicitor I watched her mouth move as she told me the exact same thing, my visa restrictions didn't give me the right to university loans or any kind of government funding/support for that matter, hence why me and my mum were still stuck in shared housing. Her mouth moved with speed, no deep breath in between her words, no sigh, no remorseful pause. Why did she not tell us this when the visa was first granted, why am I only finding this out now? Why was there no fight for me? for my future? We could barely pay for legal advice let alone come up with thousands of pounds per year for the next 3 years for tuition fees on top of coming up with the visa fees every two and a half years until the 10 year route is completed.

The only option I had to make a change for myself was gone, taken, just like that. The numbness that was lingering within me solidified in that moment, and my days appeared like night with the realization that this has been my life and will be for a long time. There was nothing I could plan nor prepare for to make things better and there was no one I could speak to for guidance. I observed as my friends planned and prepared for the start of their future whilst my soul wandered aimlessly in limbo. I was 18 and calculated the age I would be once I received my citizenship, 29 or 30 years old. The thought was daunting. I would say this was the final straw for me and I finally asked myself “why am I here?”

The day I decided to let go of my place here I felt like there was too much evidence to show that I did not belong. How did I belong here ? in this never ending labyrinth. And why did I not belong somewhere better? I sat on my bed and remembered my older cousin reminding me that I didn’t have a home when I had to stay round her house and her kicking me off of her bed onto the floor to remind me where I belonged.

Drink.

I remembered hearing a girl being beaten up by her boyfriend in the room above mine the night before my GCSEs, every time her body hit the floor my bedroom walls would shake. 

Two pills, drink.

I remembered her blood in the bathroom the next morning.

Drink.

I remembered my circumstances constantly being the common reason as to why I was treated differently by certain family members.

Three pills, drink.

I remembered trying my hand at love as a teen but he also reminded me that I wouldn't have been able to afford the air force ones I had on my feet if it wasn’t for him, that relationship definitely didn’t work out.

Drink.

I remembered walking home from school in the rain with soaking feet because my shoes had holes in them but they were the only shoes my mum could afford for that academic year.

Four pills, drink.

I remembered starving myself because I didn't want to go into the kitchen due to a rat infestation.

Fifth pill, drink.

I remembered walking from location to location, through rain and snow, with my mother to  watch her clean peoples homes for £20 here and £30 there just so we could eat.

Drink.

I remember seeing the pain in her eyes when the home office rejected our visa application. I remembered my childhood not being so childish.

Drink.

I had to grow up before I was a grown up.

Drink, pill, drink.

Now my future has been taken from me too?

Drink. 

I didn’t realise the darkness I was experiencing was a black out. It was silent for what felt like a lifetime. I thought I was gone until I felt my rough bedsheets beneath my fingertips. My heavy eyelids slowly opened to the blurry sight of my white bedroom door. A chalky taste sat on my tongue and an acidic burn  spread throughout my throat. Must’ve been the alcohol. I slowly pushed myself up only to feel my stomach turn upside down and my head pound like a thousand drums. I probably should have gone to the hospital but at that point I had stopped wanting, for the first time I stopped dreaming and stopped hoping. I no longer desired to belong in this world. Instead I sat up on my bed in the darkness, in silence, with no thought in my mind, staring at the white door as if it was a gateway to heaven.

I heard someone's keys open the front door, from how the door closed gently I knew it was my mum and not one of the other tenants. I leaned over my bed to tuck the alcohol and pills in the corner of my wardrobe and crawled into bed, pulling the sheets over my head. I could hear my mum's footsteps travelling up the stairs, I’ve never heard her walk up the stairs so quickly before. I couldn’t pretend to be okay so I just pretended I was sleeping. “ Taviann! didn't you hear me calling your phone!” she said in a panic which was unusual because we rarely exchange words when she returns from work. “ What's wrong! The spirit told me something was wrong”. I stayed hidden under the covers’. I told her I was fine but she clearly did not believe me, rightfully so. When she left the room to go into the kitchen, I picked up my phone from the floor and saw multiple missed calls from her.

Why did she call? She never calls me mid shift. Seeing that made me sorrowful. I had never experienced her being worried for me before. We didn't speak for the rest of that night and I didn’t move from that spot in the bed. Cradling my twisted stomach, I slept the pain away.

Since that day, I have been searching for a reason to belong.

Written By Taviann Foster