The boy with no identity
A self
reflexive account; The Boy with no Identity
Whilst collecting the maps I
undertook an ethnographic account and my
self reflections are shared here.
It took a referral and some weeks for me to be invited into the ‘community’ to collect the
cognitive maps. The community is a mix of newly arrived members that share a
lunch on a Friday. It is based in a
‘community hall’, which is religious funded building. The leaders are from a diversity of backgrounds
and wear t. shirts that state: “I speak
asylum” though in reality some are not asylum seekers but newly arrived migrants seeking work. The subversive aim of the group leaders
seems spiritual, but this is not
enforced, and an all friends together
feeling pervades the air.
All
members of this community seem very confident and comfortable with each
other in this environment. There is a plaque on the wall that: ‘God Loves Everyone’ and everyone is welcome.
God too, ‘speaks asylum’ with: ‘Welcome’ written in many languages on
positive images of diversity placed around the room. However, I feel as though
I am intruding in this space.
Even though the community have been given
prior notice, that someone was coming
in ‘for drawings’, I feel as though I am somehow, still imposing.
The seating plan in the space is a
haphazard array of scattered tables and
chairs in the corners of the room and
against walls, some in the middle, none linked to the other. I had expected the
‘democratic’ layout of everyone seated around
a circular layout of chairs, no head of table, sharing a communal feast of food
in the middle. Instead , everyone was
head of their own table. There was a
food counter against one wall and the
member helpers served, and the member, people took their chosen tea/ coffee and
cakes to separate locations with chairs, nodding at each other, some shaking
hands as they passed each other.
Throughout the lunch, people crossed the
room, sat with friends then went back to
the table they had originally chose. I
did not feel this was an unofficial code of segregation but a happily informal and democratically
unspoken agreed way of interacting.
I introduce myself.
The first person I approach is male; he
speaks very broken English and seems nervous around me.
“Are you an official?” I am white, British, I hold the paper and
pens.
“Of course not,” I smile widely , and i say
“Look I am wearing jeans”.
He does not smile back. So I point out my
children that I had taken along with me to give me a ‘I’m just a parent’ look .
It registers but he still does not smile. I ask if he is willing to draw a map
from his house to the places he visits or the places that are important to him.
He looks at the paper and felt tips pens and nods and picks up the biros instead.
I decide to remove the colored felt tips
completely.
He begins to doodle on another piece of
paper then as I walk away, to get us both teas, he begins to draw the map. My
heart beats fast, my first ‘official’
map from this group. Then I panic that
maybe I am coming across as official after all? so I decide to slouch and drink tea to make
me look ‘Unofficial’ again . He glances up and says:
“How do I draw close or far?”
I think for a few minutes and say: “Just
write N or F ”.
He looks blankly at me: “Draw it,” he says.
I draw a ‘C ‘and an ‘F ‘on the palm of my
hand but he becomes agitated: “No! draw it on paper!”
I
write a clear ‘C’ and a clear ‘F’. He studies the letters and asks me to write
the whole word. I do so and watch as he studies the letters again and I start to realise that he appears to
internalize the two words in a way that
seem to symbolize his life, his daily existence. He suddenly exclaims:
“Everywhere there is rubbish, rubbish
everywhere!”
I right the letter ‘R’ then realise my
mistake and quickly write the whole word on the paper. He continues with his ‘drawing’. I glance
around the room. I notice a man in a cap. I ask if he would like to draw a map.
He replies:
“No I come for coffee, fags.” All the men around him laugh loudly and one
man gets up to get him a coffee.
Another offers him a packet of tobacco and they all shake hands laughing
again.
The man
sat next to him states he would draw me a map. I offer him the biros and
he begins to draw. I do not join
him because he seems very intent on his
drawing and besides I am
called over to a table occupied by two women.
They state they are from **** :
“It’s in****” they say and they
ask if I am there to interview them. Again, I laugh and state: “No! but they could do a drawing for me if
they will?”
The one woman looks at the other then
exclaims at me :
“But can’t you just interview us?”
I shake my head stating I am not after
being that intrusive. She looks me up
and down and asks me personal questions about my life. I answer them whilst the
other woman takes a biro and begins to draw. The first lady chats about her
life in the UK Birmingham
Another woman approaches my table and asks if she can
do a drawing. I nod and I explain to her son the reason for the map. Although
she can speak very good English, she uses her son to communicate, “ To talk and
translate English into English for her: “Cos he got the learning.”. She states she travels quite far to get basic
stuff and the school is far from her
house and that is a problem getting her daughter to school on time and
often. She states she has:
“Very good, very helpful neighbors that
shares with her”.
She never states what they share but she
adds:
“I come here for the real help, my
neighbors don’t know I come here, I come for the private things that I don’t
want my neighbors to know”.
Then she nods and I also nod as though I
understand what she means but I don't.
She smiles at my acceptance and assumed understanding and starts drawing
again. After a short while, she looks over at her sons map and proudly declares:
“He
is going to university”.
Her
son looks at his map complex and detailed and states quietly that he has been offered a place at university but he has
to sort out his identity stuff.
“ The stuff to prove who he is.” She says
He explains that he has no money to pay to
prove his identity and that even the doctors charge him to say who he is : “the
map doesn’t show a free bank does it?” . He laughs an ironic laugh. I shake my
head in agreement.
I glance over at the first man that
offered to do the maps. He has put his pen down and is still studying it
thoughtfully. I realize as I watch him
and his facial expressions that he is studying his life and that the maps are
possibly far more intrusive than any interview I could have asked for.
I begin to
understand, from drawing on experience and previous research, why the
****woman wanted me to interview her.
Interviews are what migrants do best. Interviews are their safe or
treacherous passage through, they are their security, and their whole future
may rely on their memorized script. The **** woman knew her script well.
My
thoughts are interrupted by a male who presents me with a complex map.
He hands it proudly to me. The map is tagged with his street name and even his
real name even though they were not
required at all. He states he wishes me luck with my ‘good work’. I realize his map, in contrast to the other,
operates as a proud map and a resourced
map. I walk over to the first man and I
interrupt him and as he hands it to me
he repeats:
“Rubbish, dirt, everywhere”.
The group that is now sitting with him
asks me what I will do with the: ‘good
work’. I explain that’s it for planning
purposes. They look at me and I feel
suddenly self serving and embarrassed. I want to say:
“ we shall publish it and change the
world! We shall make a world where your maps are colorful, resourced, detailed,
and complex and the streets are clean.”
but I know that isn't the truth.
I actually say: “I will hand a copy to the
planners and councilors in the ward”.
They all nod happily and agree that the ‘ officials’ will have to listen
to my work after all they explain to me, no one ever asked them what it is like where
they are before. I smile again, they all nod, the man with the t-shirt rolls another cigarette and nods his
approval, and they all smile at me again.
I say goodbye and promise to let them know
how I get on and promise to tell the council to clear up the rubbish (something
I can promise as the council have a public
rubbish removal hotline).
The boy with the no identity and delayed
access to further ‘learning’ catches me at the door and asks me for
advice. I signpost him to the one last
resource available in the whole of the region. He smiles and thanks me. With that smile, for that momen't I am in the
same place and although I have not shared the same space with the rest of ‘the
community’ for that one moment, I know I
am in the same space as the boy with no
Identity.
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