The Guardian Family 01.09.2012

7/31/2019 The Guardian Family 01.09.2012

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Saturday 01.09.12 | guardian.co.uk

well imagin e how very diffi cult it hasbeen to give her up, wrote Marjorie ofSue in one letter.

There was no question at all shedidnt want to give us away, says Sue.

The one puzzle was why Marjoriehadnt told Sue that she had a sister.When Sue asked all Marjorie would

Lost and found ... Sue Elliot with hersisters Fiona Boorman, left, and HazelStaniforth Photograph by LindaNylind for the Guardian

When Sue Elliot met her birth mother in 1991, it was only the first reunion for shehadnt been the only baby given up for adoption. Interview by Patrick Barkham

The secret sisters

How one half of my family enslaved the other Page 4

After an exchange of letters, in 1991,biological mother and daughter met forthe first time in nearly 40 years. Suerecalls that Marjorie was warm andspontaneous and looked nothinglike her. The two women formed abond; Sue helped her birth mothermove into sheltered accommodationclose to her home in London and,rather guiltily, found herself spendingmore time with Marjorie than with heradoptive parents.

Then as Sue and her partner Bevan

The yellowing adop-tion papers, dated1952 revealedfor the first timethe name of SueElliots mother:Marjorie PhyllisHeppelthwaite.

A quick flick through the Londontelephone directory turned up anaddress for Heppelthwaite, MP butSue had heard enough a bout fraughtreunions and did not want to pick up

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ment of social services. As soon as shesaw the headed notepaper she guessedwhat it would reveal: Marjorie hadgiven another child up for adoptionand hadnt told her.

Hello, is that my big sister? saidFiona, when Sue rang her.

Fiona, who is five years younger andhas a different biological father, hadbegun the search for her mother at thesame time as Sue, but found her sisterfirst. When the sisters met, beforeFiona was reunited with Marjorie they

Fionas reunion with her biologicalmother was as joyful and uncompli-cated as Sues had been. I was strok-ing her hand and said, Im so glad Ivefound you, I cant believe youre mymum, she remembers.

Perhaps both women found it easyto form a relationship with Marjorie be-cause they came from loving adoptivefamilies and neither had felt rejectedby their biological mother.

Included in both sisters adoptionfiles were heartbreaking letters from

PamSt Clement:

Foster care was

the makingof me

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St CFoste

the

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Frank Sinatra Junior Dealing with Dad Page 3


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2 Family Saturday Guardian 01.09.12

The secret sisters

reunited, the daughters jokingly askedMarjorie how many more of them therewere. Oh, eight, replied Marjorie,and they all laughed.

Throughout most of the 1990s, Sueand Fiona enjoyed spending time withMarjorie, treating her to her first ever

plane flight to Jersey and also becom-ing increasingly close to each other.

Marjorie died in 2000 and the sistersmourned together and scattered herashes.

Nearly two years after Marjoriesdeath, a recorded delivery letterarrived at Sues door. When she sawEast Midlands social services onthe envelope, she burst out laughing.It might have been a mild hystericalreaction, she writes in her memoir,Love Child.

Marjorie, it turned out, had a thirdillegitimate daughter in her 40th year,with a third man who also appeared towant nothing to do with the child, alsogiven up for adoption.

This baby, Hazel, was now in her 40sand searching for her mother. She wastoo late, but found two sisters instead.

Nearly 10 years after that revelation,the three women, who have gatheredat Sues house to talk about their birthmother and the adoptions, seem asclose as any sisters. When they met,there were no lightning bolts of recog-nition but Sue describes discoveringeach others existence as a blessing.

They wonder what it would havebeen like to grow up together Suewould have been the mother figure,says Fiona.

She would have been on our cases,says Hazel, laughing but they dontfeel cheated of a shared childhood.

We havent had to go through thejealousy or rivalry or bitching, saysFiona.

And as Sue puts it, We came to thisrelationship with no baggage.

Suddenly having sisters has notbeen without its challenges, how-ever. Fiona admits she was unsettledwhen Hazel traced them because shewent from being an only child whohad found a longed for big sister herhappy ending to the threatenedmiddle child with a potential rival forSues affections. She fretted that Suewouldnt love me as much until sherealised that Hazel was totally openand honest. Out of all of us Hazel ismost like Marge temperamentally,thinks Fiona. Shes very even sheslovely to be with.

Hazel feels a sadness that she didnot find Marjorie before her death. Iwould have loved even an hour withher. I would love to have seen her, shesays, but insists she cannot regret notbeginning her search sooner.

As all three women guessed beforethey began their search, there wouldbe profound implications for theiradoptive families. Unlike Sue and Ha-zel, who knew they were adopted f roman early age, Fiona was not told untilshe was 11. I have this memory ofmy mum saying, You do know youreadopted dont you? At the time I didntunderstand what adopted was but,ever eager to please, I said, Oh yes, Ido, and she said, We went to a placewhere we picked you because you werevery special.

All three were given the specialstory; it was what adoptive parentswere advised to do in the 1950s and60s. While Sue and Hazel wrestledwith feelings of guilt towards theirparents over their search for their birthmother the were soon reassured.

Hazels dads first words were, I dontknow why you didnt do it a lot ear-lier; her mum was also totally behindit.

Fiona experienced a more definiteconflict of loyalty when she told herparents about Marjorie. It was very

sad. My mum said, How could youdo this? I feel betrayed. I said, I did itbecause I was curious, I just wanted toknow.

I remember her words: Curiosityhas killed this cat.

Sue and Hazels parents bothhanded down the expensive babyclothes that Marjorie had dressed themin on the day she gave them up, butFiona does not know if she was givena special outfit; her mother refused todiscuss it. She says her relationshipwith her now frail mum is OK but shefeels saddened because I would haveloved her support.

Fiona understands,however, thatadoption was verydifferent back then.

Adoptive parentswere told that thebirth mother wouldnever know it

was a shut door and then the lawchanged in 1975, when adults weregiven the right to trace their biologicalparents. Her adoptive parents, saysFiona, felt betrayed by the system aswell as by me.

The three sisters agree that they didnot feel betrayed by Marjorie givingthem up, but why did it happen threetimes?

To give up one baby is hard enoughbut to give up three says Fiona. AsSue explains, Marjorie was not a sillyyoung girl: she was 30 when she hadSue, 35 when she gave birth to Fiona,and was so ashamed of being a singlemother again at 40 that she lied abouther age when gave up Hazel at 12 weeks.

Sue wonders if Marjorie sufferedfrom depression she was a compul-sive hoarder and yet she f ound her tobe a cheerful, loving person. AlthoughMarjorie was flirty, laughs Sue, andliked men she believes that Marjoriespent her life fatally attracted to fatherfigures, repeatedly choosing marriedor unavailable men. An only child,Marjorie was devastated by the earlydeath of her mother and dutifully livedwith her father until his death, despitea disastrous relationship with him.When she was pregnant with Sue, herfather told Marjorie that she had madeher bed and must lie in it.

Why repeat that mistake and whynot fight to keep her children? Socialworkers told Sue that serial producersof illegitimate children are sometimessubconsciously trying to replace thebaby they have lost. Marjorie wasdesperate to start a family but didnthave luck. They say you make yourown luck but she was dealt a poor handand made some bad choices.

Her daughters agree that Marjoriewas unassertive but few women werein those days. We tend to forget howpressing the moral imperative was inthat era, says Sue.

In the 1950s, abortion was illegal,the pill didnt exist, and the socialstigma that sometimes still clingsto single mothers today was off thescale single mothers were fallenand babies born out of wedlock werebastards. The few mothers whobrought up babies without fathersrarel did so without the su ort of

their family; Marjorie had no support.With todays emphasis on childrens

rights making it so easy for adoptedpeople to find their biological parents,are the sisters sad they did not growup in another time? Was it the wrongtime for us? says Hazel. It was the

wrong time for Marjorie.Given that Sue and Fiona formed

such a positive relationship with Mar-jorie it seems another small tragedythat she still did not mention Hazel.Was she so fearful or pessimistic thatshe couldnt imagine a happy out-come? A lot had gone wrong in her lifebut she wasnt a naturally pessimisticperson at all, says Sue. She justdidnt want to bring it to the surface. Itwas so totally suppressed for her ownself-preservation.

When they first met, Fiona askedMarjorie if she ever thought about her.She said, Oh lovey, no, I couldnt.I had to shut you away. It wouldhave been too painful. The only timeI thought about you was on yourbirthday.

There was, Fiona and Sue agree, a

resilience to Marjorie. I so regret notpinning her to the wall and saying,Now Marjorie, tell me everything youknow, says Sue. But there was partof Marjorie that was always secretive,that she didnt share with me, and I feltI had to respect that.

For years Sue felt critical of theshadowy Peter White who was listedas her biological father but apparentlyshowed no desire to help Marjorie orhis child. In recent years she and hersisters have become more curious aboutwhat they may have inherited fromtheir different biological fathers. Itsinteresting that we all took the decisionto search for our birth mothers not ourbirth fathers, says Fiona. Thats re-flective of the mother-daughter bond.

All three have now searchedbut only Fiona has discovered anyinformation: before her father diedhe was a professional musician, andhe appeared to lie to Marjorie, whodeclared he was married on Fionasadoption form, when there is no recordof a marriage.

He was playing on the cruise shipsand didnt want to be tied down. It wasalmost like he had a girl in every port,suspects Fiona, who as a dance teacherbelieves she inherited her musicalityfrom him.

Fiona thinks she got her love ofclothes from Marjorie, while Hazelbelieves her positiveness and mentalcapacity to cope with things is similarto Marjorie; Sue shares Marjories drysense of humour. Weve all got goodbits of Marjorie, says Hazel.

For all the profound effect of theirbelated discovery of their biologicalmother, the sisters are clear that shenever became their mum. Fiona likensher to an aunt; Sue calls her slightlymore than a dear friend.

Our adoptive mums and dads areour mums and dads, says Hazel, andMarjorie was Marjorie.

Parts of her life, they accept, willalways remain a mystery. You haveto learn to live with a number ofunknowns, otherwise it eats awayat you, says Sue. And it shouldntbecause there are more importantthings to worry about.

Love Child by Sue Elliot is publishedby Vermilion, 6.99. To order a copyfor 5.59, including free UK p&P, go toguardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0330333 6846

A group called the Movement for anAdoption Apology (MA A) is lobbyingfor a full parliamentary apology forthe unsound adoption practices ofthe past. The MAA argues that if theWest Australian parliament can makean apology, as it did in 2010, then anapology is also due to birth mothersin Britain.

From the 1940s until the 1970s,single mothers were often persuadedby social workers, and church andprivate adoption agencies, that therewas little option but to relinquishtheir babies to married couples whowanted to adopt.

Mothers were rarely allowed newsof their childrens welfare which veryoften had a detrimental effect on therest of their lives and on the chil-drens lives too.

The experience so traumatised manywomen that they suffered years ofmental and, in some cases physical,ill health. Some were unable to havemore children. One of the foundersof the MAA, Jean Robertson-Molloy,gave up her daughter for adoption in1963, when she was six days old.

It seemed like the only thing todo at the time, she says. I thoughtkeeping the baby would devastatemy parents and everyone assuredme it would be best for the child. Iveregretted it ever since.

She says an apology would make agreat difference to others like her. Itcould start to make the unspeakablespeakable and healing could begin.Sarah Cope

movementforanadoptionapology.org

With an apology, the healing could begin

Together ... Marjorie with Sue, r ight,and Fiona in the mid-90s. Below,clockwise, Marjorie in the 1940s;Sue, Fiona and Hazel as children


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Family Saturday Guardian 01.09.12 3

Son of Sinatra

Frank Sinatra split from his first wife when his son, Frank Jr, was six. It was 40 yearsbefore father and son developed a true relationship. He talks to Nick Duerden aboutbeing kidnapped, forging his own music career and being the son of a legend

When hewas 19,FrankSinatra Jrwas kid-nappedand heldto ransom

for four days. This would be a terri-ble thing to befall any son of rich andfamous parents, but all the more sosomehow for someone who had spenthis adolescence trying to remain invisi-ble. I never felt that it was in anyonesbest interest to be looked at differentlyby other people because of a name, hesays. I kept to myself a lot.

But when the father he rarely sawpaid the ransom reported to be closeto $240,000 (1.3m in todays money)

Frank Jr became headline news aroundthe world. The timing was bad. He hadjust recently launched himself as asinger and musician, which he hopedwould establish him in his own right.Now such hopes were scotched.

The real damage, he suggests, wasnot the kidnapping but what happenedafterwards. The criminals inventeda story that the whole thing wasphoney. It wasnt, and they duly wentto prison, but the rumour that it hadbeen a publicity stunt staged by hisfather to help his sons fledgling careerstuck.

That was the stigma put on me,he says. In a way, he has lived w ith itever since.

Nancy Sinatras younger brother,Frank Jr was born in 1944. By the timeFrank Jr was six, his father had split

from their mother and it would beanother four decades before they hadanything like a proper relationship.

He was a good father as much asit was within his power, is how heputs it, diplomatically. Frank Sr, heexplains, was making two films andfour albums a year in the 50s and 60s,and touring incessantly. Frank Jr sawmore of him on the big screen than hedid in the flesh, and considered beingthe mans namesake a heavy burden.

Frank Jr likes to say that in an idealworld he would have excelled at schooland gone on to run G eneral Motors. Buthe didnt, and so he couldnt. He was agifted piano player, though, and by t heage of 18 realised he could sing too. Notonly was there a disarming family re-semblance, but he had the s ame dark,chocolatey voice. Comparisons wereinevitable, exacerbated by his decisionto make much the same sort of musicand play the same casino circuit.

At first I felt like I was living in hisshadow, he agrees, but I did developmy own following eventually, so I musthave been doing something right.

There were intermittent televisionappearances over the years often as aguest on the shows of his fathers RatPack cohorts, Dean Martin and SammyDavis Jr but only the occasional album.Instead, touring was his thing, and heplayed in 81 countries across the world.

That he never strove to competewith his father suggests he found itimpossible, and so didnt bother to try.But presumably his long career hasbeen a fulfilling one?

Yes, but does it really constituteactual success? he muses. Over allthese years, I have never had a hitmovie, never had a hit television pro-gramme and never had a hit record.To my way of thinking, that meanssuccess has not been achieved. I havemade no mark of my own creation.This, he concludes, is something tobe considered.

Interviewing a 68-year-old FrankSinatra Jr is, you cannot help but feel,a markedly different experience towhat it must have been like when hewas 28 or 38. He has found the kind ofpeace that likely eluded him for muchof his professional life. On this sum-mer afternoon, he is charming anderudite company, full of candour andunerringly calm.

My lack of success does not troubleme at this sta e in m life no he sa s.

When I was younger, sure, I wantedto have some degree of, shall we say,identity. But it never came.

Even after Frank Jrs kidnappingordeal, his father failed to becomemuch of a tangible presence in hislife. Frank Sr, it seems, was too busy.There were more films, more albums,more women to marry. They would,Frank Jr says, meet on occasion andtalk on the phone, but rarely more thanthat. It wasnt until he was 44 that hisfather finally invited him into the innercircle.

It was 1988 and I was in AtlanticCity getting ready to do one of myshows, he begins, when Sinatra cameon the line and told me he wanted meto conduct his band for him.

He pauses with all the timing of alight entertainer.

Well, after my friends had revivedme with the smelling salts, I said tohim, You cant be serious?

Sinatra was. Frank Jr took the job,and spent the last seven years of hisfathers career touring with him.The US public were fascinated (andnosy), which meant Frank Jr becameadept at avoiding giving answers toquestions that probed too deeply intothe private life of one of their biggeststars. He pleaded mitigating circum-stances: when at last father and son

did bond, his father was an old man, ashadow of his former self.

When I came on board, Sinatra wasalready 72. He was slowing down.

In private moments, he says, he oftenfound him withdrawn. I would see himvery up, then very down, and some-times very sad. It often came to it thatI simply held him, just held on to himand told him I was here for him. I owedhim that. And in that church on thatafternoon in 1998, when I was lookingdown at his casket covered in flowers, Iwas grateful that at least he hadnt diedwith us as strangers, that I had beenable to get to know him, and he hadbeen able to get to know his son.

According tovarious onlinesources, FrankJr has two sonshimself, FrankSinatra III, bornin 1978, andMichael, a dec-

ade later. The former made the newstwo years ago after a reported suicideattempt. When I ask about that, hesays, No, I have one son, and his nameis Michael.

And of the reports to the contrary?There are certain people who make allsorts of claims is all he sa s.

We did it our way Frank Sinatraand Frank Jr performing in the late60s. Below, Frank Sinatra Jr today

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About Michael he is happy to talk.He is 25 now, almost 26. He lives i nJapan, a college professor. He getsback to the United States probablyonce a year and I make damn wellsure that we stay in contact. Wheneverhe does visit, we go to dinner, justthe two of us. I want him to have whatI didnt.

Frank Jr, who is no longer married,arrives in London this month withhis band. His show is called, perhapsinevitably, Sinatra Sings Sinatra.

Well, thats what some people wantto call it, but Ive never felt particularlycomfortable with that, he says. Theway I see it, before I can sell an audi-ence Frank Sr, I have to sell them FrankJr first. Sinatra is a very establishedcommodity over here, whereas I

He smiles again and trails off, thefires that doubtless once raged inhis youth now merely smoulderingembers.

If the audience comes, and likeswhat I do, then thats enough for me,he says. Ill settle for that.

Frank Sinatra Jr plays Ronnie Scotts,London W1 13-15 Se tember

I was gratefulthat he hadntdied with us asstrangers that I

ot to know him

GETTYIMAGES


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WhenAndrea Stuart traced herfamily history, she uncovered a400-year-old tale of slavery andoppression. How will she explainthis to her children, one whiteand one mixed race?

My fascina-tion withmy familyhistorywas ignitedby myBarbadianuncle,

Trevor Ashby, a brown-skinned manwith a perfectly topiaried afro, whowas an executive with Coca-Cola onthe island of Barbados.

In my early teens, he began tellingme stories of his and my mothersplantation childhood. Fascinated by hisanecdotes, I started searching archivesall over the world for details of myancestors births, deaths andmarriages. My parents were interestedbut knew little. Undeterred, I badgeredrelatives I barely knew for information.

The story that emerged was almostfour centuries old and replete withdrama, tragedy and grief: the story ofAtlantic slavery in microcosm.

In the late 1630s, my oldestidentifiable ancestor, a young black-smith called George Ashby, set sailfrom England to Barbados in search ofa better life. The jour ney was diffi cultand dangerous; arrival no less so.Barbados was a wild l and populated bya handful of unfettered young menwith little to lose. Travelling acrossthis small island meant hacking path-ways through dense foliage in scorch-ing heat, assailed by unfamiliar wildlifeand bereft of familiar comforts. Life asa planter was exhausting and the cropshe had hoped would make him rich indigo, tobacco, cotton barelyallowed him to scrape a living.

But then he and his contemporariesturned to sugar, and their life wastransformed. A few centuries before,sugar had erupted in popularity,becoming known as white gold. Tomeet demand, planters like GeorgeAshby sought more cost-effectivemeans of production, and replaced

A bittersweetheritage

their indentured white servants with amore oppressed workforce: Africanslaves. The horrors these captivesendured on their journey to theAmericas my African ancestorsincluded and the collateral damage ofthe trade, which cost millions of lives,has been numbered as one of historysworst atrocities.

These forced migrants soonbecame more numerous than the whitesettlers who had initially colonised theisland, a subjugated majority withevery reason to hate their masters:in response, a paranoid and oppressivesociety evolved. White and black livedcheek by jowl on the plantations, andin this state of intimate terror, blood-lines inevitably intermingled. Overgenerations, Ashbys family mutatedfrom a traditionally English one, to amulti-hued one with white, brown andblack faces. (His descendant, my great-great-great-great grandfather, had atleast 15 slave children, all of whomlived and worked on his plantation.)Many of their descendants would, intheir turn, migrate. Some, like my ownfamily, ended up back in Ashbysoriginal homeland.

I realised that being able to trace myancestors back to the 17th century wasa gift that would allow me to show howone family was shaped by centuries ofslavery and settlement. But it put mein a quandary. How would I make senseof this disturbing story for my chil-dren, for whom Barbados is an occa-sional holiday destination, a place ofrelaxation and family fun?

My elder daughter, a blue-eyed,porcelain-skinned six-year-old, is at anage where she is asking questions,trying to make sense of her world andher family. She has great curiosity, butalso a strong need to see the world asa safe and fair place. My younger childis a brown-skinned three-year-old whois just beginning to question whypeople have different colour skins, why

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claim it because her own birth familyheritage is likely to look similar butmy white child feel alienated by it,that she is tainted by association withthe baddies? Does sharing this story ofslavery risk introducing a fissure intoour family unity, a feeling that the twowhite members are entwined with theoppressors while the two black membersare associated with the victims?

My daughters may wonder if theyshould absorb this family history at all.As the adopted one, the outsidergathered in, my younger child mightfeel my story isnt hers; my whitedaughter may reject exploring it out ofshame. And how do I give them ahealthy, critical loyalty to both mycountry of birth, where families like

ours are not fully understood, and totheir country of birth, where racismcontinues to run through the culturelike a dark seam of coal?

Of course, I am notin control of howmy daughterswill understandtheir heritage.What I say is onlythe start theywill receive mes-

sages from friends, school and thewider society about who they are andwhere they belong. They will havetheir own experiences of racism andwill form their own identifications andallegiances. But right now, what theirmum tells them is like the word of God,and I will be telling them that this story

is theirs as well as mine; and that theyare both part of this historical epic.Black as well as white people helped tofound the country they live in; and wehave worked and suffered and died forour place here.

I want them to realise that who theyare is the result of these earlier eventsand that they are the outcome of thesepeople and what they did. So the three-and-a-half centuries of Atlantic slaveryare just the early chapters of the storyin which they now appear.

I want them to appreciate thatgenetics is only one of the connectionsthat link a family. Our families areconnected in other ways: allegiances,traditions, preferences and a myriadother idiosyncrasies. That one of thethings that binds us is our storytelling

Andrea Stuart, centre, with herpartner Tara and their daughters. Left,from top: Andreas mother, her fatherand one of her ancestors, RobertCooper Ashby, a sugar planter andslave owner Photograph by ChristianSinibaldi for the Guardian

How do I explainthat one branchof our familywas enslaved

by the other?

own terrible logic and justification; amonument to the dangers of greed andvenality. In part, too, I simply want mychildren to bear witness: to rememberhow slavery relentlessly dehumanisedits victims, the systematic torture andviolence, generating self-hatred andabolishing families. Planters did notrecognise or respect the family bondsslaves brought with them or chose tocreate. They abused the women theyowned and treated the men as studs tocreate new workers. They separatedblack mothers from their children,sometimes to nurse white children.Black African culture and family lifewere smashed on the rocks of theCaribbean shores, and the impact ofthat is still felt 300 years later.

I also want them to know that slaveswere not just victims but survivors.I want to remind them that it was notthe abolitionists alone who broughtabout emancipation, but the enslavedthemselves. By the end of the 18thcentury, slave revolts exploded likefireworks across the English Americas;each disruption making slavery moreuntenable. I want them to salute thecourage of these hundreds of thousandsof forgotten rebels, such as theJamaican slave-woman who declared,as she went into the fray: I know I willdie but my children will be free!

So why cant I just tell them in thewords I have used here? Finding theway to have these conversations hasanother layer of complexity in my caseas I have a very modern family. Neitherof my children is biologically or ge-

netically connected to me. One is mypartners birth child, the other ours byadoption. One is white while the otheris of white and bl ack Caribbean herit-age. So there is no way of telling howthey will relate to my family story. Willthey see it as theirs by right or onlyborrowed?

Will my black child feel she is able to

and as a writer whose passion iscreating narratives I hope this willfeel as important for my daughters as itfeels for me. I want them to understandthat love is more important than blood.

For many people, inheritance issomething we carry in our bodies sothat Great Uncle Claudes experiencesare, in a very real sense, built into us.But there is another way of under-standing how our heritage makes uswho we are. It is as heirloom, a gift, achronicle handed down between thegenerations, one that can easily be lost,discarded or reclaimed.

Just as I see my non-biologicalchildren displaying my own traits pulling faces as I do, or laughing at thesame things, or dancing in the exactsame style so they can inherit myhistory. It is just another gift from me,alongside my love and devotion,should they choose to accept it.

Sugar in the Blood: A Familys Story ofSlavery and Empire by Andrea Stuart ispublished by Portobello Books, 18.99.To order a copy for 14.24, includingfree UK p&P, go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

LarryHagmanon 58years ofweddedhappinessNext week

she looks so different from her sist er,and why it seems to matter to thosearound her. How do I explain that onebranch of our family was enslaved bythe other? How do I educate themabout contemporary racism withoutdistressing and dividing them? Theseare questions for every family of Carib-bean descent, but equally pertinent forwhite British families, whose heritageis inextricably tied to t he same history.

At the moment, I have to confess,I have told them little, not least be-cause I can still remember my ownreaction when my parents explainedwhat racial prejudice meant, andhow shocked and frightened it mademe feel. (That I was 11 at the time is atestament to how sheltered I was in myCaribbean milieu.) When I finally gotaround to explaining the idea thatsome people disliked others simplybecause of the colour of their skin, myoutraged elder child sensibly declared:But Mama, it would be really boring ifwe all looked the same.

Ultimately I want my daughters tounderstand both how history has madethem, and how it is possible to stepbeyond the confines of historical leg-acy. I want them to comprehend theatrocities of the slave system and to

recognise how the oppressors wereeven more debased by the process thantheir victims; hence their exploitationof their own kin.

I want them to appreciate how theintertwined forces of sugar and slaverycreated the world we live in today,enriching Britain but also leading tothe bigotry that means descendants ofAfricans remain disadvantaged incomparison to those who promotedthe trade against them. I want toexplain that these prejudices, stillwielded today, have nothing do withthe reality of black peoples abilities orworth, but were developed to justifyslavery.

Slavery wasnt just about somepeople being vile to others, but waspart of a global industry that had its


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FamilyLife

Snapshot My parentsmeeting Joan Crawford

When I was young I never understoodwhy my parents seemed so pleased

bout this photograph known in theamily as the one with Joan Crawford.hey told me she was a famous movietar, but I had not seen her movies and,

from the photograph, I thought herless beautiful and glamorous than mymother, so I wasnt much impressed.

Now, many years later, I look at thispicture and I am filled with admirationfor what it tells me of my parentsstory. It was taken in Beirut around1958. My father was posted to thePakistani embassy there and JoanCrawfords husband Alfred Steele (on

Snapshot ...Umber Khairismother andfather, right,meeting JoanCrawford and herhusband inBeirut, 1958

the left) was visiting in his role as headof Pepsi-Cola.

My parents had spent the day on thebeach before going on to enjoy theirusual evenings socialising. Duringtheir decades as a diplomatic couplethey travelled around the world. Theyenjoyed and explored every foreigncapital they lived in Nairobi, Beirut,Cairo, Algiers, Khartoum, Buenos

Aires. They took a great interest in allthe countries they went to and madelots of friends l ocally, with many ofwhom they are still in touch.

Although my parents tried to givetheir three children opportunities toexpand our horizons in any waypossible, none of us quite inherited theirzest for life or their adventurous spirit.

My fathers face is only partially

visible in the picture. Now, ironically, itis the world that is no longer visible tohim. He lost the sight in one eye in his40s and went completely blind in his70s. With that, he also lost the well-loved pursuits of his independent life:the long hours of bridge, his reading,research and writing. He lives in dark-ness now, frail and linked up to dialysismachines three times a week yetdespite all his physical setbacks, he haswritten two books and retains a fierceinterest in history and food.

My mother attained a degree ofcelebrity late in life through her actingwork in television drama in Pakistan.People now ask her for an autographand want to have their pictures takenwith her.

For me, she was always more of astar than Joan Crawford. My parentswere definitely the main leads in thefilm of my childhood. Umber Khairi

Playlist Dads crazySpanish disco style

When Youre in Love with a BeautifulWoman by Dr HookWhen youre in love with a beautifulwoman, its hard

Later on in life I became aware of boyssniggering at the innuendo of this line,but the first time I heard the song, in1979, I was an innocent nine-year-oldon holiday in rural Spain.

The fact that I hadnt heard it beforemight have been because our house-hold didnt have an extensive modernmusic collection. My parents hadBeatles records and I rememberdancing to Abba at a friends house, butI wasnt au fait with pop.

We were on holiday with a familyfriend, who was between marriagesand had what might be termed a wild


7/8

7

A letter to...

streak. Tales of her adventurousrambles were legion. She wouldannounce that we must attend somefiesta that was supposed to be marvel-lous. It would always turn out to beseveral hours drive away, with amournful troupe of guitarists playinginterminable Spanish love songs until3am, by which time Id have fallenasleep on my mothers knee.

On one of our nights out we cameacross an open-air disco. We joined inin a desultory fashion in the corner,Europop hardly being the best thing toshake your tail feathers to. SuddenlyDr Hook came on and my fatherseemed galvanised by the novelty of asong, albeit cheesy, with a recognisabletune and sung in English.

He began to dance, a dance like noother. The song is reasonably fastanyway, but my father moved at doublespeed, with a strange little flourish ofthe hands and a look to the heavens atthe end of each flourish that made itseem like an eccentric foxtrot. Itcertainly intrigued the DJ, whoplayed Dr Hook at least twice moreso everyone could see the strange

Engleeesh dancing.Maggie Brierley

We love to eat OurAsian chicken rice

Ingredients1 chicken, preferably free-range,about 1.75kg375ml soy sauce375ml cold water5-10 sections (whole stars) of star anise2.5cm ginger root, peeled and sliced5-10 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed1 tbsp sugar4 tbsp Chinese rice wine (or dry sherry)Sesame oil to taste

Remove any loose fat from the interiorof the chicken. Place it breast down ina pan just big enough so that as much

of the bird as possible will be coveredby the cooking liquid. Put the rest ofthe ingredients, except the oil, into thepan and bring to the boil. Turn downthe heat to a brisk si mmer, cover andcook for about 30 minutes. Turn thechicken over and cook for another 30minutes, basting occasionally. Removethe chicken and check the juices arerunning clear (if not, return to the panuntil fully cooked).

Allow to cool on a plate, then shredthe flesh and drizzle with sesame oil.Serve with steamed rice, the hot cook-ing liquor, shredded cucumber andspring onions or salad and chilli sauce.

My parents met in Singapore in 1978.It was a classic boy-meets-girl story,except she was a divorced, middle-classwoman in her late 20s who fancied mydads mate Dave; and he was an oil

worker, from Gateshead, who had beenliving in the far east for a while and wasfed up with attempting to have mean-ingful relationships with Asian womenwho didnt get his accent, British atti-tude to alcohol or his jokes. They met a

few days after she arrived in the countryand he introduced her to water-skiing. Once Dad made sure Dave wasout of the way, things were pretty whirl-wind and within a couple of years theyhad married and had a child. Through-out this period, they spent a great dealof time in restaurants, often with me intow, drinking G&Ts and eating chilli crabor prawns with black beans.

We moved to Indonesia when I wasabout 18 months old, where further

culinary delights awaited. My littlebrother arrived and everything seemedto be going well until a change in politicalattitudes in Singapore meant our familyhad to move back to the UK, ostensiblytemporarily, in 1983.

My parents instilled a love of food inme, my brother and my sister, who wasborn in Scotland in 1986. Chicken ricewas a weekday staple and the fragrantsmell of ginger often filled the house.

I spent the rest of my childhood inAberdeenshire but left at the firstopportunity, taking the recipe withme. My mum loosely based her chickenrice on one of Ken Homs recipes andI copied it into a notebook.

Since I have been a grownup, I cookchicken rice whenever I want to eatsomething comforting and delicious,particularly if I am getting over a cold. It

is a bit like an Asian version of Jewishchicken soup. I also make it when I wantto look like a culinary genius, with verylittle effort. Lets be honest, it is anextremely tasty boiled chicken.

Ive adapted the recipe I wrote down15 years ago, but still have it. I keep theoriginal notepaper in my jar of staranise, which I buy in bulk from a Chinesesupermarket. That greasy, soy-sauce-stained, aniseed-scented piece of paperis one of my prized possessions. It linksme to my parents, a li fe I cant rememberand my childhood home. It makes mehappy, even though I dont need it anymore.Helen

ProblemsolvedAnnalisa Barbieri

Only you can decide which elementsof his behaviour arent acceptable. Youclearly have a healthy perspective anda good (or better) relationship with

your other children. I think its easy, asa mother, to look at where you perceiveyou are failing rather than succeeding.

Your second son doesnt sounddissimilar to many other teenagers.However, even if i t is normal teenagebehaviour (in some I stress not all teenagers) it doesnt mean that youshouldnt look beneath the surface tomake sure nothing else is going on. Hashe always been like this or is it recent?

In adolescence a childs brain goesthrough a major rewiring in order toprepare for adulthood and autonomy.You might find David BainbridgesTeenagers: A Natural History helpful asit goes into this in more detail.

Dave Spellman, a clinical psycholo-gist (bps.org.uk), says that while itsOK to say, Oh this is typical teenagestuff, it doesnt mean you have to a)

find it OK and b) let it close you off towhat may also/really be going on.

He advises: Its less importantwhich boundaries you give [all thechildren] than that you make thedecisions as parents and stick tothem.

Spellman suggests restricting wi-fi,pocket money, etc if certain minimumstandards of behaviour are not met.

Be realistic about the boundaries.We often talk about whats going onwith children during adolescence,but theres also a big change going on

for parents huge adjustments need tobe made.

He suggests trying to be a bit morearms length. Maybe dont be sopreoccupied with every area of theirlives children often like to see theirparents have their own lives, too.

Have you talked to your middle sonand asked him why he is so surly? Iftheres a particular flash point (youmentioned meal times times in yourlonger letter), try asking him if theressomething that could be done.

Dont be too hung up on how thingsshould be all the time. Family mealtimes are lovely, if they work, but if notand he doesnt want to sit with every-one, is it really the end of the worldto concede a little and let him eat onhis own a couple of ti mes a week? Itsoften what we fear will happen if we

let behaviour go unchecked, than theactual behaviour in the moment itself.

Set some rules that work for you asa family. Be confident and consistent.Stay connected but not intrusive.

And dont be afraid of having a rowor getting cross. As a teenage boy Iinterviewed for my reply to your lettersaid: Its often only in an argumentthat we can say what we really feel.

misery. How could our aching, all-consuming grief not reach out andtouch them?

Two people out of hundredsacknowledged the funeral procession.A man in the street where my grand-parents lived stopped to take off his cap,and you, a stranger at a roundabout,

paused, bowed your head and put yourhand over your heart. You were young,maybe in your 20s, Asian, and in mymemory your jumper is blue. Youalone out of all of those crowds ofpeople halted your day to acknowledgemy nans passing, even though you hadno idea who she was. I can see youstanding there among the passers-by,head lowered in a moment of stillness,entirely unselfconscious.

More than a decade later I still thinkof you when I think of that day. Youraised my spirits and made me feel lessalone, knowing that a stranger cared. Itis because of you I always stop and bowmy head when a funeral processionpasses, a sign of respect for the life thathas gone and the people who mourn.

Thank you. Sarah

The man whostopped

Ihave no idea who you were,or what you were doing in the

town centre on that weekdaymorning. What is probably foryou a tiny, long forgottenincident had a profound impacton me and helped me on a verydiffi cult day. You had no way

of knowing that the funeral processionpassing along the street was for myadored Nan and that I was sitting in t hecar behind the hearse, tryingdesperately to work out how our liveswould go on without her.

I was 16, en route to my first funeral,struggling with my first real loss. Forthe whole of that endless, painfuljourney, as I tried not to see the coffi nin front, I looked out of the window.I could not understand how theshoppers and workers carried on asnormal while we were steeped in

We have three boys, aged 17, 15 andnine. The middle one is rude, moody,sullen, antagonistic, silent, lazy nothing is ever his fault, he is always

hard done by, etc. So far, so normal.The older two have never really got

on and have reached the point wherethey cant be civil to each other. Everyconversation is hostile and aggressive.It brings us all down and makes familymeal times unpleasant; either myhusband or I lose it and get cross withthem.

The eldest is bright, works hard, ismotivated and has done well at school.Although quite bright, the middle childisnt motivated and isnt doing nearlyas well as all the teachers say he could.I try hard not to make the eldest theclever one emphasising that every-one is different, its all about trying, etc but the eldest does tease his brotherabout his grades.

Aside from the relationship withhis older brother, it is my second sons

surliness with me and my husbandthat is diffi cult and brings down thefamily mood.

I know that its part of thejob description for a mum to bean embarrassment to her teenagersso I dont take it personally, but itdoes get wearing when every time Imake a comment or ask a questionabout his day it is met with a roll-ing of eyes, an exasperated sigh or aWhat?

I know its part of growing upand the impact of all the hormonescoursing around inside him. But Idont know how to deal with it. Howmuch slack should I allow him and atwhat point do you tell your child thathis behaviour is unacceptable?

K, via email

Follow Annalisa on Twitter @AnnalisaB

Your problems solvedContact Annalisa Barbieri, TheGuardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way,London N1 9GU or [email protected] regrets she cannot enterinto personal correspondence

Wekker-weks.Wekker-weks.Dad is calling outhis childhoodnickname for me

The adolescent braingoes through a majorrewiring in order toprepare for adulthoodand autonomy

Doingit forDadRebecca Ley Taking charge of my fathers life

My sister rings.I thought youmight like totalk to him,she says. Icame over afterwork and She trails off.

Theres a rustling in the background, acushioned thud. Dad! I hear her call-ing. Dad come here. Not over there.Here. Its Bec on the phone.

I wait, picturing him crashing

around the bedroom of his care home. Ithought he was too poorly for this.

Hi, sorry My sister is back. Hejust tried to walk off but hes here now.

Put him on, I say. Its been agessince I spoke to Dad on the phone.Before he got ill, he would ring all thetime to relay snippets of his life. Theprogress of his tomatoes. How manyboats he could see through his binocu-lars. His latest vendetta with a neigh-bour. Even after he was diagnosed,when he was still living at home, weused to speak regularly. He couldntdial by then, but his carer would calland pass him over. Id ask whether hedhad a pasty for lunch, how the weatherwas, what hed done that day.

As he got il ler, his responses becamefuzzier. Oh you know, that thing hed say. That thing. Whatchamacallit.

But since he moved into residentialcare, even these fragmentary conversa-tions have dried up. When I tried to call

the home, the staff kindly made it clearhe was unable to talk.

Hi? Dad? I say. He doesnt respond.But I can hear him breathing heavily,then clearing his throat in that familiarway. I imagine him staring at my sisterfor guidance. Trusting. Belligerent.

Say hello, says my si ster, patiently.Hello, sing-songs Dad. Hello? He

sounds as if hes using the word for thefirst time.

Hi, Dad, I say. How are you?Im hoping for what was once his

stock response: Not dead yet. But itdoesnt come. Nothing comes.

Sorry, says my sister, taking con-trol again. I just thought because hewas asking after you maybe it mightwork. She sounds upset.

Then I hear it in the background.Wekker-weks. Wekker-weks. Dad

is calling out his childhood nicknamefor me as if I might be hidden underthe bed or in the wardrobe.

Put him on again, I say. My stom-ach twists. Hes asking after me. Ididnt realise he still did that.

My sister obeys. Dad! I try to injectmy voice with enthusiasm. Its me!

Wekker-weks. I hope that repeating itwill make a connection in his sclerifiedbrain. Wekker-weks? Dad sounds lesscertain now.

How are you doing? I ask.Theres a long pause.Drinking beer, he says at last.

Then he chuckles.Really? I say. Thats good, Dad.This way, he says. Going this

way. Got to sort it out over there.Oh. I slump. Of course.Thats right. Over there. Got to cut

those hedges.

Theres a clatter as hediscards the phone. Ican hear him shuffl ingoff, the slippers hewears all day slappingagainst lino. He sayssomething else but Icant make out what

it is. Sorry, says my sister again. Ithought it might work.

Dont be, I say. It was a niceidea.

Our mutual disappointment thrumson the line. Another thing struck offthe list. We hang up, but I replay thesound of him dredging up that oldnickname. He was the only one whoever used it. It seems unlikely Ill hearit again.

Follow Rebecca on Twitter@rebeccahelenley

Wed love to hear your stories

We will pay 25 for every Letter to,Snapshot, Playlist or We Love to Eat

we publish. Email [email protected] or write to Family Life, TheGuardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way,London N1 9GU. Please include youraddress and phone number


8/8


EndnotesMy family values

Pam St ClementActor

My early family life was crap,basically.My birth mother died when Iwas 18 months old. My father wasmarried several times and I was verydevoted to him, but he was a productof a broken family himself and wassent to an orphanage. I think he wascarrying his own baggage and couldntrelate to anybody. I was farmed out forfoster care at the age of about seven.It is the best thing that ever happenedto me.

Before I was fostered, I didnt have anysocial stimulus. I had governesses, aprivate tutor and a nanny, but it didntnourish my soul. I was the sort of childwho would darkly sit in the corner andwatch, which paid dividends whenI became an actor. Eventually, I settled

with a family on a farm in Devon in anenvironment that was absolutely amarriage of souls.

My new family immediately gave methe company of other children, and itknocked me back into shape. I getannoyed when people say, Oh well,they had a bad upbringing, or Theyhad a bad background and thats whythey behave like that. What happenedto you in the past does not have to bethe eternal stamp on your personality.

My relationship with my birth father continued after I was fostered. I hadcontact with him and a stepmother.When she died, I was an adult, bywhich point I had realised that perhapsmy father wasnt quite the nice personmy infant self had thought he was. We

didnt really have anything in commonso I just did my dutiful bits and madesure he was OK, but there wasnt anawful lot of heart there.

Despite lacking a consistent motherfigure I dont feel emotionallyincomplete, and I think thats because Iended up with the right people, butyou could say I was at an age when Idalready been formulated. Like theJesuits said, Give me a boy to the ageof seven and Ill show you the man.

I have not felt tempted to explore mygenealogy. I know who my motherwas. Ive got her birth certificate.I know she died of tuberculosis. It was

during the war and they were short ofpenicillin, as it was used on the frontmore than anywhere else. She didnthave the medication that she shouldhave had, but I also think probablyshed given up. From what Ive heardfrom people, maybe she had given upwith my father.

I started boarding school when I wasfostered and it instilled all sorts ofvalues. It became home to me once I gotover the first week of crying. Boardingschool was like a family and I loved it.I suddenly came into my own. I lovedthe discipline and structure, and bystructure I mean who gives you thatmoral code and direction. Ive alwaysthought that I quite like the idea of thetraditional family, but actually you canget those structures and that moral

direction from any sort of familystructure.

Im very, very strongly in favour ofgiving people the opportunity of afamily. Today, people wanting to enterthe fostering system have to jumpthrough a lot of hoops. There have tobe legal parameters, but I still think afamily that is not 100% perfect is betterthan a childrens home. Its got to be. Ididnt have to spend any time in achildrens home, thank goodness.I agree with the discipline that achildrens home would encourage andfoster, but it is also instilling in a childthat they are just something that canbe put away. Its like kennelling a dog.Nobody is really caring.

Ive never had any children. I felt when

I was younger that I would be a lousyparent because of my background. ButI think now I would have been a betterparent. Ive got an enormous numberof surrogate kids, including distantfamily youngsters, which is lovelybecause that is giving me grandmastatus. But most of the surrogate kids Ihave, Im a second mum to.Interview by Nick McGrath

See Pam St Clement on This Morning,weekdays, 10.30am on ITV1Pam St Clement ... What happened to you in the past does not have to be the eternal stamp on your personality

I

recently wrote a column stat-ing that I believed my brain hadbeen rotted by 18 years of beingexposed to kiddie culture Barbie dolls, puppet shows, shitmovies with talking animalsetc. But, as with so many ofmy opinions, it has recently

occurred to me that I was wrong.I have misremembered all the cul-

tural gems I would have missed out onhad I not had children. I think Ive hadmore pleasure out of kiddie culture particularly books and films thanreading all manner of literary novelsand art-house movies.

The main scapegoat for the deleteri-ous effects of kiddie culture is usuallyAmerican kids TV shows. This is whatis fingered by parents as brain rot,contrasted with our supposedly morewholesome, homegrown produce.

B t h l thi k f A i

material that the adults of today grewup with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtlesor Transformers, for instance. But nowthe summer holidays are in full swingand TV is a necessary prop to see youthrough, I am reminded daily of howstartlingly good American childrensprogramming is.

I had the good fortune to have myfirst child in 1993, right at the begin-ning of an unacknowledged goldenperiod of American childrens TV.Groundbreaking new series such asAaahh!!! Real Monsters, Rugrats, TheRen & Stimpy Show and the Ani-maniacs changed the game for Ameri-can cartoons. In contrast with their80s predecessors the awful Scooby-Doo, The Smurfs and Alvin and theChipmunks these programmes wereironic, multi-layered and dark.

Ren & Stimpy cartoons were fre-quently censored for being too violentand deranged. Animaniacs, an updatingof the old Warner Brothers cartoons (themain characters, Wacko and Jacko, weremeant to be the original Warner Broth-ers, along with their lesser known sister,Dot), threw in so many cross-culturalreferences as such a speed it was hard tokeep up in between laughing. Rugratswas a dry sitcom set among children,and Aaahh!!! Real Monsters, a precursorof the Monsters Inc film, was just plainweird and genuinely creepy.

I spent countless hours glued tothe TV in those days and Id never hadso much fun. It all went a bit belly uptowards the end of the decade, whenThe Powerpuff Girls, Pokmon andvarious low-grade Japanese animecartoons began to crowd the airwaves,but, by the time my two youngest wereborn, in 2003 and 2006, the Americanswere back with a vengeance mostnotably with the awesome SpongeBobSquarePants, Futurama, and Phineasand Ferb. Weirdest of all was theoperatic Wonder Pets! about a hamster,a terrapin and a duck who save pets inperil in a flying boat while communi-cating entirely in sung verse.

T

he first time I saw itI thought it was de-ranged crap. The nexttime, I realised it wasgenius. Certainly thelibretto from Wee-Wee,Pee-Pee, Tinkle!, abouta puppy who is stuck in

a house when he needs to relieve him-self, is up there, for my money, withWagners Tristan und Isolde. Dogs doit / Fwogs do it / Even muddy oinkinghogs do it / Sooner or later every onehas to go / wee-wee, pee-pee, tinkle.

All this revolution was kicked off, ofcourse, by the genius of The Simpsonsin 1989, still the favourite cartoon of allmy children. Nowadays the Brits haveHorrible Histories, Charlie and Lola andmuch else to be proud of. But dont dissthe Yanks. Childhood and parenthood would be immensely impoverished

ith t th

From the home front

I had the good fortuneto have my first child in1993, at the beginning

f ld i d f

61%The percentage of Britishfamilies living withunfinished DIY projects intheir homes

SOURCE: RESEARCH BYRATEDPEOPLE.COM

For a long time I believed

that that only mad peoplecould be happy. Ive sincerealised that to be happyyou need to simultaneouslylove and be loved. Thatcomes with parenthood

The best way toget husbands todo something isto suggest thatperhaps they aretoo old to do itShirley MacLaine

Alan Davies

ALAMY

In the company of women

Tim Lottlone manin a femalehousehold

u taneous yed. Thatenthood

The Guardian Family 01.09.2012

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