This year's Black History Month theme, "Reclaiming Narratives", is about amplifying Black voices and experiences.
Christ Church Students' Union hosted a writing competition where black students explored themes of identity, history, pride, and more through their creative lens.
A huge congratulations to Cassandra George, the winner of our competition, and to Michi Masumi, the runner-up!
Cassandra's poem, titled 'The Surgical Rotation', challenged assumptions and expectations. Michi's piece was a fictionalised account of a chance encounter between the narrator and the historical figure William Cuffay, a prominent 19th-century British Chartist and trade unionist.
Read their entries below:
The Surgical Rotation by Cassandra George
Don't be intrigued by me
I'm you
I walk & stand, I eat, I chew
That same pounding you have, it rings in my chest
The air that you breathe, it too gives me breath
Try not to stare, and wonder why
I laugh I shout I dance I cry
Your quizzical face, is just so seeking
How did I, get here, you're thinking
Well, I'll tell you, the big little secret
If you're human, they'll give you a ticket
If you are able then you get to know
How to suture & line up your stitches just so
You get to save lives & hold patient's hands
You get to progress and have purpose, make plans
So that's it, that's all, I've laid it now bare
So, you need not be wondering
& pouting
Don't stare
Parlour by Michi Masumi
It was on a summer's day earlier this year after I visit the Dockyards Brompton, three miles
from here. It was on this said day that I first heard a voice from a man I will come to rejoice.
Many have stated that this man who was steeped in British history, was gifted, gracious and
intelligent as can be. And I must convey that... truth it is and bless the free.
Fore our first encounter did not fright a lady, even though we met in the darkest of night. He
was sitting in the corner of the parlour, lit by candlelight.
Stitching away, as though one had the most urgent of meetings the next day. I mistook him
for homeless, and afraid. When questioned, he said a workhouse was his last stay.
I lit the fire and draw a chair near and asked him his name and why he chose here.
He shuffled a bit, cleared his throat and a voice of gentle yet firm conviction spoke.
“I was born here in these towns of Medway, father a Naval cook from St Kitts”, he told me, “I
remembered whispers, stating father was not free and that he broke ship, from the island he
flee, to Britannia with quick speed”.
“Chatham” his father’s name that is, I learnt, as I offered tea, often spoke words depicting
beauty of the Caribbean Isle, 17 years abroad across the seas, was once home. Evidently a
place he felt his father longed to re see. He unconsciously smiles as he records as a boy, he
would listen contently in the joy of adventures in the west of the island full of banana trees.
As he drank his tea, with expression declared on his semi lit face, he announced. “I knew my
privilege, as I... One in England is concealed to the real hardship of slavery, especially, when
one learns that most slaves could not and did not last beyond 12 years in the fields. In
Honor, on the seventh day we kneel, tradition Mother said father instilled”.
For 14 sunsets, I spoke to a man who I know not his name, never in fear and never in vain.
we talked about his life as a tailor, and I ridiculed him in jest about not being a sailor.
From the age of 12, Seven years he was skilled to high standards, Tailoring and Education,
the normality for that generation. 1819 seeking London, I presumed to take refuge from
grieve after his father was laid to rest. But he declared hand on his chest, that the
permanency of London was to seek financial progress.
His mother I later discovered on the 6th sunset was an English Maid from Gillingham, but
there was no word of her travelling with her eldest son, it seems she remained a Kent
civilian. Fore, he said I believe that five his mother borne and one left early, rested in peace
so then there were four, three of which she could not ignore.
He spoke briefly about the passing of his wives both named Ann, the shock upon me must
have been clear, restless hands and my tears began when he informed me that they were
dead were, less than a trio of Christmases apart. He tried to hide his eyes, so that on me
they would not land, then took to being fixed with a bowed head. And heavy heart. At times
the silence loud. Beneficial it was not to ask for more conversation, the pain of
remembrance stretched across the parlour air. When he spoke of Ann Juliana, his infant
daughter who did not see 12 weeks of 1826. I knew that evening much was left unsaid as I
blew out the parlour wicks.
When he returned the night after next, with no sound made, we both knew that the last
conversation would never be re addressed. I made the Tea and asked him about Trade.
He flowed (partly relieved) with energetic dialogue outlining tailoring in London, the
aspirations. The smell of fabrics, the feeling of fitting esquires with garments, the joy
knowing his hands made such fine creations. “All hard work, as one has to be organised and
professional to demonstrated innovation and gain considerations”.
The energetic tone changed with cause, as he explained the treatment of Tailors, less wages
and more labour, the gentry felt like dictators. Not even the 1832 Great Reform Act, brought
much favour.
Still as prior, most had, no real power unless they owned property, no access for those who
had only tools, wealth gave you cause, yes with Land, no mistake, strides you can make
within Parliament halls.
Joining a new tailor’s trade union could be dangerous, “yes”, as he looked straight at me, he
said “I was no fool. 1834 Strike I did, no regrets as demands were fairly set. The strike
failed, conditions further derailed, and my job in detail, lost and blacklisted which does not
make for great retail.
The Metropolitan Tailor’s and The National Charter Associations seem to be a natural
evolution as I had to agree that unfair treatment did not reside solely within the tailoring
industry, nor did it only hinder me. The working class seek Democracy, representation for
the likes of you and me. Those who live in luxury have lost integrity, the thousands who
signed the people’s charter and attended our mass rallies, are evidence of social discontent
for all to see.
I am aware of the power that the title of National executive of the chartist movement
bestowed upon me, in equal measure the power of racism as I bear my father’s skin and
mockery about my deformity, many a times lead me to plea to thee to retain sanity”.
I felt, I knew the injustice as I too bear his father’s skin. A simultaneous sign from us both
highlighted by the sun rising through the trees. Laughing, I asked him where he got his
accent from, with an expression that was slightly solemn, he said 2this evening I will tell you
all about the 1848 Chartist Rally on Kennington Common2. I replied ... “Sir will you also tell
me your name”?
William, William Cuffay he beamed as he left.
He never returned; the only reason I know he was once here in the parlour during that
summer season, was the sewing kit that was left in a small beautifully decorated Victorian
chest. Like so many I found out about the latter part of William’s life reading a book tucked
up in Bed.
Whilst history is finally acknowledging William as a game-changer. I’ll put on a wager, that
this man was never a crown traitor, he believed and stood up for the working class to live
better, proud to be a striker, raising awareness as a prisoner, even when they made him a
transporter, continuing his advocacy down under in Tasmania, This fellow whose ancestry
went back all the way to Africa, really was a political battler, living for others right to the end,
when he died simply a pauper.