Year 9

Voices for Choices

Anthology
 Lesson 1 - Research Activity
Who? What are they famous for using their voice for?
Sojourner
Truth

Angela Davis

Stormzy Stormzy is most well-known as being a British rapper and songwriter. He u

his platform to help others e.g. #merkybooks helps young, talented writers
become published and he also launched the Stormzy scholarship in 2018 at
Cambridge University to help attract more applicants from a traditionally
underrepresented group at the Uni. In just three years, the representation
increased by 50% now known as the ‘Stormzy effect’.

Akala

Emma Watson

Lisa
Williamson
Diane Guerro

Benjamin
Zephaniah

Marcus
Rashford

Lauren Bravo
 Sojourner Truth- Ain't I a Woman

Delivered 1851
Women's Rights Convention, Old Stone Church, Akron, Ohio

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think
that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights,
the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over
ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or
over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my
arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me!
And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it -
and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen
most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus
heard me! And ain't I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience
whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes'
rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not
to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause
Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come
from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all
alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again!
And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.
What are the important issues that Sojourner Truth’s Ain’t I a Woman deals with?

How does Sojourner Truth use her voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)

Do you think her voice is effective and why?

Reflection
 Stormzy - Superheroes
Don't die on me
I said
Young black king, don't die on me
You're my brother, you're my keeper
I need you to keep an eye on me
And no more fighting on the streets
Walking 'round with all this pride on me
Shit, shit's tough for us already
Know that you can still rely on me
Please, just stay alive for me
And my young black queens, don't quit now (yeah)
You're the only ones that got us
I could never let my sis down
You been too strong, for too long
Yet, still you never sit down, wow
That's the power of your loving
And it's worthy of a king's crown
And still you never let your kings down
Even though most times, we don't deserve it
The picture isn't pretty, but it's perfect
Tedious pressures, so then I curve it
Serena or Venus, the way I serve it
I'm Mallory Blackman, the way I sell books
I jump on the stage, and then the world looks
All that banging' on my door, had my girl shook
Now sorry officer, I only sell hooks
Leave me alone
Every little L I took, I hold it close to home
Live and you learn, they'll always hate me for my tone
For the shade of my skin
And not the courage of my bones
Now, I'm misunderstood
Now, I'm feeling like Nina Simone
The way I toured the world
Would have thought that I was Sims
See her on stage, I know that women can be kings
I know that's fucked, they're overlooking what you bring
I know shit's all good, but it's just the little things
Black queen you're immaculate
It's coming at the world
They ain't ready for your magic yet
And that was never your fault
Man, I guess they couldn't hack it yet
World domination, and you ain't even
Taken off your jacket yet
So effortlessly fabulous
And my young black kings I hope it pays off
Go and show 'em what you're made of
Trying to scare us with some things
That we are no longer afraid of
Men are superheroes, let me see you take off
I pray you never take your cape off
Even though most times, we don't fly straight
If I trust you bro, I promise we gon' die great
Our burdens are heavy, but we ain't light weights
Our parents were legends, they had to migrate
So that's a reason not to sit around and chat shit
I'm from the place where Michael Dapaah made a smash hit
Where you can be a rapper, if rap you sick
They're screaming, "What a flippin' time to be a black Brit!"
We so alive, whole world gone out their minds
But no we ride, tried to push us all to the side
We know our rights
Now we get the whole of the pie, then go inside
When you see that merky flag in the sky
Just know it's I
The way I topped the charts
Would've thought that I was Dave
I am young, black, beautiful and brave
Know that it's fucked, they're overlooking what we gave
I know shits all good, so we pray for better days
Pray they better than before (better than before)
Young black king, you are everything and more (you are everything and more)
I know one song's not enough to settle scores (not enough to settle scores)
But from the bottom of my heart
Man, I hope you're getting yours (getting yours)
Man, I hope you're getting yours (getting yours)
Young black queen, get your shine on
All I see is innovators, and a bag of icons
You can go and ask the whole world
Where they got they style from?
That's you, that's us, God's time
And he never gets the time wrong
I guess we just some ticking time bombs
We soon blow (boom)
I can make world come true
All my dreams will see me through
And if that won't get me down
My dreams will turn things all around
With a smile upon my face
I can see a better place
Doesn't matter what may come my way
Believe me now, I will win some day

Reflection

What are the important issues that Stormzy’s ‘Superheroes’ deals with?

How does Stormzy use his voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)

Do you think his voice is effective and why?

1 – BORN IN THE 1980s

I was born in the 1980s and I grew up in the clichéd, single-parent working-class family. We often
depended on state benefits, we lived in a council house, I ate free school meals. I am the child of a British-
Caribbean father and a Scottish/English mother, my teenage parents were never married and they separated
before I was born. My dad spent a portion of his childhood in and out of the care system and my mum was
pretty much disowned by her father for getting with a ‘nig nog’. The first time I saw someone being
stabbed I was twelve, maybe thirteen, the same year I was searched by the police for the first time. I first
smoked weed when I was nine and many of my ‘uncles’ – meaning biological uncles as well as family
friends – went to prison. My upbringing was, on the face of it, typical of those of my peers who ended up
meeting an early death or have spent much of their adult lives in and out of prison.

I was born in Crawley, West Sussex, but moved to Camden in north-west London before I had formed any
concrete memories and I spent my childhood and teenage years living there. Camden is home to 130
languages and about as wide a divide between rich and poor as anywhere in the country. I went to school
with the children of lords and ladies, millionaires, refugees, children clearly suffering from
malnourishment and young boys selling drugs for their fathers. If there is anywhere in Britain that could
serve as a petri dish for examining race, class and culture, Camden would be that place.

I was born in the 1980s in the ‘mother country’ of the British Commonwealth, the seat of the first truly
global empire, the birthplace of ‘the’ industrial revolution and the epicentre of global finance. What does
this mean? What are the social and historical forces that even allowed my parents to meet? My father is the
British-born child of two African-Jamaican migrant workers who came to the mother country as part of the
Windrush generation. My mother was an army child, born in Germany, spending her infant years in Hong
Kong and moving to the small town in which I was born in her early teens. In my parents’ meeting are
untold histories of imperial conquest, macroeconomic change, slave revolts, decolonisation and workers’
struggles. I was born poor, by Western standards at least. I was born poor and racialised as black – despite
my ‘white’ mother – in perhaps the most tumultuous decade of Britain’s domestic racial history.

I was born in the 1980s, before mixed-race children had become an acceptable fashion accessory. A nurse
in the hospital promised to give my white mother ‘nigger blood’ when she needed a transfusion after
giving birth; yeah, the 1980s was a decade bereft of political correctness.

The 1980s was also the decade of Thatcherite–Reaganite ascendency. The ‘golden age of capitalism’ had
ended in 1973, and the 80s saw the start of the rollback of the post-war welfare state, increased sell-off of
public assets and the embrace of an individualistic ‘self-made’ logic by the very generation that had
become wealthy with the support of free universities and cheap council houses, and had literally been kept
alive by the newly constructed National Health Service. The decade saw the most powerful military
machine ever assembled spun into existential crisis by the enormous threat posed by the potential of a
socialist revolution on the tiny little Caribbean island of Grenada, and the self-appointed captains of global
democracy could be found backing genocidal regimes from Nicaragua to South Africa – though that
could’ve been any decade, really. It was the decade Thomas Sankara was killed, the Berlin Wall fell,
Michael Jackson started to turn white and the MOVE movement was bombed from the sky. The 1980s
were fairly eventful, to say the least.

For black Britain, the decade began with the New Cross fire/massacre of 1981, a suspected racist arson
attack at 439 New Cross Road, where Yvonne Ruddock was celebrating her sixteenth birthday party.
Thirteen of the partygoers burned to death, including the birthday girl, and one of the survivors also later
committed suicide. Many of the families of the dead have maintained to this day that a) it was an arson
attack and b) the police bungled the investigation and treated the families of the dead like suspects instead
of victims. The community’s suspicion that it was an arson attack was perfectly reasonable, given that it
came in the wake of a string of such racist arson attacks in that area of south-east London. The prime
minister did not even bother to offer condolences to what were apparently British children and their
families. Of course, Thatcher could not, in her heart of hearts, express sympathy for black British children
while supporting an apartheid government rooted in the idea that black people were subhuman, so at least
she was consistent. There certainly was not going to be a minute’s silence and most of Britain is
completely unaware it even happened, despite the New Cross fire being one of the largest single losses of
life in post-war Britain.

The same year also saw the passing of the British Nationality Act, the last of a series of Acts that were
passed from 1962 onwards and whose racialised motivations were barely disguised. British Caribbeans had
come to learn that they were indeed second-class citizens – as many had long suspected – but they were
not of a mood to be quiet and keep their heads down about it. New Cross led to the largest demonstration
by black people in British history; 20,000 marched on parliament on a working weekday and foretold of
the harsh realities of the decade to come: ‘Blood a go run, if justice na come’ was the chant. It was to prove
prophetic.

The rest of the decade of my birth was punctuated by uprisings and disturbances in almost all of the
Caribbean and ‘Asian’ areas of the country, as well as the miners’ strikes of 1984–85 and the constant
presence of the anti-apartheid struggle. These ‘disturbances’ included the infamous Brixton riots of 1981,
set off by the sus laws – a resurrection of the 1824 Vagrancy Act, these laws allowed people to be arrested
on the mere suspicion that they intended to commit a crime – and their manifestation in Swamp81, a
racialised mass stop-and-search police campaign.

Brixton burned again in 1985, set aflame by the police shooting and paralysing Cherry Groce. Just a week
later, the death of Cynthia Jarret after a police raid on her home sparked the Broadwater Farm riots, where
a police officer was killed. I know members of both families personally, and grew up with the son of
Smiley Culture, the reggae artist who died during a police raid on his home in 2011. I mention these
connections only to point out that these people are not abstractions or mere news items, but members of a
community, our community. Dalian Atkinson, the former Premier League footballer, was tasered to death
by the police in 2016; it’s hard to imagine a former pop star or a retired footballer from any other
community in Britain dying after contact with the police.

These 1980s reactions to state violence, racism, poverty and class conflict were by no means limited to
London; there was the St Paul’s riot in Bristol in 1980, Moss Side and Toxteth in the north-west of
England in 1981, Handsworth in the Midlands in 1981 and 1985 and Chapletown in Leeds in 1981 and
1987. How many millions of pounds of damage these outpourings of rage caused I don’t know, but now
that they are sufficiently distant from the present, very few academics would dispute that they had very real
socio-political causes. Indeed, entire books have been written on them, and government policy and police
behaviour and training were reformed in direct response to these events, though what lessons the British
state has truly learned from the 1980s remains to be seen.

It’s easy for people just slightly younger than myself, and born into a relative degree of multiculturalism,
to forget just how recently basic public decency towards black folks was won in this country, but I was
born in the 80s so I remember only too well. I was five years old when the infamous picture was taken of
footballer John Barnes, kicking away the banana that had been thrown at him from the stands. I grew up
routinely watching some of England’s greatest ever football players suffer this type of humiliation in their
workplace, in front of tens of thousands of people, who for the most part seemed to find it entirely
acceptable, funny even. I knew Cyril Regis personally (rest in power, sir), I know about the bullets in the
post and the death threats received by black players from their ‘own’ supporters and apparent countrymen
because they wanted to play for England. No one asked in public discourse where that association with
black people and monkeys came from, because if they did we might have to speak of historical origins, of
savage myths and of literal human zoos.

I was not born with an opinion of the world but it clearly seemed that the world had an opinion of people
like me. I did not know what race and class supposedly were but the world taught me very quickly, and the
irrational manifestations of its prejudices forced me to search for answers. I did not particularly want to
spend a portion of a lifetime studying these issues, it was not among my ambitions as a child, but I was
compelled upon this path very early, as I stared at Barnsey kicking away that banana skin or when I sat in
the dark and the freezing cold simply because my mum did not make enough money. I knew that these
experiences were significant but I was not yet sure how to tease meaning from them.

Reflection

What are the important issues that Akala’s Natives deals with?

How does Akala use his voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)

Do you think his voice is effective and why?

Emma Watson – HeForShe Speech

Date: Saturday, September 20, 2014

Speech by UN Women Goodwill Ambassador Emma Watson at a special event for the
HeForShe campaign, United Nations Headquarters, New York, 20 September 2014

Today we are launching a campaign called “HeForShe.”

I am reaching out to you because I need your help. We want to end gender inequality—and to
do that we need everyone to be involved.
I was appointed six months ago and the more I have spoken about feminism the more I have
realised that fighting for women’s rights has too often become synonymous with man-hating.
If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that this has to stop.
For the record, feminism by definition is: “The belief that men and women should have equal
rights and opportunities. It is the theory of the political, economic and social equality of the
sexes.”
I started questioning gender-based assumptions when at eight I was confused at being called
“bossy,” because I wanted to direct the plays we would put on for our parents—but the boys
were not.
When at 14, I started being sexualised by certain elements of the press.
When at 15, my girlfriends started dropping out of their sports teams because they didn’t
want to appear “muscly.”
When at 18, my male friends were unable to express their feelings.
I decided I was a feminist and this seemed uncomplicated to me. But my recent research has
shown me that feminism has become an unpopular word.
Apparently, I am among the ranks of women whose expressions are seen as too strong, too
aggressive, isolating, anti-men and, unattractive.
Why is the word such an uncomfortable one?
I am from Britain and think it is right that as a woman I am paid the same as my male
counterparts. I think it is right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body. I
think it is right that women be involved on my behalf in the policies and decision-making of
my country. I think it is right that socially I am afforded the same respect as men. But sadly I
can say that there is no one country in the world where all women can expect to receive these
rights.
No country in the world can yet say they have achieved gender equality.
These rights I consider to be human rights but I am one of the lucky ones. My life is a sheer
privilege because my parents didn’t love me less because I was born a daughter. My school
did not limit me because I was a girl. My mentors didn’t assume I would go less far because I
might give birth to a child one day. These influencers were the gender equality ambassadors
that made me who I am today. They may not know it, but they are the inadvertent feminists
who are changing the world today. And we need more of those.
And if you still hate the word—it is not the word that is important but the idea and the
ambition behind it. Because not all women have been afforded the same rights that I have. In
fact, statistically, very few have been.
In 1995, Hilary Clinton made a famous speech in Beijing about women’s rights. Sadly, many
of the things she wanted to change are still a reality today.
But what stood out for me the most was that only 30 per cent of her audience were male.
How can we affect change in the world when only half of it is invited or feel welcome to
participate in the conversation?
Men—I would like to take this opportunity to extend your formal invitation. Gender equality
is your issue too.
Because to date, I’ve seen my father’s role as a parent being valued less by society despite
my needing his presence as a child as much as my mother’s.
I’ve seen young men suffering from mental illness unable to ask for help for fear it would
make them look less “macho”—in fact in the UK suicide is the biggest killer of men between
20-49 years of age; eclipsing road accidents, cancer and coronary heart disease. I’ve seen
men made fragile and insecure by a distorted sense of what constitutes male success. Men
don’t have the benefits of equality either.
We don’t often talk about men being imprisoned by gender stereotypes but I can see that that
they are and that when they are free, things will change for women as a natural consequence.
If men don’t have to be aggressive in order to be accepted women won’t feel compelled to be
submissive. If men don’t have to control, women won’t have to be controlled.
Because the reality is that if we do nothing it will take 75 years, or for me to be nearly a
hundred before women can expect to be paid the same as men for the same work. 15.5
million girls will be married in the next 16 years as children. And at current rates it won’t be
until 2086 before all rural African girls will be able to receive a secondary education.
If you believe in equality, you might be one of those inadvertent feminists I spoke of earlier.
And for this I applaud you.
We are struggling for a uniting word but the good news is we have a uniting movement. It is
called HeForShe. I am inviting you to step forward, to be seen to speak up, to be the "he" for
"she". And to ask yourself if not me, who? If not now, when?
Thank you.
Reflection
What are the important issues that Emma Watson’s ‘HeForShe’ deals with?

How does Emma Watson use her voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)
 Do you think her voice is effective and why?

Benjamin Zephaniah – Young and Dyslexic? You’ve got it going

on
This article was published in The Guardian online, Friday 2nd October, 2015, and is
adapted from Zephaniah’s contribution to Creative, Successful, Dyslexic (Jessica
Kingsley, 2015)
As a child I suffered, but learned to turn dyslexia to my advantage, to see the world more
creatively. We are the architects; we are the designers.
I’m of the generation where teachers didn’t know what dyslexia was. The big problem with
the education system then was there was no compassion, no understanding and no humanity.
I don’t look back and feel angry with the teachers. The ones who wanted to have an
individual approach weren’t allowed to. The idea of being kind and thoughtful and listening
to problem just wasn’t done: the past is a different kind of country.
At school my ideas always contradicted the teachers’. I remember one teacher saying that
human beings sleep for one-third of their life and I put my hand up and said, “If there’s a God
isn’t that a design fault? If you’ve built something, you want efficiency. If I was God, I would
have designed sleep so we could stay awake. Then good people could do one-third more good
in the world.”
The teacher said, “Shut up, stupid boy. Bad people would do one-third more bad.” I thought
I’d put in a good idea. I was just being creative. She also had a point, but the thing was, she
called me stupid for even thinking about it.
Once, when I was finding it difficult to engage with writing and had asked for some help, a
teacher said, “It’s all right. We can’t all be intelligent, but you’ll end up being a good
sportsperson, so why don’t you go outside and play some football?” I thought, “Oh great”,
but now I realise he was stereotyping me.
I had poems in my head even then, and when I was 10 or 11 my sister wrote some of them
down for me. When I was 13 I could read very basically but it would be such hard work that I
would give up. I thought that so long as you could read how much the banknote was worth,
you knew enough or you could ask a mate.
I got thrown out of a lot of schools, the last one a 13. I was expelled partly because of arguing
with teachers on an intellectual level and partly for being a rude, badly behaved boy. When I
was in borstal I used to do this thing of looking at people I didn’t want to be like. I saw a guy
who spent all his time sitting stooped over and I thought, “I don’t want to be like that,” so I
learned how to sit with a straight back. Being observant helped me make the right choices.
A high percentage of the prison population are dyslexic, and a high percentage of the
architect population. If you look at the statistics, I should be in prison: a black man brought
up on the wrong side of town whose family fell apart, in trouble with the police when I was a
kid, unable to read and write, with no qualifications and, on top of that, dyslexic. But I
conquered my fears and found my path in life.
When I go into prisons to talk to people, I see men and women who, in intelligence and other
qualities, are the same as me. But opportunities opened for me and they missed theirs, didn’t
notice them or didn’t take them.
I never thought I was stupid. I didn’t have that struggle. I just had self-belief.
For my first book I told my poems to my girlfriend, who wrote them down for me. It really
took off, especially within the black community. I wrote ‘wid luv’ for ‘with love’. People
didn’t think they were dyslexic poems, they just thought I wrote phonetically.
At 21, I went to an adult education class in London to learn to read and write. The teacher
told me, “You are dyslexic,” and I was like, “Do I need an operation?” She explained to me
what it meant and I suddenly thought, “Ah, I get it. I thought I was going crazy.”
I wrote more poetry, novels for teenagers, plays, other books and recorded music. I take
poetry to people who do not ready poetry. Still now, when I’m writing the ‘knot’, I have to
stop and think “How do I write that?” I have to draw something to let me know what the
word is to come back to it later. If I can’t spell ‘question’ I just put a question mark and come
back to it later.
When I look at a book, the first thing I see is the size of it, and I know that’s what it’s like for
a lot of young people who find reading tough. When Brunel University offered me the job of
professor of poetry and creative writing, I knew my students would be officially more
educated than me. I tell them, “You can do this course and get the right grade because you
have a good memory – but if you don’t have passion, creativity, individuality, there’s no
point.”
If someone can’t understand dyslexia, it’s their problem. In the same way, if someone
oppresses me because of my race I don’t sit down and think, “How can I become white?” It’s
not my problem, it’s theirs and they are the ones who have to come to terms with it.
So don’t be heavy on yourself. Dyslexia is not a measure of intelligence: you have a genius
on your hands. Having dyslexia can make you creative. If you want to construct a sentence
and can’t find the word you are searching for, you have to think of a way to write round it.
This requires being creative and so your ‘creativity muscle’ gets bigger.
Kids come up to me and say, “I’m dyslexic too,” and I say to them, “Use it to your
advantage, see the world differently. Us dyslexic people, we’ve got it going on – we are the
architects. We are the designers.”

Reflection

What are the important issues that Benjamin Zephaniah’s ‘Young and Dyslexic? You’ve got it going on’
article deal with?
 How does Zephaniah use his voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)

Do you think his voice is effective and why?

Marcus Rashford’s Letter to MPs on Free School Meals

To all MPs in Parliament,

On a week that would have opened Uefa Euro 2020, I wanted to reflect back to May 27th,
2016, when I stood in the middle of the Stadium of Light in Sunderland having just broken
the record for the youngest player to score in his first Senior International match. I watched
the crowds waving their flags and fist-pumping the three lions on their shirts and I was
overwhelmed with pride not only for myself, but for all of those who had helped me reach
this moment and achieve my dream of playing for the England national team. Understand:
without the kindness and generosity of the community I had around me, there wouldn’t be
the Marcus Rashford you see today: a 22-year old Black man lucky enough to make a career
playing a game I love.
My story to get here is all-too-familiar for families in England: my mum worked full-time,
earning minimum wage to make sure we always had a good evening meal on the table. But
it was not enough. The system was not built for families like mine to succeed, regardless of
how hard my mum worked.
As a family, we relied on breakfast clubs, free school meals, and the kind actions of
neighbours and coaches. Food banks and soup kitchens were not alien to us; I recall very
clearly our visits to Northern Moor to collect our Christmas dinners every year. It’s only now
that I really understand the enormous sacrifice my mum made in sending me away to live in
digs aged 11, a decision no mother would ever make lightly.
This Summer should have been filled with pride once more, parents and children waving
their flags, but in reality, Wembley Stadium could be filled more than twice with children
who have had to skip meals during lockdown due to their families not being able to access
food. (200,000 children according to Food Foundation estimates).
As their stomachs grumble, I wonder if those 200,000 children will ever be proud enough of
their country to pull on the England national team shirt one day and sing the national
anthem from the stands. Ten years ago, I would have been one of those children, and you
would never have heard my voice and seen my determination to become part of the
solution.
As many of you know, as lockdown hit and schools were temporarily closed, I partnered
with food distribution charity FareShare to help cover some of the free school meal deficit.
Whilst the campaign is currently distributing 3 million meals a week to those most
vulnerable across the UK, I recognize it’s just not enough.
This is not about politics; this is about humanity. Looking at ourselves in the mirror and
feeling like we did everything we could to protect those who can’t, for whatever reason or
circumstance, protect themselves. Political affiliations aside, can we not all agree that no
child should be going to bed hungry?
Food poverty in England is a pandemic that could span generations if we don’t course
correct now. Whilst 1.3 million children in England are registered for free school meals, one
quarter of these children have not been given any support since the school closures were
ordered.
We rely on parents, many of whom have seen their jobs evaporate due to Covid-19, to play
substitute teacher during lockdown, hoping that their children are going to be focused
enough to learn, with only a small percentage of their nutritional needs met during this
period.
This is a system failure and without education, we’re encouraging this cycle of hardship to
continue. To put this pandemic in to perspective, from 2018-2019, 9 out of 30 children in
any given classroom were living in poverty in the UK. This figure is expected to rise by an
additional 1 million by 2022. In England today, 45% of children in Black and minority ethnic
groups are now in poverty. This is England in 2020...
I am asking you to listen to their parent’s stories as I have received thousands of insights
from people struggling. I have listened when fathers have told me they are struggling with
depression, unable to sleep, worried sick about how they are going to support their families
having lost their jobs unexpectedly, headteachers who are personally covering the cost of
food packages for their vulnerable families after the school debit card has been maxed out;
mothers who can’t cover the cost of increased electricity and food bills during the lockdown,
and parents who are sacrificing their own meals for their children. In 2020, it shouldn’t be a
case of one or the other.
I’ve read tweets over the last couple of weeks where some have placed blame on parents
for having children they ‘can’t afford’. That same finger could have been pointed at my
mum, yet I grew up in a loving and caring environment.
The man you see stood in front of you today is a product of her love and care. I have friends
who are from middle- class backgrounds who have never experienced a small percentage of
the love I have gotten from my mum: a single parent who would sacrifice everything she had
for our happiness. THESE are the kind of parents we are talking about. Parents who work
every hour of the day for minimum wage, most of them working in hospitality, a sector
which has been locked down for months.
During this pandemic, people are existing on a knife’s edge: one missed bill is having a spiral
effect, the anxiety and stress of knowing that poverty is the main driver of children ending
up in care, a system that is designed to fail low- income families. Do you know how much
courage it takes for a grown man to say, ‘I can’t cope’ or ‘I can’t support my family’? Men,
women, caregivers, are calling out for our help and we aren’t listening.
I also received a tweet from an MP who told me ‘this is why there is a benefit system’. Rest
assured, I am fully aware of the Universal Credit scheme and I am fully aware that the
majority of families applying are experiencing 5-week delays. Universal Credit is simply not a
short-term solution. I also know from talking to people that there is a 2-child- per-family
limit, meaning someone like my mum would only have been able to cover the cost of 2 of
her 5 children. In April 2020, 2.1 million people claimed unemployment related benefits.
This is an increase of 850,000 just since March 2020. As we approach the end of the
furlough scheme and a period of mass unemployment, the problem of child poverty is only
going to get worse.
Parents like mine would rely on kids’ clubs over the Summer break, providing a safe space
and at least one meal, whilst they work. Today, parents do not have this as an option. If
faced with unemployment, parents like mine would have been down at the job centre first
thing Monday morning to find any work that enables them to support their families. Today,
there are no jobs.
As a Black man from a low-income family in Wythenshawe, Manchester, I could have been
just another statistic. Instead, due to the selfless actions of my mum, my family, my
neighbours, and my coaches, the only stats I’m associated with are goals, appearances and
caps. I would be doing myself, my family and my community an injustice if I didn’t stand
here today with my voice and my platform and ask you for help.
The Government has taken a ‘whatever it takes’ approach to the economy – I’m asking you
today to extend that same thinking to protecting all vulnerable children across England. I
encourage you to hear their pleas and find your humanity. Please reconsider your decision
to cancel the food voucher scheme over the Summer holiday period and guarantee the
extension.
This is England in 2020, and this is an issue that needs urgent assistance. Please, while the
eyes of the nation are on you, make the U-turn and make protecting the lives of some of our
most vulnerable a top priority.
Yours sincerely,
Marcus Rashford

Reflection

What are the important issues that Marcus Rashford’s letter to MPs about Free School Meals deals
with?
 How does Marcus Rashford use his voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)

Do you think his voice is effective and why?

Excerpt from ‘In the Country We Love’ by Diane Guerro

In her new book, In the Country We Love: My Family Divided actress Diane Guerrero, who
wrote the book with Michelle Burford, talks about the hot topic of immigration in the most
personal way. Here is an excerpt from Chapter One, The Silver Key.
Every doorway,
every intersection has a story.
— KATHERINE DUNN, novelist
“Diane, come eat your breakfast,” my mother called from the kitchen.
“I gotta go!” I yelled, because— let’s face it— like many fourteen- year-olds, I had ’tude.
“You’ve got another second,” my mother said, following me down the hall. “You need to eat
something.”
“No, I don’t have another second,” I snapped. “Why do you always do this to me?” Then,
before she could say another word or even hug me goodbye— slam! — I stormed out the
door and off to the train.
It was nice out, around seventy degrees. After a freezing winter, the weather was finally
improving— and so, it seemed, was my family’s luck. The day before, my dad had won the
lotto. Not a crazy amount of money, mind you— a few thousand bucks— but for us, it was
the jackpot. And on top of that, the love was flowing again in our house. My four- year- old
niece, who’d been away from our family since my older brother, Eric, and his wife had
separated, was back to spending time at our place. I saw it as a sign that things were looking
up. That better times were coming.
As I dashed onto campus, I looked at my watch. Three minutes until the bell. Even before
eight a.m., the place was buzzing. Do you remember Fame, that eighties TV series about a
performing arts high school in New York City? Well, going to BAA felt like stepping onto
the set of that show. In one room, there’d be all these kids dancing around and going berserk.
Next door, another group would be belting out songs or creating art on the walls. The energy
was insane, particularly right before Springfest— the one night our parents got to see us
perform. It was one of the most special nights of the year. And my number— a love song
duet called “The Last Night of the World” from Miss Saigon— was part of the finale.
Right on time but a bit out of breath, I rounded the corner into humanities class. That’s how
our day was set up: First, we had our academic subjects like math and science, and then came
the afternoon courses I lived for— theatre, art, music. And because Springfest was only three
weeks away, I’d also started staying late to squeeze in some extra practice time. I didn’t want
my solo just to be good. I wanted it to be absolutely perfect.
The morning dragged by. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Noon. And with each hour that passed, I felt
more and more weird. Not Twilight Zone weird, but more like that pit in the stomach you get
when something is unsettled. I figured it was because of how I’d treated my mom; I knew I
needed to apologise. Then again, I wouldn’t actually say I was sorry. To avoid that
awkwardness, I’d cry a little to show her how much I loved her and hadn’t meant to be such
an awful person.
At last, the school day was over— which meant rehearsal time. When I got to the music
room, a big studio, my teacher, Mr. Stewart, was already there. So was Damien— the sweet
black kid with a ’fro and glasses who was the other half of my duet.
“You need to warm up?” Mr. Stewart asked me. As usual, he was wearing a tie, a dress shirt,
and that big grin we all knew him for. He was seated at the piano.
“I’m cool,” I said. I stashed my backpack in a chair and quickly took my place near Damien.
Mr. Stewart spread out his music sheets, rested his fingers on the keys, and played the
ballad’s opening notes. Damien’s part was first.
“In a place that won’t let us feel,’” he sang softly, “‘in a life where nothing seems real, I have
found you . . . I have found you.’”
Next was my verse. “‘In a world that’s moving too fast,’” I chimed in a little off- key, “‘in a
world where nothing can last, I will hold you ...’”
Mr. Stewart stopped playing. “You sure you’re okay, Diane?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m fine, I guess,” I told him. “Just rusty.”
I’d been practicing this song in my bedroom mirror for days; I knew it up and down. But for
some reason, it wasn’t coming out right. Probably nerves.
“Let’s try it again,” Mr. Stewart said.
I stood up tall and cleared my throat. The music began. As my part approached, I closed my
eyes so I could concentrate.
“In a world that’s moving too fast,’” I sang, “‘in a world where nothing can last, I will hold
you . . . I will hold you.’”
I opened my eyelids long enough to see the teacher nod. Exhale. All year, I’d been trying to
figure out whether this music thing was for me. Whether I could really make it as a singer.
And thanks to Mr. Stewart, I was starting to believe I had a shot. He’d taken me under his
wing and was helping me find my sound. My voice. My place. I couldn’t wait for my family
to come and hear me.
On the way home, I stopped at Foot Locker. After my papi’s Powerball win, he’d proudly
given me a crisp fifty- dollar bill. “Buy yourself something nice, sweetheart,” he told me.
“Anything you want.” I’d decided to splurge on sneakers, this cute pair of classic Adidas
shell- toes. I’d had my eye on them for weeks; I thought I was Run– D.M.C.
They were so fresh (yeah, I was living in a ’90s dream). “Aren’t these hot?” I said to my
friend Martha, this shy girl from my neighbourhood who happened to be in the store that day.
She smiled, showing off a mouthful of braces.
“You can wear them out of the store if you want,” the clerk said. “I’ll wrap up your other
pair.” Moments later, I handed over my cash, stuffed my old tennis shoes in my bag, and
headed off to the T— the Orange Line. That was at five thirty.
At six fifteen, the train pulled into the Stony Brook station. I strolled across the platform, the
whole time staring down at my Adidas. So dope.
Outside, the sun was setting a bit. I knew my parents would be wondering what time I’d get
home. I decided to stop and call. I spotted a pay phone— yes, pay phones were still a thing—
and walked toward it. I removed a quarter from the back pocket of my jeans, pushed in the
coin, and dialled. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. “You’ve reached Maria, Hector, and Diane,” said
my mother’s voice on the machine. “We’re not here right now. Please leave us a message.”
Beep. One of my parents was always home by this time. Always. And neither of them had
mentioned having plans. Where could they be? With my hands trembling, I searched my
pockets for a second quarter. Empty. I threw off my pack, unzipped the back compartment,
and swept my fore-finger along the bottom edge. Bingo. I forced the coin into the slot and
pressed hard on each digit. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Again—no answer.
All at once, I swung on my pack and jetted. I’d run these three blocks to our house dozens of
times; I knew the route in my sleep. Let them be home, I prayed with every step. God, please
— let them be there. The faster I sprinted, the slower I seemed to be moving. One block. One
and a half. Two blocks. A girl on her scooter called out, “Hey, Diane!” but I was way too out
of breath to even answer her. My right shoelace came undone. I didn’t stop to retie it.
When I made it onto our street, I saw my dad’s Toyota station wagon in the driveway. Relief.
They didn’t hear the phone, I reassured myself. They’ve gotta be here. I rushed up to our
porch and pulled out my set of keys, riffling through them until I got to the silver one. I slid it
into the dead bolt, held my breath, and tried to brace myself for what I’d find beyond that
door. I still can’t believe what I found.

Reflection
What are the important issues that Diane Guerro’s autobiography deal with?

How does Diane Guerro use her voice for change? (think back to today’s learning objectives)
Do you think her voice is effective and why?