Kelvin Design

Tommy Lusk works as a Social Care Assistant and is from Dumbarton. This is his story of life and work during the lockdown early last year.

Ma work ethic helped me through lockdown in the Spring of 2020. Ma work ethic is to work as little as possible by spending as little as possible.

It began a few years ago as a kind of experiment when I was made redundant. I was scunnered by the community sector a worked in, and decided a was goin’ to use the payout to not work for as long as possible. A managed to go eighteen months before a was forced into the labour market once more.

Durin’ they eighteen months a honed my skills in bargain hunting, charity shopping and living without a car. Inadvertently, reducin’ ma environmental “footprint” by more than a ever managed when a was tryin’.

A now work on a sessional basis as a social care assistant. A get regular work with regular clients and a retain some control over when a work. The “sessional” status has not been a problem as there is always plenty a work.

Well, at least, that was the score before the pandemic. Even now, a year later, many colleagues are on reduced hours because people are shielding, we work in bubbles and activities are curtailed. Am no sa bad. Av nae dependents, have some savings, and don’t need too many hours a week to get bye.

Workin’ durin’ lockdown was not stress free, but it was good to have a purpose and a reason to go out. At the same time, it was good to also have the time to enjoy the sunniest spring ever. A spent many a lovely day up the hills, reading a book and bathing in the warm sunshine. It was also a joy to cycle on traffic free open roads without getting a mouthful of petrol fumes. But, a also discovered that a could not only breath deeper, a could think deeper.

The best example a this was when a was out one day enjoying a quiet spring walk. By this point, time wasn’t really a thing anymore, as there was no where to go or people to meet. The part of ma brain that worries if I’m on time, got enough time, or am where I should be at this time, was pretty much redundant. This meant the part a ma brain that gets lost in thought or conversation had free reign.

On this particular day in May a was concentrating on boggy bits in a field churned up by cows. A balanced on a dry ridge of earth while a looked over the terrain for ma next stepping stone. One wae a good chance a keepin’ ma feet dry. Progress was slow but time didn’t matter.

Thoughts on dry clumps a earth turned to A Tenant Ballot we were subject to during lockdown. Next thing a know am a bystander as ma mind starts joinin’ dots. A stood amazed as ma mind found the maist pertinent bits a information a had consumed on the subject, and sorted them intae a deeper understandin’ a whit wiz actually goin’ on.

A know from experience I’m tilting at windmills when I challenge The Housin’. Even so, a negotiated the remaining cow pats and mud wae a renewed spring in my step. Far below, The Clyde from Dumbarton to Greenock seemed to sparkle brighter.

This was our second ballot in five years which is unusual. Now a understood why they needed it, and a wanted to test ma revelation wae the “Independent” Tenant Advisor.

Is it true, a asked them, that Caledonia are ballotin’ tenants because, although they already own Bellsmyre Housing Association, they don’t yet own the actual deeds to our homes? Do they now need the deeds so they can use them as collateral on loans?

The other thing ma mind had shown me was that they’d messed up on commitments they’d given us in the first ballot. So, while they spent a lot of time assuring us they were very efficient, their own newsletters demonstrated they now planned to demolish flats they’d recently spent substantial amounts of money improvin’. A asked the ITA to confirm this as well.

A would have been very surprised if a had got a clear admission from the ITA or Caledonia. In the murky world of tenant liaison, success is judged by how squirmy the response is. How much of a brass necked body swerve is necessary to maintain the status quo. So, a knew I was on the right track when it took two complaints to the Housin’ Regulator before I even got the body swerve reply.

A asked for more help from The Regulator to get clear answers and a requested help from ma MSP. However, it’s not a vote winner, so that was the end of that. Am often asked why a bother.

It’s partly because a cannae help masel, and partly because it feels good for ma soul, to have a good clear out of the things They want us to believe. Testing their version of the truth to find your own truth never done a tenant any long term harm. As far as a know.

Anyway. That’s no the main point am makin’. The point am makin’ is that ma brain functioned better when it was allowed tae function. It’s as if a hostile environment is not only maintained for asylum seekers and benefit claimants. Maybe “normally” we’re all subject to a hostile environment, so we don’t think too deeply about what’s actually goin’ on.

Denise Christie is a member of the FBU living in Glasgow. Often known for her official role within the trade union movement, here Denise writes in a personal capacity. This is her workers’ story.

I had committed to my trade union sister that I’d write an article for The Workers Story Project right from its inception and nearly 12 months later, I’ve finally got round to it. 

I suppose it’s been representative of a lot of other commitments I’ve given that have been placed on the back burner as work involving the response to COVID-19, representing FBU members, was always a priority.

I said I wanted to write an honest and open account of my experience of being a trade union official during COVID-19, the expectations of that including priorities, pressures and responsibilities and hoped that others in similar situations could relate. It’s a very personal experience about working during a time when there was also a period of loss, grief and an urge to reflect on all of that. 

This is probably the first time I’ve written in this way. Articles I usually write are predominantly highlighting industrial issues for my members and the wider trade union movement. The important issues firefighters face, the cuts to my profession, the investment required to support our public services and public service pay as well as the politically motivated attacks on our class. These have all been key features of past contributions to my political writing in Scotland. Whether that’s been articles in the Morning Star, Scottish Left Review or for the Fire Brigades Union.

The above four paragraphs were started as my introduction to The Workers Story Project. I thought about deleting them and starting a fresh as I didn’t think they would make sense to what will follow next with this article. I felt it would have taken away the moment where my thinking, on what was a priority to write, had changed. 

That priority changed at the time where an outpouring of grief, anger, and activism was happening as a response to the death of Sarah Everard. It stopped me in my tracks to see such an overwhelming expression of anger that united so many women from all walks of life. Very personal stories that had never seen the light of day before were now all over my social media pages and in my phone messages as women found the strength and courage to share their experiences of misogyny and sexism. It felt like a pressure cooker was about to explode with an eruption of emotions and I thought, we need to organise the hell out of that if we are truly to make a dent in changing the systemic oppression and violence towards women and girls.

So my contribution to The Workers Story Project has taken a sharp turn from writing about my COVID-19 experience as a lay trade union official representing firefighters to now using this platform to highlight the accounts and activism of sisters in our movement, which at times, moved me to tears. I asked a sister whose experience is quoted below to write the title of this article. Her control and agreement of the content was important. She came up with this. “For Sarah… for all of them.” And this is for them.

“I want patriarchy to know that feminism is rage unleashed against its centuries of crimes against women and girls around the world. We must declare a feminism that is robust, aggressive, and unapologetic. It is the only way to combat a patriarchy that is systemic.”

“He claimed his permission to violently determine the value of your life. The women wept for you and the men came to violently silence them, distinguish their quiet and peaceful rage. Your life, grown & birthed by a mother who could not keep you safe from men”

“I was strip searched aged 16 years old by Strathclyde police. Arrested for peacefully protesting against nuclear weapons at Faslane, stripped in front of 7 male police officers at Clydebank Police station, police violence & abuse targeting women protesters isn’t a new tactic.”

“Text me when you’re home”

“I’m home now xx”

“Me: Mum, what would you like to do today?”

“Mum: Go for a walk.”

“Me: How come?”

“Mum: For Sarah. I want to go & walk for her & your aunt Ruma & just all of them.”

“Me: Shall we go to the park?”

“Mum: No. Let’s just walk the streets.”

“As a woman I’ve lived for 12 months under the fear of Covid. I’ve lived for 33 years under the fear of male violence & harassment. Out of the two it’s the male violence pandemic that is the bigger threat to my life- and there’s no vaccine for it.” #ReclaimTheseStreets

“I cannot remember a time before I had seen violence against women. I was born bruised. I spent months in refuges. As a 5 year old I was sexually assaulted by a teenage boy who had already learned that women were a commodity and he had power over our bodies. I witnessed hundreds of violent attacks on my mother in my home. I witnessed calls to the police go unanswered. I saw police come, do nothing and leave us terrified. I saw the police restrain my mother with force when these attacks drove her mad. Police officers looked the other way when a grown man groomed me and had a 5 year “relationship” with me. Robbing me of any teen years or hope for any sort of normal. When I reported the times I was raped to police officers I was dismissed… it went nowhere. I respect the police. I have friends who are police officers. I work closely alongside them. That doesn’t mean I can’t point out that there’s an issue. That there is CLEARLY a lack of convictions and too many women left dead. Pointing out the issue isn’t an attack on police officers. It’s just asking for change.”

“So many angry and motivated women. We need to organise the hell out of that. We talk about turning points in the movement – this needs to be one of them.”

I could have written for weeks on end with the amount of brave, passionate and unapologetic messages that portrayed the experiences of women and girls. That final statement has to be the strong message that our movement must grasp. A rallying call that this cannot and must not be withered away like a dying flower or plume of smoke.

We have more than half of the population that are outraged due to being oppressed, silenced, exploited, beaten, controlled, abused, harassed, undermined, overworked, and underpaid and we are angry and motivated. That needs to be seized and harnessed into an organising machine to not just reclaim our streets but to reclaim our rights, our voices and our liberty.

So this is a message for our sisters and brothers, specially those in positions of power and influence, whether it’s political, in the trade union movement or in our workplaces. Be brave, be bold, be outspoken, even at times when it is not the popular thing to do but the right thing to do. Use your privilege and power and influence and let this be a turning point to support the campaign against the many decades of systemic oppression and violence towards women and girls. If you believe in that, let’s hear your voice.

Frances Glen lives in the east end of Glasgow and is retired. Frances worked as a social worker for 32 years until retiral 4 years ago and worked in the Highland Region, South Lanarkshire and for the last 22 years with Glasgow City Council. This is her written submission.

Every day I walk round the park and circle the loch several times, returning to where I started and going round again, and again.  Rather symbolic of lockdown, every day the same as the day before like for the guy in Groundhog Day.  

Nothing changes in the park, except perhaps for the ducks having to share their habitat with the hoards now pounding the earth in their daily exercise routine while feeding them the stale bread from their own abode, making them fat, when signs that nobody takes any notice of, say that wild fowl don’t need feeding.

The dogs on long leads that allow them to have a bit of leeway and others allowed to roam freely, growling faces and hangdog expressions, and that’s just the owners.  Many of the dogs are dressed like little people in warm colourful coats. The owners smile indulgently while the dogs entangle themselves around the feet of other walkers.  

Dogs; and children that roll up behind you on scooters never diverting from their course and forcing you to move before your heels are grated. Their owners look on indulgently too and smile at you and little cutesy.  There’s joggers flying by behind you and towards you every few yards, alternatively there is the old dodderers like myself, dragging themselves round at the speed of a tortoise.   Some people recoil when they pass being careful of the virus like you might contaminate them with a look, others brush against you as though playing a weird and dangerous game of chicken.  It can be difficult to navigate a path.

Real life eludes us for now, no retail therapy, going for lunches, cinema, holidays.  In those times walking was a relaxing pastime, getting out in the wide-open spaces and breathing fresh air.  Now it can seem rather tedious, a bit of a drag, also we need to stay local, no heading for the hills.  Alright if local is somewhere nice.

Anyway. there are little shoots of life to encourage optimism, little bits of colour beginning to emerge within the park, a reminder that spring is in the air and putting a spring in our step.  There is hope that life will soon return to some kind of normality and restore some choice about how to spend our time, which will make a walk in the park, once again an enjoyable thing to do.  

In the meantime, it’s a case of “keep calm and carry on”, I will be back in the park tomorrow and every day to do it all again, because there’s nothing else to do for now, the only variant these days being the weather and the bug.  You might see me there because every day I walk round the park and circle the loch several times.

Kenny Wheeler is a retired Unison member from South Lanarkshire. He recently completed a creative writing course with the WEA through his union. Here he shares a short poem inspired by the stormy night of Halloween 2020 during lockdown when few children were allowed out to do guising due to Covid-19 and bad weather.

Click-clack                         Click – clack

The wind blew the lonely letterbox plate

No-one there!

Just the rushing of the wind

In the dark, children’s voices

Guisers!

Too scared to visit Covid houses

Click-clack                         Click – clack

But no rap at the door

 

A poem submitted anonymously by a Trainee Paramedic living in Glasgow.

Glass crunching under foot;

   police warning notices spread like paper

Ply board instead of windows;

   silence from inside, at first.

Darkness envelops us that bright winter morning

  in a home lost to preventable despair.

Hunched, broke but persevering. Just.

  sits a man with the name of a star.

Gashes to his face,

  echoing those in his mind.

Eyes; kind and too knowing

  not that people would meet them in the street.

The drink, a curse that can’t be shifted,

  the upbringing harsh and too commonplace

A man victim to nothing in his control,

  reaching out to steady himself.

Thick hands, fingers stained brown;

  grasp at sleeves of a trusted leather jacket.

Slow moving, more sure with each step;

  the star hovers at the edge of that darkness.

Laid down under soft blue ambulance blankets,

  colour returns, a joke about Belfast is told.

Laughter; deep, characteristic of loud pubs,

  the man below the sickness shines, if only breifly.

His last words to us at A&E,

  place on a chair with nurses tending at his side

“Thank you for the basic civility”

Kenny Wheeler lives in South Lanarkshire and is a retired local authority worker. Here he shares a non-fiction piece which touches on life experience and reflections on the pandemic.

Despite there being no gyms open, I followed the edict to take some exercise during the period  of restricted freedom imposed by both current pandemic and parliament, by completing a country park walk one afternoon in early October. The day was warm and bright and the cloudless sky was planeless. 

Although I had lived in the locality for more years than I cared to remember, it was the first time I had visited this part of Lanarkshire. The walk was refreshing and relaxing, despite my trying to avoid people literally ‘like the plague’, although acknowledging considerate social distancing oncoming park users with a nod here and a thanks there. 

 I found myself admiring the verdant southern uplands of the Clyde Valley and in particular a tidy farmstead with flagpost and fluttering saltire, set in the centre of the nearest field. From the farm estate emerged a long and pleasantly winding driveway whose full length was accompanied on one side by a neatly constructed stone wall. At the farm entrance was a cattle grid and sign stating ‘Private Road, No Access’. 

I headed away from the farm entrance down the hillside keeping to the tarmacked public road in the direction of town. After about ten minute’s walk I had arrived at the town’s outskirts and was about  to pass the first suburban garden: its high hedges failing to hide the substantially tall white flag post, peeping and stretching high above and behind it, boasting a drooping Union Jack. 

The end of the garden hedge abutted an ivy covered, two storied stone house, which noticeably jutted out onto the road manoeuvring a pincer movement with the opposite wall to narrow the thoroughfare. This narrowing was aided and abetted by a closed eight foot high, blue, ironwork gate: blocking the onward path downhill that led into town via leafy, upscale, residential ribbon development. The gate’s structure included a thinner internal pedestrian gate on its right-hand side, accessed by an electronic button-entry system.

At first confused when confronted with this barrier, I then became aware of a middle aged man and woman, presumably the homeowners. They had been slightly hidden, standing behind the gate’s left side, on a higher piece of garden ground: conspiring to make them appear at least a foot taller than the gate. 

I immediately asked the couple, “why is there a gate here?” 

“It’s my gate, you can access it if you want”: said the no nonsense man, as if he was the kindest person in the world.

“A private gate on a public road, really?”,

“Yes, the gate’s been here for 150 years and this is my road”, he said self-righteously, as if tradition maintained the right for this gate to remain standing steadfastly.

“It’s there to protect you from traffic…”, he proffered. A half lame excuse, if ever there was one, I thought. “…but the gate allows for your right of way.”

I calmly remonstrated: “I’ve been all over Scotland (trying to sound as convincing as possible) and never encountered a private gate across a public road before”. 

“Look, sling your hook”, the owner snarled, clearly fed up with the way the conversation was going.

I replied: “there’s no need to be rude, I haven’t been rude to you”. 

And, with my conscience clearly refusing to bite my lip to let him get the better of me, I vainly threatened: “I’ll let the council know about this!”  

Maintaining my dignity, I slowly and deliberately turned about and headed back the way I had come, not actually having intended  to progress any further this way downhill in my journey. Anyway, I wasn’t  going to give them the satisfaction of watching me ignominiously prise myself through the smaller, integrated pedestrian gate.

As I began to make my way back uphill, two well-built, black Dobermans, suddenly announced their presence, growling menacingly, camouflaged behind the high hedges of the homeowner’s garden. My heart raced: free range ‘watch dogs’ have that affect on me. Strange that their presence had not materialised earlier.

As I wound myself back homeward I contemplated the petty territorialism, the selfishness, the non-Covid, literal social distancing of some people: infected with an irrational fear of others; insecurity; and an unwillingness to consider or debate reasonably, the freedoms of others.

Viv lives in Edinburgh and works for West Lothian Council. This is her poem.

Disarm the threat and remain still

Safe guard with sterile thoughtfulness

Frontline protectors devoted to care

Gratitude on high alert

Souls taken but not forgotten

Sadness at memories not formed

Missing family, friends, but not all

Selected relationships treasured

Give thanks to technology

IT gurus keep us at work

And preserves us in life’s afar

Where humor and fears are shared

Time reframed into new activity

Commuting hours into healthy living

Declutter of space and mind

Resurrected projects

New talents explored

Liberation with learning

Nature joys in less polluted times

Stunning sunrises and sunsets

Starlight  is star bright

Morning choruses of visiting birds

Thrilled with seasonal delights

New norms will prevail

Anxieties exist

But we will  adapt and survive

For wonderment and science exists

Vivien Robertson from Rutherglen works as an admin worker in Further Education. She has been a Unison member for most of her working life and recently completed a creative writing course with WEA through her union. This is her story.

Life slowed down.  Once it was places to go, people to see.  Now it was stay home, stay safe and cross the road if you see someone coming towards you. The college where I worked closed its doors, and the students sent home to finish their courses online.  I packed up my laptop and brought my files home.  I said farewell to my colleagues, from a distance, in the car park.  A forced joviality masking the sober thought that I might not see some of them in the flesh again.

I was already set-up at home with an office to work from. No fighting for space at the kitchen table.  Warm, cosy, quiet, and complete with a sleeping cat on a chair beside me.  Day 1 and first Teams call of the day was a check-in with the girls from work and a virtual cuppa.  Talk soon turned to pandemic news stories in the media, anxiety was high amongst us, and it was impossible to avoid fuelling that fire.  In hindsight it was all part of the hysteria.  

The memes circulated round WhatsApp like a possessed merry-go-round that wouldn’t slow down. The need to feel connected and support each other was overwhelming and comforting in equal measure.   Daily check-ins began.

“Everyone ok?”

“Anyone seen flour or eggs anywhere?”

“What’s the queue like at Tesco?”

This was how we lived now, ‘the new normal’.  How quickly we had morphed into a crazy existence where masks and hand sanitisers were just as important as keys and wallets.  Denial and disbelief had quickly become acceptance. 

I had a ‘good’ lockdown, no one I know has died of Covid-19, although it has taken a few casualties.  Two friends passed away, one with a terminal illness and the other took his own life.    When we couldn’t attend the funeral, we lined the street, socially distanced from each other, and clapped to pay our respects to our friend.  Later in the pandemic, we watched a service being streamed from the crematorium.  Modern technology this time helping us grieve for our other friend.

Despite the losses, I was lucky.  I wasn’t on the frontline like many other Unison members.  I still had a job.  My husband still had a job.  My son got to finish 5th year with no exams.  He was ecstatic, until he got his results.  My employer shortened our working day to help with the stresses of working from home and home-schooling.  They gave us resources to help with our health and wellbeing.  Tuesdays a Circuits class, Wednesdays Dancersize and Thursdays Mindfulness and Yoga.

Being forced to stay at home made me realise how much I liked being at home.  My garden had never looked so tidy, the bikes resurrected from the back of the garage still worked, and I enjoyed working from home; the extra 30 minutes in bed, the stress-free commute from the sofa to the home office, the banana bread and the scones.  I even got to know my neighbours a bit more.  Every Thursday night at 8.00 pm we stood outside our front doors and clapped.  Clapped for the NHS and all the other frontline workers out there helping us keep food on our table and delivering care and services to those who needed it.  It was heart-warming and emotional.  

Vikki is a Community Learning and Development worker for Aberdeenshire Council. She is a mum of three kids and a rescue greyhound and lives and works in Aberdeenshire. This is her story.

Cannae complain about working from home. My office chair, stolen in a mad

supermarket sweep raid before lockdown, is only one big wheely push away from the

fridge although as time expands along with my waistline, the chairs squeaks of

resistance are getting louder.

Cannae complain about homeschooling. Children are with us, safe. I can dip into their

world of school. Nosy around their study lives rather than clamber the homework

iceberg tip. We have laptops and internet, many don’t. We are lucky. I know they are

working hard. They know they are keeping up with work, which is so important. I tell

them how proud I am. They don’t know that I am working even harder to keep up, I

don’t tell them that.

Cannae complain about my daughter being on the shielding list. Our whole family

shielding. It gives me a rule, a reason, legit consent to lock up my most precious. To

positively dive headfirst into mummykins protect mode using my invisible cape of

love, wrapping them up and keeping them safe. We faced this pandemic head on,

confident of fine-tuned survival skills from living with life-limiting illness of a child, an

unrelenting resilience at our core. We hadn’t got this far to get knocked down. We

were lucky to stay in.

Cannae complain about the dip in our mental health. It’s a big dip. It’s been an

almighty big dipper of a rollercoaster without the fun. We have plummeted big time,

many times. Eight months of five people in one house… and the dog. But we have

each other; some people are alone. It has made us verbalise our self-care needs.

Express our love. Articulate our feelings. Ask for help. It doesn’t always feel it, but we

are stronger, robust, and more connected from orienteering this pandemic path

thrust upon us.

Cannae complain about not going to a shop. I haven’t set foot in a shop since the 2nd

March 2020. It feels empowering, no more random wanders round a supermarket

looking for inspiration when you’re hungry, ending up with bags of things you don’t

need. Gluttony. We became aware of what we really needed. We overcome our

shame and disgust at the amount of money spent on food. We spent on food. We

now eat better. We eat what we have and save our money. Fortnightly Asda

deliveries are a mammoth feat of project management. PPE to the hilt, everything

needing wiped and cleaned before entering the house, fridge, cupboards. We are

lucky, we have food and we are staying safe. Many don’t.

Cannae complain about not having a holiday. We have tents so holidayed in our

garden, many many times. Campfires, marshmallows, songs and games. Three

children having fun with their oldies, not a piece of technology in sight and proper

toilets! Bonding, growing and enjoying each other’s company. Time to tell stories,

pass on family tales and make new memories.

Cannae complain and will not complain, but endeavour to see the positive that has

come from this indescribable tragedy which rocked the absolute foundations of my

family life, because we are still standing strong