Sinead O’Connor’s line “England’s not the
mythical land of Madame George and roses, it’s the home of police who kill
black boys on mopeds” has been running through my head lately. In thinking
about living in England, I’d say that actually the country has got elements of both.
On the ‘police who kill black boys in
mopeds’ side there is a real thread of nastiness in England. At the moment,
there is horrific rhetoric about anyone unfortunate enough to be on a benefit
suggesting that they’re lazy, not trying to get a job, bringing England down
etc. Disabled people are being questioned and criticised about how disabled
they really are. There is overt and covert racism, homophobia, class prejudice
and sexism.
As an immigrant myself, I wince at the
harsh words against ‘uncontrolled immigration’ supposedly leading to a shortage
of housing and jobs and a drain on the welfare state. I know as a white, middle
class, English speaking immigrant, I’m privileged. The hate isn’t really directed
at me, but I still feel the sting of it.
But still... with the angst of the welfare
cuts and nastiness popping out here and there, England seduces me back into
seeing the ‘Madame George and roses’ side.
I spent several hours driving around rural
Dorset and Somerset yesterday. The countryside was like a cat or a supermodel;
effortlessly beautiful from any angle. There were rolling hills, little clumps
of big old oak trees, sheep and lambs in the fields, villages with thatched
stone cottages, old churches, pubs and little windy roads because they were built
in horse and cart times. I saw three does grazing by the side of the road, a
large white heron, pheasants in the fields and several little brown raptors.
People often ask in an amazed tone why on
earth I moved from New Zealand. I think they see it as a dreamy Hobbiton-type
place. I tell them that New Zealand is beautiful, but England is beautiful too.
There is a lot of that mythical land left. The place where the books I read as
a child were set: Wind in the Willows and the Famous Five. Then there were
Shakespeare, Keats, Jane Austen, Dorothy L Sayers all writing love letters to
this beautiful country. They have a point. England is still undeniably gorgeous
and I feel very lucky to be able to be here experiencing it.
If you’re English – what do you think about
my outsider’s view? If you’re not, do you think there’s a dark underbelly in
your country? What form does it take?
