The 10th Anniversary of my Dad's Death

Recently it was the 10th anniversary of my Dad’s death, I say recently because I never seem to remember on the actual day. It passes by & soon after I realise I’ve missed it.

With a smile I acknowledge that I’m probably channeling him. Rarely remembering his own birthday, when I’d wished him happy returns he’d annually reply  “I live everyday like it’s my birthday so I don’t need to celebrate today.” After hiss death I realise what he meant- don’t leave living with joy & celebrating yourself for special occasions. One of the many inheritance life lessons passed down to me.

I called him Dad, his birth name was Bernard but he went by Burns & of course being a

member of the Caribbean community the name he lived up to was Sleepy.

His death was not one surrounded by loved ones in a safe peaceful way. His story ends at 75 years old homeless, alone and I know factually he would have been in a lot of pain.

Dad’s death certificate states place of death: outside 241 Kilburn high road, London. The place I’d walked up and down looking for him as a missing person.

60 Years In the UK ended the way it started. NO IRISH, NO BLACKS, NO DOGS. Not exposed until after his death my Dad was one of many victims of the Windrush Scandal.

Made homeless. A victim of a government voted in by the people he lived amoungst.

At times it can consume me so I try to turn the rage into change. It’s been arguing with people over Brexit, acknowledging the ones posting a black square on their social media that never went beyond a “look at me aren’t I radical” trend or needing to know why people use their voice for the people of Ukraine & not Palestine. When discussing the suttltties of the typically British style of racism which is deny! deny! deny! You need to understand you are talking to the daughter of a man who was taken by racism.

With pride my opinions are strong. Not randomly strong but life experienced strong. It’s in my blood. Our family history of 2015….

The year my dad died.

The year my eldest child was born (now 9)

&

The year the UK government was still taking taxpayers money and paying compensation to the descendants of the perpetrators of the slave trade for “Loss of their property,” with few questioning this by mostly staying purposefully ignorant by choosing which parts of their country’s history to learn.

He’s death runs through me everyday apart from the actual date. The day just passes in a way I hope he did- just out and away from the struggle.  Life can be exhausting & I’m thankful that he’s free from it. I fight when I can but refuse to let it consume me by remembering to live everyday like it’s my birthday.

It’s important for me to lead by example, protect my moral compass & be opinionated & political, not allowing myself to be silenced.

I’m a self employed photographer, no work is worth my silence. This is the eye that I view the world with & I’m proud of that. When being hired as a photographer it’s not just my skill you get, it’s my eye.  One that stands sees & stands for humanity. For I am the proud daughter of Sleepy.

10 years seems big but no bigger than any other year. Once I remember we take out his Funeral blanket & spread it on the bed. His Grandchildren born after his death live life on it.

This is the story of his blanket, a therapeutic, handmade group effort lovingly made in the grieving process of funeral preparations.

As we prepared for his funeral pieces of colourful fabric lined the room, it felt like a hug from him. Remembering a beautiful trait of his- stopping random people in the street informing them that their colourful outfits brought him joy. As he complimented them both hands would come up to his heart & head would tilt to one side in the most calming way. People would always receive the compliment in a way that filled them with pride that they’d brought this stranger joy just by being themselves.  Started off by me, continued by my mum & finished by a family friend Scorpio the artist who stepped in to finish the blanket as an act of friendship when we needed it. Its next job was to cover his coffin, the most colourful coffin in town. I’m not overly precious about this blanket because things, like people last as long as they last, so make the most out of them while you can. The blankets story continues. The time it got ripped when his grandchildren jumped with joy bouncing on the bed it covered. And that time it came to the rescue when the bed sheets weren’t dry and his descendants were having their weekly movie and popcorn night in bed and the drink got spilt & left an orange stain adding more colour & another memory.

I honour his death by forgetting,  having a day off thinking about the very true reality of being darker skinned in this world.

And in honour of you my beloved, kind, gentle and very much missed Dad we also forget your birthday.

Grandchildren by Bria Muller