Good morning, my darlings. Pearl writing you from Brixton, where the rain falling soft and the kettle just whistle. Sit down. Cup of tea coming.
I read the news about the new immigration bill in Barbados. Merit-based. Points for lineage. Points for skills. Points for “financial means.” Points for senior diplomatic service. The Honourable Minister Nicholls present the bill on Wednesday and by Thursday morning Pearl reading about it on the laptop my grandson Anthony set up for me.
Now, child. Pearl going to be measured.
I am not against the bill. I want to say that first. A small island with a shrinking workforce must do something. Demography is not negotiable. The Minister is correct that fertility falling and migration outward and the productive population thinning is a real problem. Pearl knows this. Pearl lived it from this side — the side where the grandchildren go.
But Pearl carrying something. Pearl carrying Windrush. Pearl carrying 1948. Pearl carrying the men and women who came to this country with one suitcase and a Ministry-of-Labour leaflet promising them work, and who got sixty years later a Home Office letter telling them they had no right to be here. Pearl carrying the cousins who got deported. Pearl carrying the ones who died waiting on a compensation scheme. So when Pearl read “merit-based system,” Pearl head do a small turn.
Because, child, “merit” is a word that mean different thing in different mouths.
Anthony — my Anthony, my grandson — twenty-eight years old, born in Brixton, mother born in Brixton, father born in St Philip. Anthony want to retire to Barbados one day. Anthony have a degree. Anthony have a job in IT. Anthony have lineage three generations deep. Anthony will probably score plenty of points.
But Pearl thinking about the OTHER Anthony. The one who never went university because his mother needed him at home. The one who work as a carer for fifteen years and have no degree to put on the form. The one who born to Bajan parents in Tottenham and have the lineage but not the “professional experience” or the “financial resources.” Where the point for HIM?
Because the home country he carry in his accent and in his Sunday cooking is the same home country. But the FORM going to look at him different.
Pearl not saying the bill is wrong. Pearl saying: when we design a points system to call people HOME, we must remember that home is not only for the high-scorers. Home is also for the carer. The bus driver. The hairdresser. The auntie who never had a passport stamped beyond Gatwick to Grantley Adams. They made this island too. From here.
Miss Violet writing from Brooklyn this week. Pearl read her. Miss Violet always measured, always civics-teacher about her business. She right. Pearl just adding one thing from this side of the Atlantic.
When we count points, count carefully. The diaspora been keeping score for eighty years.
Kettle done. Pearl going have her tea. Mind how you go.
Auntie Pearl from Brixton is a satirical voice column. She is a fictional character — a retired Bajan-British woman in South London. Views expressed are dramatic exaggerations for comedic effect.