Photos Define a Person – Pt. 2

Care leavers are left with gaps in their history, denied the ability to be a definitive person, their childhood denied existence because it’s impossible to redact a photograph.

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It’s been a few months now. All I had to do was to download the zip file. I downloaded the file. Open the folder. I opened the folder. Hit the space bar on the icon. My finger quivered over the key. It was like standing in front of a door that won’t open.

It felt silly and entirely out of character. I knew what the photos were of. I fought hard to keep the rational part of my brain in control. I still remember the trip to Blackpool vividly. I close my eyes, and the rattles and roars of the rides at the Pleasure Beach shoot by, followed by flashes of the falling sensation while standing on the glass floor of the Tower, sweet cream and peppermint shutter by, while watching the confectioners make sticks of Blackpool rock. All of these have served me well until this point, but when it came to hitting the space bar, the whole melodrama of “Do I need to open them” started all over again.

All these images are from my perspective, through my eyes. I can remember the colours of what I wore but not what I wore. I can remember how I styled my hair with wet hair gel, but not how it looked. No one can know what they look like unless someone shows them photos. I found comfort in not having this. In my social work files from the time, there are frequent references to how I “looked really young for my age”. Something I now relish in but definitely hated at the time.

Memories are just memories of memories. When I remember a memory, I’m just creating a new memory of that memory, with each generation degrading the last, becoming fuzzier, noisier, filled with artefacts as it blurs. I use narratives to attempt to de-blurr, de-noise, to preserve the images in a way so I accept them.

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It’s hard enough remembering my opinions without remembering my reasons for them. Maybe I didn’t want to hit the space bar because I knew the photos were the truth, destroying the delusional narratives that had masked the memories for so long.

These pictures are one week after a crazy weekend, or as my care workers, social workers, and health workers put it, a suicide attempt. I wrote about this episode a few months ago in a piece called Pushed or Pulled. I had found a way to move on from that part of my life. So much now it doesn’t really feel real anymore. I know it happened. The scars of sleepless nights downstairs with the TV off remind me how real it was. Would the reckless self-destruction I lived in, engaged in, and fermented in at that point be visible in my eyes? Would it be evident to me now because it wasn’t then?

My inbox pinged with another email from my former care worker. He replied to my scream in lowercase with, “I found a few more photos from our trip to London for that football thing.” He was referring to a trip to Brixton to play 5-aside football with some other children’s homes. Some things are packages of emphasis, and I couldn’t find any more excuses. I gave him a last scream in lowercase.

By not moving on, I was still making payments on an emotional debt I didn’t owe. Was I ready? Well, you never know the true strength of a tea bag until it hits the water. I took the plunge. Hit the space bar.

I opened them. The first picture wasn’t of me. A fury of frustration erupted. I spent all this time refusing to view an image which didn’t have me in it. It was of my younger brother. I had forgotten just how young he was then, still eleven years old. I hit the arrow key and moved down. The second picture was of me.

Emotions ran through me like foreign water through a tourist.

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In my current life, I proudly parade myself as a chav. Often in meetings with industry leaders, political leaders, or whoever, declaring myself as the resident chav before saying something mildly contentious. It gets a laugh in the room before I try to make a serious point. I know why they laugh. It’s because they can’t imagine me like that. They can’t imagine someone like that being an equal in that room. They imagine that the person who had mellowed their accent expanded their vocabulary, and rounded off the rough edges must be exaggerating with such a pronouncement. But it’s a firm part of my background and who I was. I know for the people I’m around, I’m a novelty. I understand the laughs. I understand the advice of how I ‘shouldn’t do myself down’. They need to understand there is nothing wrong with it.

I stared at the picture. The background music, which I hadn't been paying attention to, had been turned off, and suddenly, there was silence. My fingers were too stunned to move. I recognised the face. I recognise the scene. But I didn’t recognise the person. It was me, but I was staring at a different person. He had the most mischievous eyes. He was confident. I have no memory of ever feeling that confident. He looked so so so young.

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A curated selection of approved photos

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Before this, I could remember how I dressed. I was a chav, after all. I could've portrayed one of the boys from the song A Certain Romance by the Arctic Monkeys. I had the classic Reeboks and tracky bottoms tucked in socks. But I didn’t realise just how much I embodied this stereotype.

I continued to scroll. All the memories were there, almost like I pictured them. But seeing the pictures triggered a vividness I wasn’t expecting. There’s a particular ache in seeing your younger self caught in an image that doesn’t tell the whole story in a moment of fleeting happiness that masks something deeper. I wanted to cover him up in bubble wrap. I knew the decisions he would make, and I wanted to stop him. I wanted to guide him. But I couldn’t. I feel angry because they were my decisions, and I know the harm they will cause him.

I know everything works out for him in the end. But I don't think the anger will subside until I understand the bad moments, spend time with them, and elongate them. I appreciate the opportunity to feel this way, though. It’s a privilege I hadn’t had until now.

There are some Facebook groups dedicated to care leavers. A community of us who connect, ask for and share advice. After posting part 1 of this piece, I wondered if anyone else has had trouble getting photos from their time in children’s homes. It’s easy to think you’re the only one, and others may have had an easier time with it. Unsurprisingly, it’s not the case.

All respondents said it was impossible to get any pictures. Like me, they all have memories of them being taken, but blame GDPR and consent as the issue for not being able to obtain them. Their history is littered with Local Authority shaped potholes because bureaucracy always trumps compassion. Care leavers are left with gaps in their history, denied the ability to be a definitive person, their childhood denied existence because it’s impossible to redact a photograph. For the past thirty years, every Government has said they put children at the heart of their policy, to give them control, to reclaim their future. However, they are denied the chance to reclaim their history once they are adults.

I was lucky because a care worker didn’t just care deeply enough to take the photos, but care enough to keep the photos, so he could share the photos with me when I was ready to care enough. Ready to stand in front of the lens on my own terms and begin to see myself through kinder eyes, a person who has grown beyond the limitations of stigmatised labels and difficult memories. Is it right that people who grew up in children’s homes have to face a lottery like this when they are ready to care, reclaim their history, fill that gap, resurrect their existence, and become a definitive person?

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