Last Saturday I was sent a stiff, glossy brochure informing me of imminent changes in my local podiatry services. NHS Westminster plans to invest £540,000 in this pressing ‘service redesign’ and being a taxpayer and local resident they wanted my views. I had a questionnaire to fill out and return. Alongside the requisite ‘Are you male or female?’ boxes to tick, I was asked the following: Do you have a physical or mental health condition that has lasted at least 12 months or is likely to last at least 12 months? Yes or no? Although I quite fail to comprehend the correlation between having some rubber-gloved nurse gouge out a verruca and a potential bipolar episode, I paused only momentarily before taking an optimistic standpoint and ticking ‘no’.
The next question really floored me. To which of these ethnic groups do you feel you belong? These were listed alphabetically. Arab or Arab British, Asian or Asian British, Black or Black British, Mixed, White or Other. I hesitated over immediately ticking the White section as this, like the others, gave me confusing, sub-categorised options. Was I British or Irish? Eastern European or an all-encompassing ‘any other White background?’ My problem is that I never feel as though I belong in any of these groupings — I am simply good old-fashioned English. I don’t really feel my ethnicity; I just am.
I think of myself as English because my genetics and heritage are genuinely insular and because I belong to a generation that predates the PC protective cloak of multiple-choice options. To me, I am an Englishwoman. I am not a ‘person’ of British origin — too non-gender non-specific. I am a woman that was born and bred in England, as were my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents before me. It’s a fact. I rather resent that I’ve been forced to take early retirement and have insidiously morphed into becoming an unrepresented minority. My ethnicity feels compromised. Diluted. Fraudulent. When I’m travelling and asked which country I’m from, I never say Europe or Great Britain. To me it would sound both greedy and dishonest. I’m from England, ergo I’m English.
Nearly 20 years ago I moved to America with my husband and children. During the seven years we lived there we applied for, and were graciously granted green cards. Our legal status became that of ‘permanent resident aliens’. Not surprising perhaps, I never felt like a resident alien. In these circumstances I felt like an Englishwoman abroad — despite the fact that my children used to (understandably, as they were being educated in an American school) start each morning pledging their allegiance to the Star Spangled Banner before singing ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’ to the tune of ‘God Save the Queen’.
I am deeply patriotic; I am proud to hold a British passport and totally embrace and accept the fact I live in a multi, multicultural society. The fact that the last box I was made to tick asked if the survey had been completed by a parent/guardian, a carer, a support worker, a healthcare professional or an interpreter left me in no doubt it must have been written by a foreigner. Best foot forward.