Politics wasn’t spoken about in my house in the way I talk about it now. Politics was something that happened on the news, in the capital, somewhere far from the northern post-industrial town I lived in. But this didn’t mean politics wasn’t happening. It was felt: in supermarkets, job centres, foodbanks, the youth centre where my mum worked.
My mum worked for Connexions, a youth career guidance and support service. But it acted more as a one-stop shop for young people in need. Whether kids came through the doors looking for career options or because they’d been kicked out of their house and needed a room for the night, my mum would do her best to help.
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Westminster felt a long way from Rochdale, but when my mum lost her job and the kids lost a place to turn, politics was everywhere. It lived in our house in the arguments over money, it lived on the streets and the park benches late at night and it lived in the empty car parks and boarded-up buildings. Politics lived in the loss that had no name. This is what politicians don’t understand about politics. Fiscal rules, triple locks, chancellor’s boxes and market growth weren’t in the strained conversations I’d overhear from my bedroom.
Years later I wrote a PhD on contemporary politics and taught critical theory and political philosophy at university. The way I spoke about politics changed. All of a sudden, the feelings that lay beneath the surface of the rows and the closed swimming baths and the queues at job centres were given a story.
It was a story of an economic system that had name: neoliberalism and the false promises of free market capitalism and trickle-down economics that would instead send wealth upwards under the guise of ‘there is no alternative’. But if you don’t know this story, if you haven’t been given the language, the confidence or the time to challenge an invisible system that slowly wages a war on its people, then that feeling of loss, humiliation and grievance has nowhere to go.
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