How has the project changed?
How does it feel now as a
mother?
The project has become more personal – I feel I belong to
the community now, Before, I just happened to exist at the edges; I would leave
Levenshulme at 7.15am each day and not return until 6.30pm. I could easily not
leave the house and step into the community all week. At weekends, I would
leave Levenshulme for pursuits in town or further afield. Now I belong. Now I
am part of the furniture. I shop on the high street, I talk to people, I attend
mother and baby groups, I walk the streets and have discovered more about the
area than perhaps in the past 6 years. I have always been keen to walk the
streets where I live and find out about the layout; to read about the local
news and get a sense of what is happening but something about living it every
day makes it more real. The state of the high street has become a more pressing
concern. Simple things that I never noticed before irritate me immensely – the
amount of dog fouling, the preponderance of useless takeaways and betting
shops, when I can’t even buy a pint of skimmed milk without resorting to Tesco,
the litter and uneven, forgotten about pavements, the lack of community
facilities. The mother and baby group I go to on a Tuesday takes place in a
tiny café – a lovely place, but stuffed to the rafters (and outside) with
pushchairs and really quite unsuitable for purpose. If only the owners were
able to afford to expand into surrounding outlets, this could be such a popular
place. As it is, many Levyites probably don’t even know of its existence, so
tiny and unassuming is its exterior.
There are so many interesting areas of Levenshulme – such amazing
housing stock that you wouldn’t expect simply passing through on the A6;
soaring Georgian and Victorian detached properties with huge gardens, tucked
away on quiet streets. There is a cycle path along a disused railway, where I
saw a baby fox. There is a country park! In Levenshulme! I want Florence to be proud of the area; I
don’t want her to mock it in the way I mock my birthplace. I am embarrassed to
come from Stockport – I tell people I am from Manchester, trying to sound a bit
cooler than I really am, trying to hide the fact I come from a grim, industrial
town full of ugly 1960s architecture and disaffected youth ready to mug you at
any given opportunity. I want Florence to feel a sense of pride as she tells
people she grew up in Levenshume; urban enough to be cool, gritty enough to
warrant admiration, but also plentiful enough that she has happy memories of
playing here.
There is so much desperation on the streets – the small,
handwritten signs I have photographed; the alcoholics stealing bottles from
Iceland; the drug addicts hanging around on the street; the gamblers emerging,
blinking and bleary-eyed into the bright sunshine on the street; the elderly
residents with stockings bunched around their ankles, tottering along fearfully
with a hawk’s eye on the youth; the young mothers with hair scraped back and
pink pushchairs adorned with pink accessories. There are so many extremes – the
affluent houses aforementioned; the bohemian, artistic neighbours who act, make
musical instruments, photograph.
There is so much hope. You only have to speak to people, to
engage with the community, to see this. People are fighting for the area – they
protest against the closure of local amenities, they report crime to each other
on Facebook to reduce the risk, they set up litter-picking activities and plant
flowers in public spaces. It gives me hope too.
