Free Loaves on Fridays: Anthology of 100 care experienced voices published

Free Loaves on Fridays contains stories, letters and poems from care-experienced people aged 13 to 68.

Published today (18 April), the book, edited by Rebekah Pierre, care-experienced social worker and professional officer at the British Association of Social Workers (BASW), features both seasoned writers like Lemn Sissay, as well as those who have put pen to paper for the very first time.

It aims to counteract headlines written about care-experienced people which “often entrench negative stereotypes and dominate the narrative, leaving care-experienced people with nothing but crumbs”, Pierre explained.

She added: “For far too long, care-experienced people have been the subject, but rarely the author of our own words in assessments, files, and reports.

“This is something I know all too well. When I penned an Open Letter to the Social Worker Who Wrote My Case Files a couple of years ago, which unexpectedly went viral, it resonated with many care-experienced people who longed to have more ownership over their own stories.”

Pierre described Free Loaves on Fridays as a “tangible way in which to invite other people with lived experience of care to set the score”.

“In a radical move in the publishing industry, we had a no rejection policy, meaning anyone – regardless of their age or former writing experience – could submit a piece. The result is a rich tapestry of courageous, original and powerful voices which would ordinarily have gone under the radar,” she said.

“The book holds up a mirror to the system, exposing both the wonderful potential that good, well-funded social work can have, as well as the lifelong consequences when children are let down.

“Representation is crucial; I didn’t open up about my care-experience until my late twenties, such was the stigma. So it means everything that the next generation of children in care and care leavers will see themselves proudly represented in bookshops, by people who really get it.”

Emma Lewell-Buck, MP for South Shields, and a former social worker, said: “So often, care-experienced people are not listened to, their exclusion from policy setting and decision making is ever apparent. Often those who have experienced care are spoken about as though they are all one homogenous group. They aren’t. Their diverse experiences are brought to life in this book. Please do read Free Loaves on Fridays, it’s an emotional journey that will make you cry and laugh. But most of all understand the reality of our care system and why it absolutely must change.”

Maris Stratulis, the national director for BASW (England) added: Free Loaves is an incredibly poignant and powerful book and shines a light on the courage, bravery, creativity and individual uniqueness of each care-experienced child, young person and adult contributor. It has been a privilege and honour to read this book.

“This is a must-read for every social worker, we must hear and learn from the voices of the care-experienced community, and influence and change practice and systems for the better.”

Free Loaves on Fridays is available to order online and in buy in mainstream bookshops with proceeds going to Article 39 and The Together Trust: https://unbound.com/books/free-loaves-on-fridays

Extract from ‘When the Light Dimmed: Finding Hope After Losing my Parents’ by Alice Spencer

Mum was combing oil through my Afro and parting it into sections. ‘Alice, I’ve found a lump in my breast and the doctor is going to do some tests,’ she said. I looked at her reflection in the mirror. She caught my eye and then began twisting pieces of hair, tying the ends with pink love-heart bobbles.

‘What do you mean, “lump”?’ I asked. I’d never heard of lumps in breasts. Mum slid a glittery clip behind my ear, scraping back a wild strand. ‘I’m not sure, love, but the doctor is going to check that it’s not serious.’

I stood up and admired my hair in the mirror, I loved my twisted pigtails and matching accessories. I wrapped my arms around my mum’s wide waist. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I smiled, and ran out to show Melissa, oblivious to what my mum was trying to tell me.

The next year was a whirlwind; my mum’s cancer had spread to other parts of her body, slowing it down. The life which I had only just adapted to changed drastically. Melissa was moved to another placement nearby and it felt like the inevitable was looming over me.

My mum kept us informed at every stage of her illness. She was good at using a language that eleven-year-old me could understand. I once asked Mum directly about her death, and she never denied it. ‘Mum, are you going to die?’ I asked, my hand clasped in hers as we walked towards ASDA, the green letters glowing in the dark.

‘Everyone dies, Alice, it’s just a natural part of life.’ I held her hand tighter, so she couldn’t let go. ‘But I don’t want you to die,’ I said.

‘You’ll be sad for a while, but you’ll be OK, I know you will.’ At the time, I didn’t believe that I would be. I once sat on the stairs whilst my mum napped in the living room, hysterically crying in doubt that I’d be able to survive without her. The imminent grief felt heavy and claustrophobic as I knew her time was coming to an end and I was unable to escape it.

–

‘If I touch my wall, my DNA will be here forever and that way I’ll always be here,’ I thought. I rubbed my fingers over the wallpaper as a way to remain in this house. I created a story in my mind. ‘I’ll sleep in the walls – so much space to stretch in the morning – and I’ll sit on the skirting boards when sick of standing. My cells will live in the ceiling light – I’ll be electric. Maybe her cells will be here too and she’ll be alive with me.’

I thought that if I went around my room and touched the walls and ceiling light, a part of me would remain in the house. This made leaving feel a little more comforting.

The front door slammed and I jumped out of the conversation with the room.

I could hear muttering, and my nana’s croaky voice called up the stairs, ‘Alice, we’re back, start bringing the bags downstairs.’

My heart sped up, panic met my knees, hands and thighs, and they began to shake at the thought of leaving it all behind. I squeezed my eyes shut, ran into Mum’s room and leaned against the wall. My breaths skipped out of my mouth, I gulped down air, trying to catch each breath to make them mine. Her voice sailed through my mind, ‘Think about it a day at a time, and that way it doesn’t feel as long,’ something my mum would say to ground me when I was afraid of having to live without her.