I am an economic migrant.

I came to this country 26 years ago. Not fleeing persecution from wars, or death threats for my religion, my sexuality, or my political views, I came here simply for a better life. Because I wanted to.

Leaving the poverty and greyness of my country of origin, I rushed across the border, with my children in tow, searching for a better life.

I did not have work when we came here, so I lived on benefits until I found my feet.

A great job, opportunities that would never have been available to me in my country of birth soon followed and I worked hard. The pay was low, it was not easy to survive, always needing a top-up of benefits to keep the wolf from the door, but I loved my life in this new world.

At times I was treated as an outsider. Sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with open hostility. I did not dress like the people here, my hair too wild, my voice too loud. They said things about me, these locals, that I was probably committing crimes, dealing drugs, that they didn’t want people like me living in their village. Not everyone but just enough to make it uncomfortable.

I did not integrate. I did not learn the language, at least not for many years. I smiled and was polite. I learned ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in this strange sounding language, that felt thick on my tongue.

I sought out others like me, other migrants, other in-comers,- not consciously, but others who had arrived earlier could explain all of these new ways and then we kind of stuck.

Mostly I didn’t learn the language because I was too busy living my life, raising my kids, trying to help with homework. My mind was more on what was for tea than transmutations of letters. The language was hard, and I couldn’t afford the lessons. I felt shy and stupid stumbling over words.

I kept myself to myself, was scared to mix in case I got it wrong, in case there was hostility or violence. There were still stories of incomers’ houses burned in the night. How was I to know they weren’t talking about me?

I rejected the religion too. Maintaining my faith, even though few shared it. I was berated in the street for not joining the local church and shouted at for not baptising my son.

I bought with me my own customs, my own foods, had parcels sent from over the boarder when I couldn’t buy coriander for love nor money.

I come from a long line of economic migrants. My dad moved away when I was a baby, a young man alone searching for a better life before his wife and family followed when he was settled.

My ancestors were migrants too. Leaving this land that I now call home, they crossed the border. Fleeing cholera epidemics, the collapse of industry, the failure of their business and way of life, they crossed the border to seek what turned out not to be a better life, just a different life.

Still, life for their children, their great grandchildren would be better in this new land. New opportunities, new worlds, new ways of being, their sacrifice meaning generations had more options than life on a farm, quietly starving to death.

So, I wonder, in all this vicious  talk of sending migrants home, where you would like me to go?

Do you want me to go back to my country of birth?

Or should I stay here in the magnificent land of my mother’s?

My paternal ancestors were all from the South, should I go there?

If you go back far enough I come from great Elizabethan lords, should I head to that shire and re-stake my claim?

And what about my children – two were born here, but two were not. Where should they go home to?

They too have crossed borders to live in countries not theirs from birth. Each looking for opportunities, work, love, a different culture, a different landscape. Where do you want them to go to?

My neighbour came here when he was 10. Worked here all his life, raised his family – where do you want him to go?

Or another neighbour who has been here for 60 years, stubbornly refusing to learn the language, with his Remain poster on the window, wanting to send the migrants home. I wonder where he will go back to?

We are all migrants.

So, tell me to my face – where you want me to go home to?

We are all migrants

We are all just wanting to make a better life for ourselves, for our kids.

When we let migrants work and build lives and share our communities we are all the richer for it.

I did not dilute the culture here, I made it richer, adding my own spice to life.

Our differing positions, the locals and I, merged, found common ground as we sought to protect the things we both loved about this country.

So, when you are chatting shit about migrants, know that you are talking about me.

When you are sharing vile hatred about refugees, know that you are talking about me.

Oh, you don’t mean people like me.

What because I’m white?

Or you don’t think England, Wales or Scotland are different countries, with different languages and customs and ways of life? Try telling that to the Celts!

I stand proudly with all migrants.

All those seeking a better life.

Your problems don’t exist because I moved to this country.

We are all migrants.

Stand together and be proud.