The Night I Was Born

In September 2002, writer Pamela Sandiford immersed herself into the local community. She was looking for stories, like glimpses of silver, scattered through people’s everyday lives. Stories about where we come from. Stories about what we are connected to. Stories about the night that we were born.

She used informal networks and word of mouth to seek out people and their stories. She stopped people on the street. She sat next to them on benches. She popped into lunch clubs. She explored schools. Often, after a story had been shared, the next one would be found: my brother has an amazing birth story; you should talk to my next door neighbour; where can they find you? I’ll tell them to come along.

Pamela worked as a scribe. She noted the words and phrases people used. Honouring them. Investing them with as poetry. People watched the pen travel across the page as she wrote. Watched words fall from their mouths and on to the paper.

In this way, she reached out a friendly hand to the many layers of the community. She began a conversation about birth, childhood and children with many different people. A reciprocal process that was to be continued over the coming months.

"All I can remember is that I was born by Caesarean section so my Dad was first to hold me. He told me he looked out of the window of the ward, and outside were all these flowers. Rhododendrons, they might have been. There he was, holding me, new-born, and looking out at a bank full of flowers." - Mary.

"One of my babies had breathing difficulties, so they put her in a little thing at first, but she got over it. Mother’s milk didn’t agree with her. And when she was born, she had ears like little shells! All curled up. They didn’t stay like that for long. As I was holding her, and looking at her ears, they just uncurled, and I watched them, just uncurling….

They took her away – “that baby’s not quite right” – but I knew she wanted to be hugged. I’ve never seen anything like it – her little ears like shells." - Edith.