A still from the first interview with Grace.
Twenty-six days to go.
This is crazy. It does not
feel real. Time is racing.
I guess I should play catch
up and log what has happened so far – just so that I can stop
worrying about not having recorded it. I can then start worrying
about everything I still have to do. Woop.
As i've said many times now,
this project has been on my mind for a long time. When I applied for
my MA place, I actually wrote a proposal for this project in regards
to a bursary that they were offering. Unfortunately, the bursary
application was unsuccessful, but I couldn't complain as I was
accepted onto the course and given a scholarship. I ended up shelving
the project, believing I wouldn't be able to afford it this year.
It was only about two to
three weeks ago that I thought this was possible – there was a very
slim chance of it working and I thought 'screw it, let's go'. This
happened at my final tutorial before my MA group split up for the
summer. Pretty much the entire class had turned up for the session,
so there wasn't much time for everyone to speak in depth. One by one,
each person took their turn to explain their project in three
minutes. 'I'm going to Belarus', 'I'm going to Japan', 'I'm going to
North Carolina'. Most people's projects started either with them
going off to an far-flung place, or following an idea that they've
been dreaming of. As it neared my turn, I started to ponder why I was
choosing the easy, sensible option. My project idea previously had
been to stay at home and to document Whitechapel – an area that's
currently in the grips of social & economic change in the lead up
to the Crossrail development. By staying at home, I figured that I
would get more time to research and work on the project – also
saving money for America. It was my turn. 'I'm going to America...'.
That's it, I had decided, I knew that it was a now or never
situation. If I didn't use the push of university to force me to go
over then I would keep putting it off. Money would be an issue, but I
thought i'll figure it out or get by somehow. The next problem was –
would Bekky be able to come with me?
I started to feel bad. Bekky
had done me the incredible favour of leaving her job in Manchester as
a junior stylist, her friends in cheshire and the north in general,
so as to join me in London. It had taken her a while to adjust,
taking her a couple of months to find a job – but she was settling
in now, progressing within her company. And there I was, dangling
America in front of her, knowing that she wouldn't want to pass up on
the trip but likely she would have to quit her job to do so. Somehow
though, luckily, this all worked out for the best. She approached her
manager about it, who directed her to the store manager; whom was
incredibly supportive and invited her out for drinks to talk about
it. She told Bekky that she didn't want to lose her, so she would
re-hire her as soon as she was back. To make matters even better, she
began training Bekky to be a manager. This seems to show that
sometimes it's important to show your employer that you have a life
outside of work.
So we booked our plane tickets. Oh yes. We booked the plane tickets. I sat with my eyes
wide, mouth gaping, as I gazed – bewildered, at the booking
confirmation. It was an especially bizarre feeling to see evidence
that I would actually be in America in less than two months.
First thing on my list was
to renew my American Passport. I've been putting this off for so long
that I needed to prove in photographs how my face had changed over
the past fourteen years. The main reason for this is I knew it was
going to be an incredible faff. You see, my surname on my last
American passport is Blagborough. Christopher Martin Blagborough.
When I last had my passport renewed, my Mum had remarried; I had been
really close to him and had asked to take his surname. Since then,
they divorced and I returned to my Father's name, Bethell. As far as
I was aware, I did not have any of the certificates showing my change
of name, so it was going to be annoying to prove this at the embassy.
My Mum sent me over a big file of information – birth certificates,
social security number, old passports, etc and I booked my
appointment. Friday morning, 10th July 2015, 9.30am.
I woke up, blinded by the
sun through my window, in a complete daze. But I guess that's how I
wake up every morning so nothing too special there. Getting up, I
headed to my wardrobe and started to completely overthink my outfit
for the day – what would make me look more American? Should I dig
out my old trucker caps? Luckily I sobered up from this ridiculous
thought and dressed as usual. I dragged myself out of the flat, onto
the network of London's tubes and to the front gate of the Embassy
where I was greeted by a large statue of Kennedy and the giant,
American flags, trickling in the wind. I chuckled in my head as I
walked past the ever-increasing line of people applying for visas,
walking straight to 'American Citizen Services'. Here, I had to sign
my name, date of birth and confirm that I didn't have any of the
prohibited items listed on a sheet that I was given. Any other time,
I wouldn't have thought twice about this, but this time I scrolled
down through the list. 'Glass Bottles', no. 'Knives', nope.
'Weapons', no way. 'Explosives'..... I panicked. A week previous to
this I had been using this bag to carry smoke bombs around Rendlesham
Forest. Would there still be any residue from these? Would it be
picked up? Luckily, nothing of the sort happened. I was being
paranoid as usual. Giving the guards what I hope was a smile, I
continued on into the embassy. I won't go into all the details as
frankly, it's pretty full, but there was a bit of back and forth
about my name change, I had to write a statement and declare an oath
that it was true. My mum had also included a photocopy of some
document that I clearly was not meant to have as all of the officials
I spoke to were not happy about me having it. They took it off me,
asked me to pay for my passport and let me go on my way.
So that pretty much bring us
up to speed. There is still a ridiculous amount of stuff to organise,
but at least i've begun journaling. I've just come back up to
Cheshire to interview my Gran & Mum, although we have a few
problems that have set us back. The main one being that the sound
quality of the inbuilt mic on my camcorder is not clear enough, so
i've had to order a RODE external mic. Another problem is that I have
absolutely zero energy as this weekend killed me – and it has
nothing to do with alcohol/being hungover. I worked 42 hours in three
days for Lovebox/Citadel Festivals, including their seven after
parties. I threw myself at every hour I could get in order to raise
money for this trip. My Mum also had a blood vessel pop in her eye,
so she wasn't happy to be filmed – meaning we have to postpone
until i'm next up in two weeks.
It's a shame about the sound
quality as the interview with my Gran was beginning to get deep. I
appreciate how difficult it must be for her to bring up these
memories, some happy and some painful. It was amazing to see her talk
about her relationship with Joe as it's something she's never really
opened up about before. I'm excited to do this properly on my next
trip.
One thing that I need to
figure out is how to phrase questions so as to prompt answers that
make sense once my question is edited out of the clip. So that the
interviewee repeats the context of the question. I found this to be
quite hard in my last attempt.