The shouts of reporters were overwhelming. Leaning against the wall, I take in the chaos that surrounds me. The discussion at hand was a common one in the newspaper offices and amongst lower-class residents of London: uproar at the workhouse system that had split up so many families and caused so much despair. Angry voices blend together; I close my eyes in frustration, pondering whether the outrage I feel simmering inside of me will ever make a difference in this world. The hatred I feel towards the government boils in me like a pot of scalding hot water threatening to overflow when forgotten on the hearth. No matter what stories are published in the papers attacking the government and The Poor Law, nothing changes. No improvements are ever made. It’s never enough.
I trudge home from the office through muddy streets. Thick clouds cover London: sucking every last bit of light from a place that is already so desolate. Brown brick buildings line the streets, each one identical to the next. Through dirt-stained panes, I barely make out the dim glow of street lamps struggling to stay alight in the damp spring air. London is a sponge: collecting rainwater almost daily, surely because the city is so close to the sea. Passing the Cleveland Street Workhouse, I feel it once again. Disgust. How is it that human beings can be so selfish as to imprison and torture those less fortunate than them? If one has the means to help those in need, should they not help them? What arrogance! Imagine what a world void of greed and hate would be like…
I’m not ignorant: I know that people won’t completely change their ways overnight. Honourable character develops gradually. I wonder though, what it may be like if there was a single day each year when people are able to forget their selfishness and focus on giving back to others. Is it too much to ask for one joyful day where people focus on something bigger than themselves? Surely not.
Hope is what keeps me alive and fighting. Hope that everyone has some good inside of them: even if it’s buried beneath piercing, hollow eyes and a scowl. I would like to believe that people can change for the better. Maybe that's a naive thought. Maybe it’s not. Who knows? I myself barely escaped the iron claws of the workhouse system. At least I have a chance to make a difference and stand up for so many people that will never have a voice of their own.
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