I saw something that upset and troubled me today.
I was returning home from an overnight business trip and had 45 minutes until my 2.30pm connection from Birmingham New Street station. I decided that it would be a good time to get a bite to eat so went to one of the surprisingly few sandwich shops within the station waiting area to satisfy my appetite.
After collecting my tuna & cheese baguette and weak latte, I looked for a spare table to consume my luxurious lunch. There weren’t many spare tables, but I was lucky enough to find one in close proximity to a young attractive white lady. I would estimate her age as 20ish. Why, I hear you ask, was I being so observant of this lady? Was it her beauty or simply because I had been away from home for too long? Well, it was a little of the former, but this was not the full reason. This young lady was holding a baby. A black (mixed race) baby. A boy. Probably 6-9 months old.
This was the real reason that I was so intrigued. Here was a young lady on her own, not an amazingly notable fact as were at a train station and most people appeared to be single travellers. But, this lady looked particularly alone.
As I sat there, questions came to my mind. Why is this lady here? Where is she travelling? Where is the black man who fathered her baby? Is he (the baby’s father) active in his upbringing?
Whilst munching on my baguette and reflecting on these rhetorical questions, I felt compelled to move tables and strike up a conversation with the young lady with whom I had become so pre-occupied.
Fear got the better of me and as I sat thinking how I could explain my genuine interest and get her to believe that I wasn’t attempting to chat her up, an elderly couple came along and engaged the seats that I had my eye on. So, that was that.
Even this though, didn’t stop these questions going through my mind. I looked at my watch and realised that this process had taken 25 minutes. Then, out of the blue her phone rang. She answered it promptly and gave the caller directions of where to find her. The call couldn’t have lasted any more than 10 seconds. I sat up wondering if it was her boyfriend, the baby’s father coming to meet her or was it someone else? 30 seconds later in walked two young ladies and headed straight towards her table. One was white and the other of oriental descent. My first thoughts were that these must be former school or college friends. But no, they were too old for that. Then I observed that the white lady was clutching a big black book that I mistook for a bible and thought they must be Mormons. Then I noticed that the oriental lady had a Childs backpack, complete with teddies with her, but no child.
They seemed to know the baby, calling out “hello Max, hello Max”. But then the oriental lady asked her travel mate for the surname of the baby. I thought that this was a little strange. Why didn’t she ask the baby’s mother?
One of the lady’s asked the mother what time her next train was, to which she responded “I don’t know at the moment”. A reply came “we have a train at 2.30pm that we would like to catch”. Then the baby’s mother asked something very peculiar. “Do you have ID?” she asked. The oriental lady promptly produced an ID card, showed it to the mother and popped it back.
Then it suddenly clicked. This young mother had made arrangements to meet social workers at the station to hand over her son.
My heart sank. I had no idea what this mother had experienced. Frankly, it was none of my business. But, I seemed to have grown attached to her as this 35-minute story unfolded. The transaction took place in around 3 minutes flat. A few niceties and then the boy was handed over. The mother walked away and didn’t even look back. Maybe she had been coached not to. It was all over.
I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to talk to the social workers and ask if there was anything I could do. But I know enough about social services departments to know that they are well trained and each matter is private. After a good 10 minutes of reflection I went to catch my train. As I stood on the platform waiting, I couldn’t stop thinking about the future this black boy was going to have. What will happen to him? Where will he end up? Will he find a good home? Will he find his way in life?
And what about the baby’s father. Assuming nothing tragic has happened to him.
Where is he? Does he have other children anywhere? How is he facing up to the responsibility that his sexual encounter with the beautiful young lady has produced?
We who have a passion to help young black men reach their potential face great challenges.
I pondered on all of this and had to write this article on my train journey home.
N.B The name of the baby has been changed for this article.