Brexit split me from my grandmother – and I never had the chance to properly say goodbye

These days, I think of myself as a “reformed Remainer”. Looking back, I often behaved like a sort of missionary for the campaign, spreading the good word of the EU to anyone who wanted (and invariably didn’t want) to hear it.

Admittedly, it’s hard to feel passionately for a trading bloc, but with the benefit of hindsight I suppose I saw it as an opportunity to wave my values and perceived education in my working class relative’s faces. One relationship that suffered dramatically due to this was mine and my grandmother’s.

In working class communities, grandmothers do a lot of the bringing up of children and mine was no different. I was the product of a teenage pregnancy and my parents’ ages meant they felt a natural pull towards enjoying their youth. Consequently, I was invariably precluded from being involved in that venture. They also worked tirelessly to ensure that I had everything I needed. But my grandmother was the one who held my hair when I was sick, taught me how to read, sang me to sleep and so comfortingly wrapped me in her blanket of love.

Fast forward to 2015 and it felt as if we were often speaking another language. We found each other’s fears and hopes for the future to be completely unintelligible. I felt as if she was betraying her working class roots by deserting Labour (a party that backed Remain) and she felt that I was doing the same by not having the courage to take a stand against what she and many others saw as a complete disregard for our lives.

Brexit became the lightning rod for our insecurities. Of course, the Brexit conversation affected everyone, but it often felt that the most damaging battles were being fought in working class communities and particularly in our homes.

She saw her home town change and found it to be deeply upsetting. I can still hear her saying to me now: “You won’t believe this, but in the 60s you could quit a job at midday and have a new one by 1pm.” She witnessed the once bustling high street turn into a sea of silver shutters. She held my grandfather’s hand as he lay in a crowded A&E for an unacceptable amount of time after suffering a stroke. She also watched me attempt (and fail) to get a council property due to increasing demand.

Of course, all of this coincided with austerity, but it became progressively difficult for her to fathom how the EU was benefiting those that felt left behind.

All of this made her angry. She felt that the system was corrupt and lost her faith in traditional politics. There was a time when we weren’t in the EU and it seemed to her like a happier and more prosperous one. Brexit became a means of self-assertion and a reminder to everyone who had allowed working class dignity to fall by the wayside that they were ready to take back control. She once said to me: “Party political members haven’t knocked on my door for years and do you want to know why? They can’t look me in the eye because they failed our communities: they’re embarrassed.”

I found her attitude selfish and incredibly short-sighted. I wasn’t particularly interested in arguing for the EU’s economic benefits but I certainly wanted free movement, not only for others but for myself. I’ve never felt particularly patriotic (unless I’m watching a major sporting event) and at that time – wrongly – I aligned national sentimentality with nationalism. I would attempt to “school” my grandmother on lessons in Empire and British exceptionalism and I became impatient by her apathy.

Our interactions became tense. She annoyed me and I most certainly annoyed her. Once I said to her, “Why are you voting to take away mine and my children’s future?” to which she replied, “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to give you a future!’

After the referendum, life carried on as normal but nothing was the same. The fact remained that we now belonged to opposing tribes. She became “the other”, as I did to her. We were both intoxicated by a sense of political one-upmanship and general dread-laden news. I often think one of the biggest casualties of Brexit was, indeed, our sense of humour.

During the height of the pandemic, my grandmother passed away. We said goodbye on FaceTime but it wasn’t the same. She told me she’d miss me and I told her I’d miss her more. Not once during those fraught weeks in hospital did we discuss politics. We spoke about the old times: tap dancing to Fred Astaire in the kitchen, our favourite movies and jokes that only we share.

It all seems so futile, the anger and the hurt. What a waste of those last remaining years, fighting over a game that neither of us ever really wanted to play.