I am British. English, Scottish and Welsh blood runs through my veins — I’ve never taken an ancestry test, but that’s my lineage, traced directly to my grandparents. rough breakdown is:
- 50% English
- 25% Welsh
- 25% Scottish
On my Scottish side, we belong to Clan MacLeod — we have a tartan, a motto (“hold fast”), and roots in the Isle of Skye. My ancestors moved south during wartime, or so I am told. My Scottish granny met my welsh grandad at university near London. He was the first in his family to get into higher education and leave the hills of Wales.
My English side is far more straightforward. An English family with eight boys, one of which became a policeman and met my Granny Elsie. They stayed put in the quiet towns of south England, and raised my dad and his brothers.
You’d think, with such a firm foothold in all corners of the United Kingdom, that I’d feel a strong sense of belonging. And in some ways, I do. But in others, not so much. Being a mix of all three doesn’t root me firmly in any one. Instead, it leaves me hovering between them.
In Cardiff, I’m surrounded by a cosmopolitan landscape of people but also a strong sense of national pride1.
Wales is a very inviting place, from the rolling hills of the valleys to the people who will tell you about their mother’s ailments even though you’re a stranger at the bus stop. Any Welsh person would say you are Welsh by being here, by living in Wales, for 6 months or 10 years. You become part of the colourful tapestry.2
But despite that, I still feel like an imposter. I feel the need to justify my quarter-Welsh blood. I don’t speak the language, I don’t know the songs, or the words to the anthem. This divide makes me feel othered, Welsh but not enough. I’ve been learning — dysgu cymraeg — but I’m not fluent. I recognise some words, but can’t reply beyond ‘iawn diolch’.
And then there’s the guilt. The niggle, the whisper in the back of my head: you’re the daughter of an Englishman. The more I try to fit into the Waelsh identity, the more I feel I am disrespecting my father’s Englishness. So I pull back, brush it off, and continue to sit in this liminal space of not quite enough of either.
I know I’m not alone. This feeling lives in millions of people. and for many — especially those displaced by war or politics — the disconnection runs deeper. However, the beauty of human evolution is rooted in this mixing of people and places.
This internal tug-of-war doesn’t have to be fought. We are all of what we are. We carry our ancestors with us, not as borders but as bridges.
I am English, Welsh and Scottish. I am all of my ancestors, and so are you.
Footnotes
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Being Welsh is very distinct from being English. Don’t ever get the Welsh & English mixed up. ↩
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A great example of this is the Italian political refugees that settled in Wales - BBC Blogs - Wales - The Italians in Wales ↩