So, first came the emotion, and you've seen it, articulated through teary eyes and gaspy narrative, as I shared my knee-jerk heartbreak in real-time. And I've considered that choice today as I got up at 6am, dressed, showered, coffee made by plodding over-heated pregnant wife, pottering around our kitchen, making me a delicious iced coffee for my train journey - my Wednesday wanderings, as I head to Wigan to work with one of my freelance hats on; and a joy I'll admit, for over a year now, to teach, support, work hand in hand with men whose shoes I once wore - working a day release job, in the community, earning and learning my way back to normality and real life.
I approached my working day today, like I approached this whole MMU saga if I'm honest, with a smile on my face, but a pain in my heart, overridden by abject professionalism, and let's face it, a passion for this work that trumps any other feeling, insecurity, annoyance, frustration, anxiety. I do this, because I love it. I absolutely love it. And as I said in my video yesterday - I was made for this work.
Perhaps not that job. But for my work, my choices, my purpose and my hopes. My day to day, be it in prisons, in the community, sat in my office writing funding bids, delivering sessions, stacking boxes in storage units, packing home starter packs with love and care; or as it was today - delivering digital essentials - including Right To Be Forgotten / Right To Remove.
So I laid my tables with doughnuts, sweets - ice cold bottles of water for a hot day in a hot classroom, and what I always think is important for my boys on day release; fresh fruit. It's a common joke we share, cohort after cohort - whats the fruit like in your prison? "It's shite Fran, - the bananas are either green and go black in a day, or they're so black, even the flies don't want them,"
I know that feeling. I remember that confusing circumstance - a lack of access to fresh fruit and veg whilst incarcerated and getting excited about being sent to a Cat D prison because they had fucking avocados on the canteen sheet - avocados. In prison. I was one sourdough away from Sunday brunch.
It's that commonality that makes me good at this job, that if I promise a perfect banana, I'm going to deliver a perfect banana - yellow, just ripe enough, soft, but firm. The perfect banana. Because I know what it means to make a promise to someone in prison, and to keep it. To build relationships based on trust, boundaries and realistic expectations and so I always use the banana method in my classes with the ROTL lot - if I say I'll find you the perfect banana; I'll do my best. If I can't, I'll be the first to tell you I can't. Honest dialogue, tranparency, mutual respect and appreciation for effort, kindness and thanks. It's what the foundations of trauma-informed practice and relational, holistic support are built upon - our ability to build, maintain and earn trust.
So, after a lovely morning of banana banter, some digital skills, and a Fran style speech of optimism that we work, we earn, we learn, we grow and it's all for the bigger picture - our family, our friends, whatever, however, the things that matter on the other side of the gate - whatever they be, we work, we earn, we learn and we try to hold that every day. It's never faultless, it's never flawless, but the resilience in trying and working hard to become what you know you can be, and to show who you really are, is a fire that rarely goes out.
I'll admit, these past few weeks - my fire has been dwindling. And I've been grasping at false hopes that all this anxiety around not starting this job, not getting stuck in yet - after 6 months, is really just as the hiring managers told me - bureaucratic nonsense and processes that are slow. It's not personal. It's not cause for concern. It's paperwork.
But I knew, as many women in my positon do, that the long shadow of criminality, no matter how pure the existence feels with the distance travelled, the past chapters closed, and in my case; built upon, around, and shaped because of - well, regardless of my distance travelled; I knew.
From the moment the lady in HR saw my DBS, and responded with "gosh it was difficult to photocopy because we've never had one as long as that," I knew, this whole lived experience promise, vision and job - was fantasy, and that the reality of hiring someone with a criminal history, meant a misdemeanour or something more palatable that I had been in a past life.
Believe me when I say, I know that distaste all too well, I feel it in my bones every waking moment, before the sun rises and the sun sets, part of me remembers the ghosts of Christmas past and it's a fear I go to sleep with, that I'll wake that version and not this one. That some sort of poletesgist of prison and problematic history will awaken and take hold of my life as it is now and set it on fire.
It's the burden we all carry if we have lived lives like mine. Of hurts. Of lies. Of crime.
I didn't expect it to be a burden like this. Not now.
I don't know how long I'm supposed to feel like this? So trapped under the weight of all I once was. 10 years later.
I don't know many people who have stayed the same version of themselves with a decade of time passing by, but I do know, it's been the pheonix rising for me. From ashes to power. And such pride in that. But now, so crushed, so small, and on a Wednesday night wondering - is me shouting from the rooftops "it's not fair," too much of a cliche? Am I leaning into the exoffender diatribe? That I'm the forever woman scorned and the world owes me something?
Am I truly the anomie theory case study I write about in my academia?
But what if the world does owe me something now? Because I've earned it?
This job, it's more than that. It's principle. It's purpose. I bought into it. I bought the PR, I bought the buzzwords, I bought the vision. I was part of the machinery. I wanted to be that integral cog in the machine, to make this piece of work come to life - a lived experience role supporting students through academia? The stigma? The barriers? The hurdles? The hopes? What an innovative thing. What a time to be part of something so transformative. Me? Excon me. Leading the way with a team of likeminds, changing the hearts and minds of what it really means to be justice-impacted in work, in University and beyond. Real, dignified acknowledgment that to bring this change, to be this support, to change the landscape, the narrative and the journies of those who need it most - they chose me.
Of course they did? I was made for this job. Literally. It's like every part of my life, personal and professional collided in 20 years of synergy to be ready for this moment. I felt it. I thought it. They agreed. We all fell in love with the idea of Fran at the heart of this piece of work.
We talked plans, trips, students, people in role, mentors, ambassadors, meetings with funders, meetings with anyone and everyone who could join this army of allies in being the change in academia.
What a fucking farse. What a mug. I fell for the marketing too.
Those of us who fly the flag for lived experience, do know, all too well, either we are excellent poster girl material, or we're damaged goods and risk.
I suppose writing and sharing in this way, leans into that. A risky, gobby, angry woman shouting her mouth off.
Alas, when women like me stay quiet, they win.
I think, truly, the expectaiton was that after 6 months of drawn out hope and then humiliation, culminating in a forensic detailed grilling of my criminal history - both spent and unspent; despite having had this in disclosure conversations prior - I kid you not, the probation officer who did my pre-sentence report for my sentencing hearing was not as probing or scathing in the inappropriate nature of questioning.
My red flag here? I asked, ahead of time could I have a supportive person in the meeting with me - they flat out refused and cited some policy I'm yet to have sight of - and said it was a confidential meeting given it was about the DBS content - my confidentiality? Therefore, irrelevant. My request for supportive person; denied. My request therefore in email ahead of the meeting for it to be transcribed? Ignored. Meeting takes place online - no recording, no transcription activated on their side, so I activated on my side.
What a facinating cloak and dagger approach to a process alluding to be transparent.... lets meet the girl we're about to fire, online, with no witness on her part - given that we're discussing her two convictions for dishonesty crimes; we're very much in the "he said, she said," arena. As if, I would leave myself so vulnerable. Perhaps their first mistake. Assuming I would wither behind the fear of such questioning and instead, meet it with (and upon advice of a wonderful woman) leadership, education, legal framing, quantified, justified, rationale, open mindedness, relational and honest - it was, if I do say so myself, a masterclass on how not to get mad, to remove the emotion, and instead, hold your power, purpose and POLICY in a room where those who sought to domineer, falter. And falter they did. We drifted into legal quandries of discussions around spent convctions, that required me to remind that under the Rehabilitation of Offenders act we were in unchartered territory, but to that end, I was happy to offer an honest representation of my past misdeeds - and I did.
Having read and re-read the transciption of that meeting in excess of 50 times since, having wondered could I have said or done anything more to reassure, reduce risk, alleivate anxiety on their part, the answer is no.
Of course.
The conclusion as to me starting in post was made before that meeting was even set. It was a pantomime of trauma-porn and oggling of the detail of my crime. Asking at points if I thought I was a good person, did I think I had changed - did my wife, and my friends think I had changed as a person.
The relevance to the DBS? The unspent convinction?
Who knows.
And lo' the rejection and recinding of the job came yesterday from the higer echelons, a woman I've never met, who has never met me. With no rationale. No reason. Just "DBS discussion,"
No sight of the risk assessment, no sight of the policies they referred to. No explanation as to a risk that could not be mitigated if I were indeed to start in post - the reason for that I suppose is quite glaringly obvious - there is no risk. I pose no risk. My criminal history poses no risk. I am Francesca Barker-Mills of 2026. Reformed, redeemed and fragile. Human. Living day to day in the best way I can in the hope and drive, control and power, effort and dedication that I choose to be this person, I love who I am, the life that I have, that I built, the job that I do, the people that I love, friends, colleagues, all of it. This little life of Fran is my greatest legacy and yet..... I'm A3039EP. Again.
Let me be candid and outrageously vulnerable here. This job, wasn't just a job. It was a choice. To step out of my freelance folly full time, amongst my studying, academics. It was about something I've never had. A job, that fit me. That I saw a future with. Legacy building. For me, for my wife and for our baby.
I blocked out the days in my diary from March, for a full year, "MMU days," in blue, Coming Home days in Orange, freelance days in brown. I deleted them month on month, but today, even, today, they continue through August - 2027.
I modelled my finances with AI : If I start work on this date, taking into account my work here, and here, how much can I save for a house deposit? How much can I save for the Baby Barker-Mills monzo pot? When can Sarah and I realistically buy a house? How much can I save for childcare? Is this salary enough to work part time and look after a child one day a week? I put chat gpt through it's paces planning a life.
I emailed my new line managers about holidays I had planned - in February. In April. In July. Letting them know in advance, to book it in their diaries, in case they needed to work around my annual leave.
I feel so so silly.
I don't know where to go from here if I'm honest. I've had my cry. I've shared it. You've all responded so beautifully and for that I'm grateful. But I just don't see the path forward.
I want to throw out the olive branch to MMU and say - hey, you got it wrong, thats OK, we're all learning. Let's talk about where this went wrong and why.
The job. The scholarships. It's all so so important. I dont want, nor would it prove any point or serve any purpose for this horrible situation to undermine that. The bigger picture?
1) It's not about me - it's about everyone LIKE me. Every job loss. Every rejection. Every barrier. Its about equality, equity and honesty.
2) It's about making sure that the programme and position the university put in place to do better, to be better for people like me, students like me, matters. That it's done with integrity. That it really does what it said it would.
Clearly they have fallen at the first hurdle, gathered and garnered millions of pounds in investment (ironic and familar no?) - and they failed to deliver on the first port of call in what that investment was meant for - a lived expereince staff member to support lived experience students.
Perhaps they'll enroll a shoplifter from 20 years past who received a caution and has no digital footprint?
Perhaps they won't. Perhaps this whole expereince and my fury and sadness, and let's face it - calling it out, has scared them off. I hope not. That's not this vocal uprisings purpose.
If you measure me by my actions and my words - I expect you to do the same.
Meet me half way here guys.
In the meantime? What's the collective voice? How do we change this?
