Two moments from each participant's life. We don't have to debate the shit out of our mum's life. We're just fucking sensational.

The legacy that causes this need to be worthy and hide our glamour is captured in the institution's introduction to MY MUM IS WHITE.

'It is a collective reckoning and a public call to acknowledge the nuances of experiences at the intersections of racial identity.'

Let's change that a bit.

'It is a collective reckoning and a public call to acknowledge the nuances of experiences at the intersections of white identity.'

Here the attendees introduce themselves. HOME volunteer, sorry I can't remember her name, Kirsty, Maria, Dionne, me, Adam, Elena.

Adam explaining how one of his kinky hairs in his glamorous consultancy sink drives him out at the height of loving his career. The room we are stood in is its ghost. Where he will take back control.

Dionne is possessed. Her voices changes. Her diction slows. Her eyes are far away. In the past. She keeps repeating one line — until she can tell us. We listen — we give her space. Dionne and Elena hug.

The offensive text — It is a collective reckoning and a public call to acknowledge the nuances of experiences at the intersections of racial identity — is written by a mixed-race person.

MY MUM IS WHITE is nothing of the sort. It is one human to another human showing their heart in their story. Sometimes that heart is in pain. Sometimes that heart is glorious.