young hearts run free

Those are my legs! 1980s neon swagger.

It's Sports Day season again. Across school fields everywhere, children are wearing their team colours with pride as they hop, skip and jump into sacks carrying eggs; teachers with clipboarded results forget about the marking piling up on their desk to fret about whether they can get through the staff relay without falling in the home straight; and primary school parents pretend to not care about the parents race and just happened to have their neon swooshed trainers in their handbag.

I was a sport lover in my younger days. And although it's more of the armchair variety these days, I still love sport and am a huge believer in the good it can do.

Sport got me through school corridor racism. I was good at it. The whispers and mean stares subsided when they saw me on the track and on the field. I got picked first for teams, I represented my school, my county and my country in athletics. And when I regale my daughters about my sporting prowess whilst rummaging around in the loft for my dusty medal collection, I regret giving up my talent every time.

Sport enabled me to appreciate the benefits of hard work, way before I realised that revision was a necessary evil; it showed me how to cope with the highs and lows that go hand in hand with sport and life; it widened my peer group so when things were difficult at school I had my team mates at training with a shared experience of frosty cross country mornings and nerves on the starting line; and it took me around the country and gave me a working knowledge of what was where (do you know I once got asked in class where in Wales was Scotland??).

But it's so very easy to look back and get all misty eyed about my teenage wins. I have to be honest and remember the evenings where I didn't want to go training and the day I feigned injury, missed out on an athletic event only for my coach Dad to return and find me dancing to the opening credits of the Pink Panther in the living room. 

Now I can look back and sympathise with the sorrow, frustration and probably the anger that he must have felt when I told him I was giving it all up, aged 17. With a promising athletic career ahead of me, I imagine he probably wanted to drop kick me out of a window. all those nights training with me through the four seasons and the years of trekking me up and down the motorways of Britain. And what for? No eldest daughter on an Olympic podium. No dedicated sportsperson of the year trophy to my coaching Dad.

Except...the love of sport remains strong. The sporadic forays onto treadmills get harder as the knees get creakier. I'll splash about whilst the offspring do a million graceful laps around the pool. I'll encourage my eldest around the Race For Life 5K only to witness her sprint finish leaving me for dust.  And if it wasn't for channelling my Mum's love of the exercise DVD, I would be a professional couch potato.

Now it's me ferrying children to pitches and pools at the weekend. Now it's me commenting on the natural athletic posture all three of them have. Now it's me celebrating hanging the medals and certificates that make it home. Every time my Dad hears me blah on about my kids' sporting achievements, it must seem like groundhog day, apart from the fact that he could never boast about winning the parent's race. That three separate Mum's race wins by the way. Yep still got it.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt no87: You and Sport

two sisters

The day I became a big sister

I was playing with friends,outside and I was called in to have a photo with her. I probably tutted under my breath (it was the 70s and I'm from a West Indian family - I tutted at my peril) and dutifully ran indoors. For seven years I had been an only child. Eldest grandchild from eldest parents. A sacred place at the top of the lowest branch on the family tree.

And then she came along. Snuffling and crying with the tiniest nostrils I had ever seen. My baby sister. 

The whole dynamic of the house actually changed before she arrived as my Mum had to go into hospital well before she was born, meaning she missed by 7th birthday party. Notice I have no recollection as to why she went into hospital. I was only child and it was my birthday. I may have tutted a little bit louder that day. Anyway my fave aunt saved the day but I suspect there was always a little bit of blame placed at the tiny feet of my new sibling.

As a big sister, I imagined all kinds of spoils would be bestowed upon me. A crown, possibly a tartan cape or maybe just more time watching The Fonz, now that another tiny person had taken the attention from me.

Instead, I learnt about the 'go and get'. Go and get more nappies for the baby. Go and get some clothes for your sister. Go and get...I forget what else but whatever it was, it involved stairs. So a silent promise was made in the year of our Lord 1977. I would spend my adult life living in a bungalow. No stairs whatsoever. And, I chirped sagaciously, when I had children I would never ask them to go upstairs to bring things back down.

Hmm-mmm the beauty of childhood, right?

I didn't live in a bungalow. I do send my children upstairs to get things. And I love the fact that my sister is someone so very different from me except when it comes to humour - we have laughed to aching tummies about the daftest things - and Eurovision; now our most honoured family tradition.

this post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery:familyphotographynow.net : Sister

tears dry on their own

There is a massive scar on my knee.  Three neat golden lines above my kneecap; stripes standing out against my brown skin backdrop.

As all scars do, mine have their own story. A tale that transports me back to my London childhood on a sunny day in a West London school playground.

There I was. Two neat Afro plaits on my seven year old head. A 1970s sun smiling on primary kids running through lunch-break, as primary kids are wont to do.

My endless running was momentarily paused to discuss a game of run-outs. Could lunch-time get any better? Only if the teacher let me ring the massive school bell in about half an hour, but until then no, run-outs meant playtime perfection.  

A decision to take a short-cut round the back of the rose bushes in front of our classrooms, a push from behind and there I am - rose thorn in my leg. Clamped tight like wall anchor screws. Nothing but nothing was gonna get these thorns out.

Turn away if you're squeamish. I saw flesh. I bled profusely. I was mesmerized, until the pain kicked in and the tears began. Friends scurried to find dinner-lady help whilst another wrapped her arms around me in best-friend protection mode.

"Well" the dinner lady said as her shadow loomed across me; a cloud in my understanding of humanity "You shouldn't have been running around by the rose bushes should you, you silly girl?"

I limped to medical room by myself. 

My golden scars; testament to a little girl who learned to read faces and moods and attitudes and think 'Oh right, that's who you are is it?'

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:Childhood Tears

too good to be forgotten

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the coffee that kick starts my writing day; that takes an age to make it just so - three spoons, no sugar, splash of milk.

I would miss the sneaky Wispa bar that I pop into my Friday morning shopping basket with the milk and bread and fresh fruit and veg before we start the start the weekend, with everyone in the home peering in cupboards for quick snacks. I wave the Change for Life sugar swap app in my family's face smug with the knowledge that I have snaffled the secret chocolate treat in my car on the way home from the supermarket. Savouring each melting mouthful at the traffic lights.

I would miss the big Sunday Roast that has our dining table groaning under the dishes laden with everyone's favourites.  This is the dinner where all plates are scraped clean and no morsel left uneaten.  We rest full bellies in front of the telly waiting for the moment that we can squeeze in dessert.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the cakes and cookies my middle daughter likes to bake on quiet Saturdays; the sweeties from my youngest daughter's party bag sweetie box that never seems to empty; the dishes that my eldest daughter presents with pride, hot from the home ec room, onto our kitchen counter.  These are their tastebud heavens and they share them with me.

I would miss the tiny bones that disappear in the saltfish salad, that detract me, momentarily from the sun-yellow plantain and the golden brown bakes. The food of my childhood. The meal that brings love.

I would miss cardboard boxed fries dipped in banana milkshake and the greasy wrapped chips shared on seaside seafronts and the first slurp of a cuppa getting home after dark and the silk of a rum punch in the garden, in the sun.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I'd miss the way a bite or nibble or swallow or chew can take me to a moment that sparks a memory; a meal that creates a story.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no72 : Lose your sense of taste tomorrow

evergreen

Growing up my perception of the family union was via Black American sitcoms, hip hop and soul songs or dramas and it was committed with utter perfection. Leaves of a family tree gravitating to a matriarch's kitchen table laden with food that would sustain ten armies. Generational branches momentarily re-twigging so aunts and uncles become brothers and sisters again, distant cousins break through the initial i-don't-know-you-but-i-know-we're-related ice to collectively roll their eyes at disco parents, and the elders get to reign supreme with a view of all that they have created and nurtured. 

My childhood experience amidst my Caribbean family certainly echoed with strains of what I was seeing on TV; add a little curry goat and lovers rock and you're there. I cherish memories of a beloved St Lucian aunt who would play the same reggae song about ten times in the course of a visit and would sing with glorious energy every single time and pull my awkward self to dance with her softness. Or another Grenadian aunt-cum-grandmother who would cook the Sunday dinners of all Sunday dinners then hold our mouth-watering attention whilst she prayed with us over the good part of an hour; but the food and the love of her was always worth the wait.

Two women who I wish my daughters could have known, two women who, through the prism of my young eyes, encapsulated warmth, love, joy, family. 

Life's demands can often fracture the ties that bind so I am now grateful that part of my clan have reclaimed and reconstructed our family union for nearly 8 years. Where I once stood as the child, cuddled and chided by grown ups, I now see the children of then having children of their own, the parents change their status to grandparents, the teenagers blossom into adulthood.

Our annual reunions which began as a necessary replanting of relationships, after a passing, have flourished into a happening that raises up the achievements and rites of passage amongst us, sustains the growth and collective need of an evolving family and cradles the sorrows within us. Our boughs reach from the newborn to the newcomers to the never-to-return; all life is within our roots.

And settling here on my branch, I will take time to cherish the view from here.

somebody's watching me

With the family birthdays finally parked up until next spring and Christmas peering, menacingly, around the corner, I regularly stand agog at the mountain of toys belonging to my 3G. How on earth did this happen? Do they actually play with any of these toys anymore? Will they really miss any if I take half to the local charity shop? And if I hide the Argos catalogue would they be able to ask for anything at all this Christmas?

They don't need anything else.

They have food and shelter and free education, That should be enough right?

I think this because I didn't have a huge amount of toys. It's okay, pop your violin away, there are no regrets here. I had stuff; teddies, board games, a bike, my recorder, a piano and I think I managed to wangle a tamagotchi out of my parents at some point. But as most of you reading this will recognise...we were playing outside. So my feet were my toys - hah - I'm saving that one when the Christmas lists start being written next month.

The thing I do remember about my toys was how terribly afraid I was of seeing the collected button eyes peering out from furry faces that were cute and cuddly in the day but by night...

I had a huge, built in wardrobe in my bedroom that I shared with my much younger sister and every night the sliding doors would have to be firmly shut with the brood of bears obviously 'sleeping' behind. Especially the biggest one. A broad brown bear with the texture of Playschool's Big Ted but the expression of Hanbel the miserable doll.

I don't know who bought and burdened me with that bear. I imagine I should have have been grateful. But I was absolutely convinced that when I went to sleep the bears and ragdolls, lead by Beariarty would come alive, chattering about my Teddy Mother qualities, and possibly, very possibly, plotting.

So, despite incurring

the wrath of my toy charges, I ensured they were restrained nightly behind the heavy wardrobe doors. Surely those stitched fingerless hands couldn't open doors, could they?

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no101:Childhood Toys

come as you are

You know that moment when you hear your parent's voice telling your childhood self that maybe you shouldn't do something until you're older? And then you see (more than likely) teen self thinking yeah yeah yeah blah blah blah ? Then you get older, maybe have kids and that moment is revisted and you wish oh wish that you had listened to your parents.

I'm just gonna say tattoos and piercings.

I have them, I like some of them, I regret some of them. I can't hide any of them from my daughters.

It's ok they're not all over my face or anything and as much I admire the sleeve tattoos that I see on people these days, I don't have those either. Two small tattoos on each arm, just under the t-shirt boundary and one on my back. The piercings have ranged from many of the ears, nose, tongue and tummy over the years; some have disappeared after having babies but I'm hanging onto the others.

I see MiddleS watching me and plotting what adult-MiddleS is going to look like. And that's when I get a little fidgety. I can recall the horror on my mum's face as I arrive home, aged 18 with tattoos, and again when I shaved all my hair off except for a dyed blond Tintin quiff, and again when I pierced more and more bits of my body. With a youth of constraints at home, in school, on track and field I guess I had discovered my expression and exploration in this way. At the time I loved doing it but she clearly didn't.

And now I get it.

That beautiful, smooth skinned, bundle that was her baby was not only growing older with all the shrugs and smells of a teenager but was now piercing and painting that package of perfection and what was she to do?

What will I do if that's the choice of any of my three? What the hell can I say? Who really listens to the regrets of others before making their own decisions? Maybe I'll join them in the tattoo or piercing parlour to get more done - that'll make it instantly off-trend, right?

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers: Writing Prompt No14: Tattoos&Piercings

big fun

Ooh I love a sports day.

I did as a kid. Athletics was my teenage life so of course school sports day was my time to shine. Even as a teacher sports day was a major fun day especially when you were good friends with the Head of PE...need someone to help measure long jump or tally scores? I'm your lady. I bowed to student pressure by competing in a few teacher's races; survived by never coming last or falling over in the home straight.

Work has always got in the way of me getting to see my own kids at their primary school sports days until this summer. I would finally get to witness the offspring at the starter's mark of their Olympic athletic careers, maybe.

Not so.

Focusing on enjoyment and sportsmanship, I was initially crushed to discover that there would be no traditional top three placings at sports day this year. Instead the children would compete in teams within their own classes over a number of rotational events.

Now before you pooh-pooh all of this and start gnashing at the teeth about this isn't what real life is like, kids need to know how to lose (graciously) as well as win, how is this teaching children about sport (which is exactly everything I griped about when I first heard), let me tell you about what I saw.

On the whole I saw a bunch of kids running, jumping, throwing, spinning, cheering, laughing, protesting; it was all going on there wasn't any time for checking who came first. The difference here, from what we usually expect or see at sports days, was that everyone had a chance to succeed, everyone had to work together to complete events.  It wasn't just a day where the fastest runners achieve and everyone else gets to sit and watch. It was a fun-day with points awarded for team effort, behaviour, support, teamwork.

On a glorious sunny day there were kids getting active and soaking up the fun in the last week of school with their teachers - for the year six about to leave, they will soon look back and long for the simplicity of primary school sports days.

And for those of you worried about future sports stars being squashed in the pursuit of inclusiveness; in a school year there are so many clubs, competitions and PE lessons for them to shine.

Having seen my three (over three separate sports days) get over the fact they wouldn't be able to improve on the firsts and seconds they received in previous years and actually just throw themselves into the new generation of sports day, I walked away happy... with two 1st and a 3rd place in the mummy's race...sometimes we need to stay serious about sports!

can you see the real me?

The writing prompt - something I wanted as a child  really made me look back on childhood birthdays and Christmases to see if any disappointment had ever been registered, but I couldn't. I think the fact that we had been taught to appreciate any gifts or should I say be damn grateful for what we got, that  I can't recall any crestfallen moments upon discarding the wrapping papers twice a year.

So what then?

Well, for a while, I would say between the ages of 12 and 18, I deeply wanted something that I knew would never be attained, could never be given, was not in my power and more importantly...I never voiced. Ever. Until now.

I wanted to be white.

Whilst I store my shame about this statement in a drawer marked 'what I shouldn't say out loud', it struck me when thinking about this writing prompt that this unspoken feeling overshadowed an immense part of my formative years.

There were never any thoughts of trying to bleach or scraping off my skin - occurrences which I have read about some severely unhappy black children experiencing - no, because on the whole my homelife was a secure and supportive environment. But up until the age of 9 I was submerged in a London life where we were all just people, just kids, running around in flares and tank tops.

Moving from London to Essex in the 80s was a decision my parents didn't take lightly but I don't think anything could have prepared me for the shift of social identity.  For the first time I felt my colour - now some people may not understand what this comment means. In London I had just been nine year old me then suddenly I was nine year BLACK me - of course I knew what my face looked like but it had never reflected as a negative or highlighted fact about me. I was just ME!

Initially it wasn't really about the wanting a white face thing but as the new kid on the block I just wanted to fit in with all the other kids - who all happened to be all white kids. And at school I was experiencing regular interactions like these with other kids:

Is your skin the same colour as your face under your clothes?

Is your bum black? (This one was called through the toilet door when a bunch of us went to the loo, as girlies do)

At my party we'll play a game where we have to guess who's hands belong to the person under the blanket but you won't be able to play.

Why are you black?

You've got rubber lips.

Bemused I batted these comments away with jokes; I became a comedian thereby I made friends.

Secondary school hit hard. The comments thrown my way were not so funny. Verbal and physical abuse ensued. But you know my parents, teachers and friends supported me and so I really did enjoy school.

But something lay deep; the need to belong as I gradually became aware that I was different to my peer group and according to the world I was in, not in a good way either. I started to dislike what I saw in the mirror; my nose, my lips, my bottom, my plaited hair - no swinging wash and blow-dry for me (Saturday nights were lost to un-plaiting, untangling and re-plaiting again).  And despite the ambitious efforts of my parents to promote black role models, my TV, film and music influences were mainly white and the in-crowd girls getting all the attention in my playground were white. Things became clear when the most popular girl told me that the most popular boy in the school liked me but would never go out with me simply because I was black. Not that I was really interested in boys at this time but I guess then it suddenly hit me that my skin colour was a problem.

When I went to university and later into the working world, the underlying desire was somewhat achieved by relaxing my hair, dying it blond and wearing blue contact lenses. You must understand this was never a conscious decision to make myself white; this was a look that I believed made me attractive and accepted. For a short while anyway. Thankfully I matured into myself my life and soon discovered that I didn't recognize this version of  Me looking back in the mirror so over time these additions were removed.

I'm shutting the draw firmly back now because I do feel incredibly sad that I used to wish my beautiful childhood face away and maybe the next time I'm asked this question, I'll say a Chopper bike, that's what I wanted when I was a kid, a bright red Chopper bike.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt82 : something I wanted as a child