go your own way

Dear Young Person,

You will hear older humans tell you that life is short, to not wish time away, to learn from experience and you may smile and nod politely, you may secretly wonder what they know of youth. 

And you may be right because 'youth' evolves with each passing generation; the rites of passage for the in-crowds morph with ever increasing demands to be in the right clothes, like the right music, share the right images.  We, the elders, may roll our collective eye heavenwards, kiss our teeth and shake our heads at that which passes for stress, when the knowledge of paying bills and face the daily grind has yet to be experienced; but we empathise, sympathise and should not trivialise your current strife.

I urge you to look around you; look up to see the buildings that that have spanned decades and although remodelled, still survive - like us; look forwards and see the joy, sadness, plight and successes of people you pass in the street - you might find a friend, a lover, a business partner, an inspiration in real life; look left and right because, yes, life really is too short and sometimes it gets taken away from us when we're not looking. 

Touch lives. In some way. In some positive way. Take a risk and say hello to the person who seems different to you, who seems to be just like you. Be safe, of course, but discover the life of a someone who treads a different path to you. Religion, politics, age, music, fashion, education, confidence levels, abilities, interests - you know what you like, but maybe you don't yet know what you could like.  It's a two-way street and you have so much to teach other people too.

Learn to cook. It's always great to receive manna from the gods on delivery bikes. But when you can conjure up a bowl of deliciousness from the paltry left overs in the pantry then a winner you be. Follow a recipe, don't follow a recipe, get a big pan and chuck in some edible stuff and party on with the right spices and herbs. Perfect a dessert you can make with your eyes shut. And then get a big spoon and enjoy. On your own or with friends. It's your kitchen, you choose.

Be clean. In all areas. Smell nice. 

Listen. Hear. Listen. To your friends. To your enemies. To your elders. To the youngers, because, hopefully, you will age one day. Learn how to interpret subtext in someone's voice and fight your fights face-to-face. Allow music to swallow you whole and swim in its melodious belly. Find the songs that you can cry to, dance to, rage to, love to - they're out there, trust me. Listen to the words of those who have come before you so their lessons do not go unlearned. Listen to yourself. Trust yourself.

You are in charge now, young person. We are here with helping hands but this is your journey. 

Go be you and do what you do.

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no120: Dear Young Person

the fear

Fear. Dry gasps in the dead of night. Butterflies rioting in your stomach on the way to that meeting. Tiptoeing around weighty discussions to avoid the inevitable. Wishing a fateful day could be deleted from your calendar. Not doing something. Not doing anything. Closing one door before closing all the doors.

We all think of fear as the emotion that makes us hide behind a cushion when we watch the idiot in the scary film climb the creaky stairs in the creaky house without turning the lights on. But what happens when fear can trickles into the everyday? 

Before I step on to a plane I have imagined our fireball descent into a Lost-type landscape; in slow motion so I get time to kiss my family, tell them how much I love them and hold all of their hands. This leads to hubby experiencing fear-by-pinching as I wobble onto an aircraft gripping his hand so tight, I leave nail marks in his hand. I have had the science of it all explained, I have been told that air travel is safer than public transport but let me ask you when was the last time you saw a bus falling out of the sky? Exactly. Hunk of metal with people and bags and whatnot in the sky. Nope doesn't compute. 

Fear.

I had a conversation with a good friend, recently, about the possibility of parallel lives - was there another me writing a library's worth of fiction, hob-nobbing with my favourite authors-now-friends? Despite taking the step to start writing, every time I hit send or publish there is a tidal wave of fear about putting myself out there. What if I offend, what if it's ignored. what if it's rubbish? Am I the writing equivalent of the X-factor rejects who snarl that they'll be a star one day when everyone is wondering why their best mate or mum didn't tell the glaring truth about their singing prowess? Sometimes I don't even start a new idea because the negative voices have set up their own gospel choir next to my computer.

Fear.

You know when you return to your desk after a meeting with your managerial superior and you shake your head in disbelief and think I could do that job with my eyes shut. But then, the right job in the right place at the time with the wind in the right direction just doesn't arrive, does it? Putting one foot in front of the other or indeed clicking to apply for that job never seemed so hard. Maybe someone will discover the hidden truth that you can't actually do the job, any job...just go home, already. It's that negative choir again.

Fear.

The words spill out with quips and jokes spliced in, to decorate my conversation. Do I laugh too loud, too much? I've been sat in a cabin for nigh on two years with my cats for company until the family come home. Can I remember how to talk to people? Am I still 'with it'? The fact that I've just said 'with it' proves how much I'm so without it. Is this dress professional enough, flattering enough? Why am I sweating? I know, it's 35 degrees outside but maybe I should have worn a trouser suit. There's too much oil in the front of hair but not enough at the back. Should I worn it out full Afro today or should I have tied it back? Is my face right?

Fear.

I want to be less afraid.

May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.

Nelson Mandela

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt No59: I want to be less...

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

me, myself and i

The writing prompt...

I want to be more...

Oh dear, I thought, where do I begin. I want to be more of everything, anything, something.

Fingers on the keyboard I start to enlist the words of Skee-Lo : I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller, I wish I had girl who looked good, I would call her...

I've got distracted. Start again.

I want to be more organized, more successful, more educated.

Nope I'm putting a downer on myself and actually I'm working on those things so you know - half a tick.

Back to the drawing board.

I want to be more creative, more brave, more smiley, more of a friend. 

Mmmm this isn't healthy and I'm negating the lovely people in my life who tell me I am all of those things. 

I want to be a more exciting and inspirational mother, I want to be a more patient wife, I want to be a more caring sister and daughter, I want to be more, more, more...

I'm reaching for the thesaurus to find more adjectives and adverbs to indicate how much I need to improve myself.

And then I stop typing to really have a think.

It took me 'til my forties to start really listening to people around me, to hear their guidance, to accept their help. It took me five years after that to realize that I cannot always be the me that people want me to be; I can only be the me that I can be. 

This doesn't stop me wanting to be more of a risk taker and become the adventurous hippy, jump into a bright red camper-van and drive my family around the world type earth mother I thought I was going to be.

But for now. I want to be more me.

Let's see how that goes for now eh?

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers #writingprompt no58: I want to be more...

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

name of the game

Confession: I have a Starbucks name. What do you mean you don't? In this era of re-branding without the rigmarole of deed poll, how could you let this opportunity pass?

It took me a while to own the shortened version of the one I was given, I love it now but didn't back in the day.  And today, in every high street, I am presented with the occasion to try out a new one and see how it fit. Metamorphosing under the green Liberty-esque Lady of the coffee haven I become Jasmine.

Yes, Jasmine. 

A name I have cossetted since I was a kid. It offered a future free of restraint and rules. A life of freedom and creativity; funky shoes, rainbow fashion and the ability to play any Radio 1 Top 40 chart hit by ear on the piano...straightaway...no rehearsals or anything.

However 'Jasmine' lay dormant until the common practice of requesting your name in a coffee shop came into being. I, fumbling for change and truly unsure if I had ordered the correct drink having spliced three hot drink related words together, hesitated.

"Madame, your name?" the barista repeated, pen poised over the titled empty cup,

And there she rose from the depths of 1984, enveloped in Le Jardin perfume and wearing Doc Martens.

"Jasmine"

"That's a cool name" the barista smiled swooshing the letters J-a-z-m-e-e-n-e across the label. 

"Yeah" Jasmine (me) nods loftily "I've always liked it"

And so, still she remains, strong and sweet; an embodiment of the Mocha she regularly orders.  Presenting her reward card. Purchasing the occasional shop blended coffee granules to take home. 

Yet Jasmine only bursts into life at that moment, in that establishment.  Until the trend extends to other institutions, she remains a parallel solo me.  Who knows the other mes that could be birthed into existence? I'm thinking Cleo... Letitia... Rainbow...the possibilities are exquisitely endless.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no54 : Change your name

the way we were

The older I get, the more I throw a rose-coloured spectacled glance back to my childhood. The 3G are always having a shared chuckle when I regale them of 'the good old days'. 

"Do you mean in the olden days?" they ask behind youth and cheek.

Well, maybe they are, since they are also the days before the internet, mobile phones, electric cars and a gazillion TV channels. But these are also the days from whence tradition comes.

When I initially considered a tradition I'd like to see carried on I contemplated my childhood Christmas - the day of the Long Road To Opening Presents. Christmas in my house would actually start with the soaking of Christmas Cake Fruits in March before the baking of said fruits at the crack of a December dawn.  The kitchen would swell with the baking of Christmas Eve bread, including the special plaited bread (!) and a bun with our initials on. No amount of protest would move the Christmas morning any faster as the ritual of opening presents did not begin until we had finished every scrap of saltfish and bakes, fried plantain and cocoa tea and then washed every speckle of every plate. It would seriously feel like Christmas Day had disappeared before even the first shred of wrapping paper came off.

And whilst I try and keep as much of those traditions as I can with my own family, it gets a little harder when you are also part of someone else's family therefore sharing in someone else's family traditions. Throw in a little cultural diversity and things can get a little busy. We cope by amalgamating and creating new rituals which can sometimes result in customs getting lost or feelings being hurt.

So I thought of a tradition transcending all the branches of my family tree which, by its very nature, will grow and blossom with each generation and it cannot be remain the same or cast in stone.

I bring you the family 'do'.

Sitting free of seatbelts in our orange Vauxhall Viva, I would excitedly watch the 1980s London - in all its greyness - cascade around me until the our arrival at one of three West London estates would thrust my parents back into the warmth of who they once were and us into this strange yet pleasurable temporary existence.  Enveloped in the beat of Lovers Rock, any attempt to conceal my lanky presence in the kitchen would fail miserably as West Indian fingers, fresh from cooking pig trotter sous, would pinch my cheeks forcing me to extrapolate myself and disappear into the melee of cousins.  The rumble and explosion of  West Indian laughs above tales of 'he and she' or the thumps of dominoes on the tiniest table ever made linger in my veins and the strains of the reggae forever remain.

My girls may not be submerged into the sounds and smells of my yesterday but  they have experienced what will be their versions of  family do's across the country; from the rolling hills of the North East to Midland dales to coastal towns to Caribbean villages to city dwellings and one thing is constant; the welcome.

Other constants follow swiftly: the hugs, the food, the laughter. And still more: the new recruits (babies or lovers), the music, the little ones getting taller, the older ones getting greyer. We exchange seats at the table as our generation mourns the loss of those ahead and welcome those who follow behind.

There was a time in my teens when it seemed family dos didn't happen or maybe they did and we just weren't there. The splinters from this time have healed in some branches, not so in others, so I am thankful of the dos that remain and those that we are welcomed to join. And I relish those moments when aging fingers pinch the cheeks of my girls making them scurry for the safety of cousins across the country.

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers: Writing Prompt No.103 : a tradition you would like to see carried on 

the times they are a-changing

It's the day before the night that will be. For us in the UK,  we are mere bystanders to the US election process but will undoubtedly be affected in some way to its result.

And so we watch and wait.  Discussions have paused briefly from the Brexit fallout to decipher who is the best candidate to be (adopts TV Drama American voice) the leader of the free world.

Similarly to my own experience standing in the ballot box for our own elections this year; pen wavering over a list of names belonging to a plethora of people I didn't want to choose.  So what to do? Close my eyes and drop the pen on a random name?

No. I'm Black. There are far too many anti-people-like-me politicans on those lists. Too risky.

Go for the one I think is more likely to win and isn't too awful? Go for the one that holds at least one of my views in high regard but has no chance of winning? Screw up the ballot paper, making it invalid thereby communicating my mistrust of all candidates (or indeed my inadequate admin ability)?

Having listened to various Americans on the news over the last year, many seem to be in the same position as I was. Hearing the phrases 'best of a bad choice' or 'lesser of two evils' pre-empting their decision, I am filled with empathy and sympathy alike. I imagine there are those who will not vote because of this. So either way there are people out there who's voices will be muted in this US election.

But the prompt asked if voting was a moral imperative. I have been known to lecture my classes, my kids, anyone who deigns suggest that they won't bother to vote, that we all have a moral obligation to vote. Our Xs in boxes momentarily resurrect the souls that fought to gain this honour.

Therefore if I was faced with an unsatisfactory ballot selection, I would forget about the cult of personality, ditch the media's prismatic influence and do my research on the policies that the party of the candidate believe in.  Then clutching the one, big issue that was close to my heart and values, I would force myself to vote. 

Good Luck America.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt no36: voting-a moral imperative?

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

a question of time

The role of the parent is a powerful thing. Do we ever stop and think how much our behaviour, mindset, welfare, skills, religion and beliefs play a part in our child's life? This may all seem very obvious but when reconsidering an answer and a conversation about two things last week, I also realised how my answers shape the world my daughters see.

First. The Trump. When his last bit of stuff and nonsense entered our homes via the media and indeed the backlash from figures such as Michelle Obama, one evening's dinner was accompanied by question after question about why people are getting so angry about this guy. It would have been very easy for me to denounce this man as a tail-swinging, pitch-fork carrying member of the human race but I decided not to. A discussion ensued with the facts we could find - my favourite place for the girls being The Week news magazine for children - and I threw their questions back at them about why people might have positive or negative views about both American candidates. I didn't believe it was my place to dump my opinions about Trump or anyone else, for that matter, into the impressionable ears of my daughters.

And second, motherhood. Mid phone conversation I became aware of the many overheard comments highlighting the not-so-starry-eyed side of being a mum. You know, the locking yourself in the loo to drink a hot cup of coffee bit. Or those moments when you have scoured the recipe books to create a healthy, fun, colourful, tasty meal only to get three sets of curled lips of disgust in return. Or the moans and grumps about what they've done again and how I have to this, that, the other, save the world because I'm a mum and who the hell else will do it?  Whilst I will not shy away from the downsides of motherhood, I have to admit I may have forgotten to counteract it by talking openly about the good bits.  Is it fair for me to be so derisive of the role that they know they are directly responsible for? And may one day choose to take on?

There are things we may give high status to in our daily parenting: not breaking the law, not littering in the street, being respectful to people.  But I'm discovering that I may have to step back in other things, offer guidance and alternatives to my views when the questions come in.

busy doing nothing

I'm a procrastinator.

There. I said it. I admit it.

Why get that one important, it's been sitting there for ever needing sorting, thing out when I can do all those not-really-necessary-but-will-fill-that-gap-of-time-when-i-should-be-doing-something-else thing.

You know, like taking the day to paint a shed when I should be booking my car into the garage to investigate that clanging noise. This is because I hate making phone calls. To strangers. I can chat all day to people I know well.

Or hanging a shelf when the words of my novel are still floating in my head rather than lying seductively on a page. I've never hung a shelf before but lo and behold, there's a great big wonky pink one next to my desk complete with sliding books that were quite happily languishing on the floor.

What's it all about then? All this procrastination? Laziness? Boredom? Confidence? Fear?

Fear! Yes let's look at that one. The absolute fear of getting it wrong, of being rejected, of ...cue cliffhanger pause...failure.

Procrastination enables me to get some inane task all bright, shiny and correct (bar the shelf clearly but you know I tried, right?) whilst leaving the seriously challenging ones for another time slot. This is quite a dangerous trait to develop whilst working alone at home all day although interestingly, not one I recognised when I was in my old day job.

The difference? There were others who relied on me. I would struggle the day long so as not to be tardy, ill prepared or lacking when I was in teacher mode...or mum mode, to be honest.

The supportive words of wonderful friends soon become frustrated imperatives as I, once again, doubt my experience and ability.

And there it is. What I'm avoiding is being the me I want to be.

This post is inspired by Post40Bloggers writing prompt no31: I'm avoiding...

wrapped up in books

My biggest Pinterest obsession after afro hair styles is the reading nook. Swathes of ideas about where to store your book collection and where to sit comfortable in book heaven. 

Since the beginning of forever I have loved a book. I love books.

Hiding under the blankets using the light on my watch to read Enid Blyton's Famous Five quicly followed by the Secret Seven before hopping across the pond to discover Nancy Drew. This is where my love of crime drama came from. Memories of surreptitious smuggling of Judy Blume books with mates at school were recently revived when I bought the box set of her kids fiction for BigL (omitting Tiger Eyes and Forever - there's plenty of time for that!). And between the compulsory University Shakespeares and English canon readers I discovered the black woman in the works of Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, Zora Neale Hurston, Gloria Naylor, ntozake shange, Zadie Smith and Andrea Levy.

Are you surprised I became an English teacher for nigh on 20 years?

I am the parent who has cherished my own favourite books for my daughters to love. I am the friend who buys books for birthdays having scoured the bookstores for a story that will excite or reflect your child in the narrative. I am the woman with a books-to-be-read tower in the corner of my room but still finds herself shopping for the next can't-do-without novel.

Book-lovers amongst you will recognise the joy a book can give when it lifts you out of your now and tips you into an alternative life, predicament, galaxy.  How a book can grip and drag you into the wee hours when you know the minutes are creeping ever closer to your morning alarm; just one more chapter you promise yourself. 

From the minute they could point to pictures in a baby board book I have been reading to my daughters; post bath-time curled up with superheros and talking food. Their reading journeys alongside clever mice, wizarding buddies, adventurous beasts and mean girls in even meaner school have now segued with mine and we search dystopian worlds together.

My monumental moment in books so far: waiting with a ready hug as BigL read the last page in Private Peaceful. The power of the written word understood.

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no19 : Books 

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

taste the pain

If I lost my taste tomorrow. What would I miss? 

Coffee. 

Mesmerized by Ally McBeal (remember her) savouring the smell of her first coffee of the morning, every morning, I acquired the coffee bean bug many moons ago and would be loathe to give it up. As the years have passed, unlike my preferences in wine, I have sought out the stronger coffee; the one where you can stand your spoon up in it. To my shame I have recently slipped off the fair trade wagon upon discovering a cute, cheap brand of coffee that comes in almond flavour. Coffee heaven in a miniature jar.

If I lost my taste tomorrow.  What would I miss?

Plantain.

Mistaken for a scraggy old banana by my kids, I soon tutored them in the beautiful, sweet, sticky, lusciousness of the fried plantain. Yes it goes against the grain of the healthy living but it's not every day, right, it's just a little treat when I can be bothered to trek to Shepherd's Bush market to buy the best plantain in London. True, true my Mum used to boil it and serve it with rice and chicken but seriously, when you have tasted a properly ripe plantain with a likkle sprinkle of salt; only then have you lived. And the best thing of all ... none of my children like it. Whilst initially I was aghast that they could refuse this plate of joy, I realized that this clearly leaves more for me!

I considered the pain that could be felt missing out on chocolate, Nandos, a good ole bag of chips but I know that to pre-empt my loss of taste, I would simply be ordering a large coffee and perfect plate of plantain to be consumed by the banks of the River Thames.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt72:if you lost your sense of taste tomorrow

yesterday once more

I picture myself uncurling my toes ever so slowly out of the heavy biker boots I have been wearing since leaving England's shore. The thick, grey clouds of home are long behind me and in their stead are light wisps of white cotton spiralling across an expanse of blueness. Silence and peace and calm wrap themselves around me dampening any surge of anxiety; my mind stirs into being having slumbered for days previously.

On dry land, sand cushioning my steps momentarily soothing until the burn of the heat prickles my soles, I would search for shade and look out to the retreating vessel that has left me here to sink into my past. I find...


a bumpy journey in the back of my parent's car, lying down stretched out on the back seat with my eyes tightly shut. Remember lying in the back seat without seat-belts? Tracing each turned corner memorising the journey home. Knowing that if I kept really still on that final turn, that the engine would stop, two car doors would slam and whilst my mum would carry my baby sister, hopefully my dad would carry me up the stairs to bed; leaving me to slump in his arms before he placed me under cold bed-sheets and then I would jiggle myself warm once my bedroom door had closed, so he wouldn't know I'd really been awake.


I find...

a rainy London day, not unusual, walking beside a cousin who, in my childhood, held an older sister role. We had lost touch as family's do, drifting through their own lives before the invent of facebook. But somehow we have re-connected, filled in the years once the surprise of our adult faces has passed, shared the highs and lows that has made us who we are. Not much time passes in our re-discovery before we make the choice to walk together, as survivors, on a march through the middle of London. Through the healing laughter and plentiful tears we make vows that the pain will stop with our voices being heard and our role is to now protect us and our future us.


I find...

me dancing. Not one day in particular. Although I see my student union; a smoky, sweaty Convent Garden nightclub; a high street in West London; an ancestral cellar on my Northumberland wedding day; in my kitchen to the bemused faces of my children. I am dancing with abandon, in bliss, to any tune that can be turned up loud.


I find...

a classroom covered in poems, stories, reflections, advice, notices, cartoons, posters. And there's me talking, writing, pointing, laughing, telling someone off, asking for quiet. Always asking for quiet. To listen to me. Because I know what I'm talking about. In most cases I wouldn't always say this was true but in a classroom, yes I did, I do know what I'm talking about and they... all of those children that have sat in seats in my classrooms, should have been listening. My classrooms were a haven of learning for them and me.


I find...

three moments in one. Summed up as a weariness that saw me shuffling for weeks, then a shared panic that saw me being lovingly bundled in a car and deposited into emergency entrances, then the most terrifying moments where I locked frightened eyes with excited, calm ones being suddenly replaced by the most beautiful moments I will ever have in my entire life. The moment of motherhood.


Like the end of an old cinema reel that flickers and fades to blank, these are my memory images that I would wish to replay to my heart's content.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt93 : being shipped to an island with only 5 memories

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

the fear

So Middle S had a homework assignment to research and choose an interesting phobia and she chose Scelerophobia: a fear of bad men, which is fair enough.

I am well versed on sharing my key phobias with all and sundry: flying (tin box with heavy people and bags staying up in the sky just doesn't make sense):  spiders (inside for me, outside for you): death ('nuff said, right?).  Some feel it's okay to belittle and make fun of my serious and irrational fears and whilst I'm not proud of them , how dare they negate what simply leaves me with night sweats, gut wrenching cramps and a loss of face in front of my kids? Come sit next to me on a plane during take off and you'll see how unfunny it is!

But the worst (and silent) phobia I have is a fear of failure - atychiphobia - to the point that I simply will not attempt something because I think I might fail. I am now realizing that this goes back, way back, to my school days.

Writing - loved it, was good at it, editor of school magazine, reams of poetry and short stories, even the construction of a book told verbally to my best friend walking to school everyday. But never wrote for competitions because I was too scared of someone finding my efforts hilariously abysmal.

The piano - loved it, was good at it, taken under the 'free' wing of my hip music teacher who spotted my talent and guided me through my first piano exam - straight in at grade 4 but decided to chuck it all in when it was suggested I go straight to grade 7 because I discovered you would have to sing. Sing? Sing? Not on your life. Piano career ended because I was too scared of someone finding my efforts hilariously abysmal. 

Leaving my last job as it was made painfully clear that I was not wanted anymore I leapt into the unknown and have been floundering ever since. With the support of a close few I am embarking on a new venture which I love but can feel the paralysis of fear setting in. Suppose I'm no good. Suppose no-one likes what I'm doing. Suppose I make a fool of myself. Suppose people out there finds my efforts hilariously abysmal? Can you hear the fear of getting it all wrong in full flow already? Have you spotted the pattern yet?

I read somewhere that you should 'do what you can until you can do what you want' which may mean me heading back to teaching - again the cold chill of 'can't' kicks in . Because before I decided to take this path I did go for interviews and despite my skills, experience, glowing feedback I was still not getting the jobs. Suck it up you might say, keep trying, others out there are applying for hundreds of jobs and not getting one. Yep I hear you but every failure burns when I had reached the outstanding peak of my career only 3 years ago. I cannot start from the bottom again; not at my age, not when the things people don't like about me can't be changed (my years of experience making me expensive).

The spiders that lurk in my little room where I write and the dread of a turbulent flight out to the Caribbean to visit my aged grandparents pale in comparison to the fear of my three daughters looking back at my life and thinking that I didn't provide them with a role model or aspirational values - that is my biggest phobia. 

Does that have a name I wonder?

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writing prompt66:phobias

i'm every woman

When this week comes around there are reams of online reading raising the profile and highlighting the names and careers of women past, present and future. We are educated about the challenges, the successes and the aspirations of the woman in the street, on the screen, in our homes, in power - of their lives and the lives of others.

Surveys and Twitter feeds ask us to nominate the leading women in our world; who has inspired us and who are our role models?

The answer to this is easy for me and I'd often trip off a few names; Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Malorie Blackman, Michelle Obama, Shonda Rimes, Caitlin Moran, Sophie Okonedo, Malala Yousafzai, Maggie Alphonsi, Kelly Holmes, Maggie Aderin-Pocock If I could create a wallpaper with their faces on I would decorate my house as a daily reminder to my daughters of what they could achieve and who's lives they can be inspired by.

This year I'm thinking a little differently. My career break has given me back a wealth of time, which in turn has opened my eyes and ears to the women in my family and friendship circles that are just wonderfully amazing and I love that they are part of my 40+ years.

To the women who share my bloodline. You are the women who have smiles that open up a history of motherhood and sisterhood and parenthood. When oceans and motorways and disagreements have divided our families you have manoeuvred mountains to bring us closer together so that our children may learn from our past in order to secure their future and also watch us dance and groove in our inimitable way. We are fiercely protective together, lovingly gentle and wise between our generations. I love you all.

To the women I have met through my decades. You are the women that share my tragedies of hairstyles, that approved (or disapproved) of menfolk, that lent shoulders when those menfolk were not the right ones, that raised my spirits when I was sinking, that pushed me higher when I was choosing to settle.  When I shutdown in radio silence you are the women that text-nag me, that remind me you are there, that shake my happy out of the gloom.  We are hilarious together and without words can start a belly laugh or cut a side-eye about the one, same thing. I love you all.

At birthdays, at marriages, at funerals, in the classrooms, in the pubs and clubs, in the coffeeshop, in the park, at the school gate, in the office, online, in your house and always in my house you have stood with me and I hope you will grant me the honour of standing with you - in our Wonder Woman power pose - today and tomorrow.

Happy International Women's Day.

yesterday once more

See I did smile sometimes!

I attended a great @post40bloggers.com twitter party last week discussing what we would tell our 16 year old selves. As to be expected from a gaggle of forty-somethings we had plenty to say.

And it got me to thinking.

Sixteen. It actually made me quite sad. It's okay put the hankies away I'm not going to sob-story here. I thought about what 43 year old me could possibly offer 16 year old me if 16 year old me would actually stop listening to Duran Duran and listen to what anyone had to say.

1. I would congratulate me on being strong and brave. Stepping out into teenage world with my brown face in a sea of white Essex faces that weren't ready for multi-culturalism wasn't easy. But I smiled, worked hard, told jokes and found a group of brilliant friends who buffered me from everyday ignorance. I loved school. Despite my spirit being broken at times I found myself able to speak up and not lose myself in a fog of blame. That was all me.

2. I would show me how to love my face. Now that I see adverts with black families, presenters with brown faces on my telly everyday and see successful people of colour from my generation it's a blessed relief . But 1980s me didn't like the girl in the mirror at all. I hated the hair that sat in two neat plaits instead of golden flowing tresses; the two protruding teeth that were capped due to a collision with a classroom door; the bottom that wouldn't fit in jeans without leaving a gaping chasm at the waist, even with a belt; the way I would get stared at when meeting new people; the incessant chorus that told me I would have to work harder than everyone else because of my colour, The unfairness of it all.  So many people haven't let any of the above stop their progress but I think I did. And for why? My sixteen year old face was beautiful, smiley (most of the time - come on people I was 16 - sixteen year olds are moody) and glowing with all the promise of a life ahead. My hair was strong and thick and washed and plaited by my mother's hands every Saturday night. But I looked around me and saw that I was different but didn't have the courage to relish that difference.

3. I would demand that my talents were not to be given up and instead to take some risks. Writing, athletics and music. By 16 I was writing almost every day, training most of the week with race meetings at the weekend, and I was pretty mean on the piano too. I would go back and kick that stubborn streak out of me and keep up all three. To enter story competitions; to understand how important athletics was to my life and that I would miss it everyday if I gave it up - plus losing the chance to marry Roger Black, who was obviously going to wait for little ole me to grow up; to not be afraid of singing at piano exams. To tell me that the crippling fear felt at 16 would only diminish if confronted otherwise it will remain well into adulthood.

4. And lastly I would remind me that family do prevail. That through all the crappy stuff, life changes, house moves, that there are people that you share blood and bonds with who are also going through their crappy stuff too but manage to make it to the odd birth, marriage, death event and remember you when it was a long yesterday ago. That I should take pride in where my place is in that family because when it's my turn I would want my children to feel pride in their position too.

Being 16 was sometimes a bit miserable, usually a lot of fun, often misguided, occasionally getting it right but most of the time it was just me making it up as I was going along. Some things never change.