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

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

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.