Did I ever tell you girls about the time I immigrated to the UK? It was challenging as my expectations differed from the reality. I, looking towards an adventure, found something much more complicated. My naiveté, however, did serve a purpose, it allowed me to wear optimism-tinted glasses. Although, a crystal ball would have probably been more useful.
I remember watching a video about a fawn, seeking protection from a maternal source, cuddling into a lion. The lion allowed this, even licked away the newborn’s birth fluid and the onlooker, from behind the phone, ooo’d and ahhhh’d. The magic of a Disney-themed movie seemed to decorate all our worlds, until the lion realised hunger and then, well, not so Disney. I looked away. I hate thinking about that video, the cruelty of nature and the cruelty of watching something struggle for survival, an innocent becoming aware of it’s ending, and mostly the enjoyment of the person sharing the video.
I remember preparing for my move, bouncing about like a character from Sex in the City, wonderful wonderful friends, good job, nice house. I travelled, gossiped, giggled loads, got involved with causes, worked out, sang loudly in my car, tried that new restaurant, watched that new play etc… The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades (Song reference, girls, look it up). I only answered to myself and I knew all the rules, I called them instincts such as when and how to talk to strangers, make friends, what to wear to a party and how to cross the street. I didn’t stand out. I wasn’t different, unless I wanted to be. When I had an idea that made eyebrows flare, it was because I thought “outside the box” or “lacked tact” or wanted to impact my audience. People reacted to the point or the action or me being me, it had nothing to do with my country of origin.
When you move to a new country, you are dressed by others in a heavy outfit, sort of a not-so-welcoming welcoming gift. It adheres to your skin. People are inundated by stereotypes and preconceived notions, egged on by manipulated reality TV and a new you is crafted while your real self screams to be unbound. How fucking unjust.
I reacted by embracing who I was, asserting myself and and shoving my strength down their throats. Well, that is what I would like to say to you, but it didn’t really go that way. I hid. My voice quieted. I observed and copied others and tried to assimilate to the rules but the rules kept changing. Slowly, quite covertly, my true self faded. In the quest to make things work, I questioned myself, my belief system and looked outward for guidance. I felt emotionally, physically and financially vulnerable. Once my Pollyanna self realised this movie was more indie than Disney: no assured happy endings; no comeuppance for the baddies, no walking off into the sunset with a cheeky over the shoulder look back, no acknowledgement from her man of how she saved the day; not even an 80’s song playing in the background, I cried, not a little but a lot. It was usually into my pillow, journal or in the shower. Sometimes I cried till my eyes swelled and my hair was wet. Your dad, stood by my side but stood a bit confused, no forthcoming answer in sight, no quick fix. And, when things can’t be easily fixed, people become frustrated. This wasn’t his movie either.
My support network existed, but existed thousands of miles away and I didn’t want them to know how scared I was and how sad I was and that maybe this self-styled overachiever might be failing. A new marriage, a new family, new potential friends, a new ever-changing book of rules and the oldest one of you on the way. I, an “older Mam”, desperately wanted you. Your father and I couldn’t wait so we chose not to. I met you before I met my first year anniversary in this country. Your big chocolate brown eyes pulled from me a new maternal love engaging a fierce instinctual desire to protect. I needed to keep you from the lions, keep you safe, your home safe and keep me safe and, to be honest, I didn’t always know how to do that. Sometimes, I felt exhausted trying to figure it all out. In fact, hormones and huge life changes bring on lots of feelings. I looked for guidance. I went to books, coffee mornings, mid-wives, family etc…while smothering my own voice, my own yearnings and that is never good.
People happily played armchair warrior, screaming at the screen of my movie. I listened, quietly, respectfully, dutifully, taking notes, assuming these keepers of the formula, whose motives were pure, were simply trying to help. I thinking that it must be just me that doesn’t get it. However, it wasn’t me, and their intentions weren’t always pure. It took me a long time to figure that out but once I did, the world seemed to make more sense and, suddenly, I had a bit more insight and a lot less stress.
I watch attacks on Meghan Markle and I am rubber banded back to the video of the Fawn and the lion. I am rubber banded back to whispers in playgrounds as I tried to make friends, I am pulled back to dinner parties where I am politely acknowledge as “his wife” engaged with as a bridge or obstacle when making their way to him, shoving aside the 35 years of history and identity, I created. To them, I existed but without significance.
When you came along, I had ideas of how I would raise you, of how we would be together but even that was affected. I questioned everything. It was no longer about you and me but about adapting us to them because obviously there was something I wasn’t getting. I am sorry sweetheart. You and your sister are blessings and skipping a few chapters in our book, I did get it eventually. However, it hurts to watch other new mothers attacked. There is so much that I would like to say to Meghan and if I would write a letter, it would say this.
Dear Meghan Markle,
I hope you don’t mind my writing this letter as I don’t know you. I only know what the media wants me to know. They have created a design of you and now sell it to me as if I am on the high street. We are both strangers to each other and my need and my act of commenting on your life seems not only presumptuous but also arrogant. Please appreciate that I do this not simply for you but also for my girls, who are being sold very perverse ideas of our world, immigration and the role of women.
Of course, I want my girls to always be happy, but I know that is impossible because happiness doesn’t live in isolation. So, I want them to be alright when they are not happy. I want them to embrace how incredible it is to be a woman, to love uncontrollably, to dance, laugh and roar when needed, to create and/or nurture life if they want to or to be OK with not doing that. I want them to explore and experiment with who they are and where they fit in to this world and then find that comfy, cosy little place where they feel they fit. I want them to create deep and enduring friendships that feel spiritual. Other’s who see them, truly see them, sharing in their laughter, holding their hands on slippery floors and cuddling them when words no longer suffice. I want them to know how fucking fantastic it is to be a woman.
However, media, society or whatever it is, seems to work really hard at not allowing us our strength, our right of being. The beauty and power of women connecting are mocked, as we are inundated by images of women battling against each other like street cats in a ring.
Instead of appreciating our capacity to nurture life and the gravity of that choice, we are measured by it. Then graded on how well we do. Instead of allowing our bodies to be storybooks and change form, we are pressured to disguise our sagging skin and wrinkles, lumps and bumps, pretending change didn’t occur. We cannot even celebrate ageing, our continual metamorphoses, meaning we have not only battled life’s challenges but have won. We cannot just be.
Which brings my thoughts back to you and your right to just be. Our worlds are very different and I can only try to understand your world by what we have in common, which is transitioning lives: immigration, marriage and motherhood. All of these encompass change and with change comes difficult choices and realisations. New beginnings must also accompany some level of loss. Somehow it is very difficult to reconcile the two, the grief in this new found joy. Identities, to a degree, are dynamic, we adapt to survive, but the changes are subtle to protect us from being overwhelmed. However, you have gone through quite a few changes and I can’t imagine that the affects on you were subtle.
Trying to be perfect when managing those changes … well I cannot even begin to imagine or discuss. A quest for perfection is a sadistic journey as it doesn’t exist. It is a carrot at the end of a stick. Life and growth involve sometimes not being OK, accepting mistakes with compassion instead of shame and appreciating that those mistakes are a vital connection to your many successes. But, how do you achieve that trapped behind a looking glass?
You are a new wife, a new mother in a new country and that is no small feat, and because you actually did marry a prince, crying into a wine bottle surrounded by friends is a bit more challenging. You created life, and although people minimise that miracle of nature, they shouldn’t. The gravity of giving or caring for a life is the enduring truth in many people’s stories, giving many a foundation, in a confused world but being a mother is incredibly hard.Your autonomy over body, mind, hormones etc… has been affected, dramatically. That precious but unique realisation should be welcomed with compassion. However, I don’t see much kindness coming your way. I see people instead trying to define you, instruct you and basically judge you.
I keep thinking of these new life experiences as that ride at the fair where the floor moves. The person tries to hold their balance while getting from point A to B. But, for you, with this ride, there is an industry of thousands paid to wait and watch you fall, even grease the floor if it can get them a better picture. If you do fall, skirt flying, bruised, eyes welling then, instead of being given a hand, you are blinded by the flash of cameras. It all feels very cruel.
I think that instincts would have most tighten their grasp on the rail while smiling. Don’t smile if it is not real, it is wasted, you can’t change their perceptions of you because it is not about you. The media does it for money, but the people who buy into the media… well… I suppose it is a bit more complicated. I think there is a lot of hurt people in the world, and to cope some distract from self, or deflect from self to you. Others find it easier to judge your world than their own. Criticising without accountability feels powerful, superior in position, allows importance, momentarily releasing a bit of their own self loathing as they pretend that it rightfully belongs to you. Don’t buy into this, it is not yours and it is not you. Their relief doesn’t last, so no matter how you respond, they will always return to the well. This sort of thirst can’t be saturated.
The important thing is that you surround yourself with people who get that attacking others is wrong, very basic concept, something we learn as toddlers but then forget when the world becomes a bit scary. Surround yourself with people who are capable of love and choose to share it with you. People who love honestly, love all of you, all the bits and pieces and, then, love them back.
I also want you to know that I support you. I support your right to not be under a microscope, I support your right to not be beaten up by images of perfection, I support your right to love your child, your husband, your friends but also yourself. I support your right to be a priority, to be cared for, to be cheered for. I support your right to change or take refuge in sameness. For those who go on about you being in the public eye and blah blah blah, I support you telling them to fuck off. Yes, I get that you have commitments and responsibilities etc… that are on a much greater scale to mine and there will be things you feel a responsibility to do, but it doesn’t mean you will always have to Polly Anna your way through it or sell your soul to appease. When I decided to stop trying to figure out what everyone else wanted, it released an energy that felt powerful. I grew like Alice in Wonderland, so did my perspective, more importantly, the mean people shrank. I remembered my significance in the story of my life.
You are incredibly significant, born worthy, don’t apologise for that. The world is challenging and sometimes can feel lonely and sometimes we need to be alone, even if it just to take a breath. I truly believe that I am surrounded by thousands of others who share these thoughts. I hope someway you can feel that, a little like a cosmic cuddle. I appreciate that we don’t know each other but I don’t think that is a prerequisite for caring.
Go well and be well because that is what you deserve. It is what we all deserve.
Warmest Regards,
From one immigrant to another
