Roots that Bind

 Your pink-tinted skin and lips blotted by wild flowers earned you the nickname “The English Rose.” These women worried about you getting too much sun so they pulled you into their homes saying, “Such a pale thing.” Their voices and movements leap-frogged each other in a sort of chaotic dance, and you stood silent, eyes darting, quietly soaking in the chaos.  Food filled the table you sat at and they said, “Eat, eat, you’ll like it,” it was familiar, that tone, those words. That day, I watched your smile and it felt infectious.

Today, I watch a different smile, one accompanied by a nervous giggle. I’ve asked how your day went, time with your friends. You describe them as girls you can be yourself with, you don’t have to try, they get you… This description allowed your father and me to finally let go of inhaled breath collected throughout the years. We watched you navigate through a social labyrinth that screamed out at every wrong turn.  For many years, you chose to keep a safe detached distance, affording only to mimic from the periphery, showing a curiosity for others but not being close enough to experience their curiosity for you. 

This changed with your visit to the States. You only needed a moment of consideration before deep diving into the family. I could see it as you played with your cousins, enjoyed new foods, or listened intently to the stories about people we used to love.  You eagerly squeezed into the back seat of a crowded car for an unorthodox tour of Boston, and recognised your strength by kayaking across the lake, creating bonfires and finding your way out of a hike that went wrong. With each feat, you heard the family applaud.  

You observed our family’s script, the essence of my script, life according to us, that didn’t always involve all those fussy rules. A world dismissing the unnecessary, the waving away of  protocols and social mores. You paused, often, mouth open, unsure, but then joined in. It was freeing for a new teenager, where invisible rules hid in every aspect of your life.  “Us” that word that now included you, ensured your right to this identity and a claim to all stories told. It felt a safe place for you. I understood this because when the rest of the world felt complicated, this is where I went.

You brought that sense of belonging home, growing friendships where secrets passed through whispers and snapchats. Where comfort settled the need to understand the formula. For your birthday, we filled the table with food and you girls laughed, ate, and then escaped to just be silly. You brought that warmth home, adding it to your story.

However, today, snacking in the kitchen, you wondered where Judaism fit into that script.  I looked out the window pushing my belly against the sink. 

“Mam, I was on the bus and this group of boys came to talk to us.”

“Ok” I replied. I felt the warm water rush over my hands as I finished the dishes. I shut off the water,  walked to you and leaned against the island to watch you twirling your spoon through yogurt. 

“They were introducing themselves and then pointed to one of their friends and said, he’s the Jew boy because he lives near the Jews,”  and that is when you became Jewish outside of our home, as pointed out to them by your friend. You became Jewish to the boys who stared.

You looked up and giggled. I held my breath, trying to not react. I just said, again, “OK.”

You continued, “Well, you could feel the tone change. They all started saying ‘ew Jew’ and then one boy said, ‘ Jew, get off the bus.’” You giggled again.  I had giggled like that. So, had your Bubbie, my Bubbie and so on….

During that visit across the pond, you commented on how my accent changed, a little bit New Yorker, a little bit Jewish, you mimicked Yiddish words. Growing up, my cousins and I mostly saw each other during the holidays. A time when people are only separated by generations. Us, the youngest generation, would run crazy around the house, while the oldest generation, would encourage us out the door.  I always thought of them as the elders, the high council. They would sit together, after a meal, digesting, and while the left overs were being stored away, they would ponder and then solve world problems: comments followed by silent consideration; sentences interrupted only by the dessert. Those fresh flowing colours laid upon antique dishes, each plate bringing stories from past generations. Fragile witnesses, to something quietly understood, held in a shared consciousness but rarely expressed.  

I remember my great aunt’s drooping red lids captured what seemed to be a blue mist. I stared and it felt hypnotising bringing me in closer to watch her as she spoke of her past, a rare moment. Sitting, hands on knees, legs spread, as if ready to stand, she glanced and then nodded at  her siblings, who reciprocated with their own nods. “To them, “ she said referring to her elders, “The West was filled with cowboys and lawlessness, they didn’t understand East Coast/West Coast. They saw my father as crazy. They asked why would he leave his home? His wife? His five children, all of us under 8?” And then she would laugh,  “The States, this far off country, they thought was so uncivilised!”  I would hear them laugh at that part of the story, followed by silence and then a whisper,  “The irony.”  In his 7 year absence, the children created imagined memories of their father, filled in by stories from their uncles, aunts and grandparents, who gathered to raised them in his absence.   

A dangerous world affected not only their childhood but also lingered in their current world. They never spoke of it but you could feel it, the darkness that seeped into the room, intertwined with the scent of food.  The quiet that came over them as “we remember.” An acceptance of their world, its threats and their helplessness amongst it. Memories of windows crashing, sweeping of glass, bloodied relatives walking with their faces downward to not scare the children, hugs given for the purpose of hiding, long walks back and forth to school where they knew to stay together.  To keep safe they tried to disguise themselves, camouflaged in the backdrops of their world. Finding safety only in their home. 

My grandmother never spoke of the days before she stepped on American soil.  She refused to speak her childhood language. She identified as Jewish and American only, but Jewish seemed whispered unless said behind closed doors. Her and her siblings hid that world away behind their new anglicised names, but that world would not leave my grandmother, no matter, her education, job or the very American man she married to kill her roots. The little girl inside her still saw the men who starred as they leaned against her window, slurring rants that fogged the glass, banging at her door, until boredom moved them on.

My Bubbie would say, “Be careful who you tell you’re a Jew to, know that there are those that will hate you for that, be ready.” In the next breath she would say, “And for all those who died, you must fight them.” She made me promise. Her words repeated loudly when I watched my school  teacher smile or when I opened the door for the mailman. Who was “that person” who hated me?

As a young mother, my grandmother, cried at the absent letters from her relatives over seas.  She watched the news of the holocaust and waved her brothers and husband off to fight. My grandfather died shortly after the war, leaving only my mother and uncle to carry the weight of my grandmother’s trauma. It seemed too much for my uncle, who would never truly participate in the world. 

I remember numbers on translucent skin, those of the family who “made it.” Their stories came to me indirectly, through my mother. As she spoke to me of what she overheard, we crouched down, like children huddled around a camp fire, our fantasies putting us in the places they had been. We would fight the fight they couldn’t and then maybe we could heal the wounds of those we loved, maybe I could heal my mother’s wounds.  Hebrew school, echoed “I must remember,” with films of naked women waiting in line, emaciated, sexless people collecting others last belongings.  It was my responsibility to remember, to say never again. As a child, I felt a warrior, but a warrior driven by the fear born in someone else’s blood. 

Growing up, the hatred waiting outside our neighbourhood was pointed out to me. We heard the stories of graffiti on temple walls, bomb threats, we watched the police patrol the streets, sit in the parking lots during Shabbat.  But often the prejudice I experienced directly was more of an irritant than a threat. It would come in the form of bizarre observations made, questions asked of me because “ I didn’t look Jewish. “  

 

“So, when is the messiah coming?” Or  “Why did you kill Jesus?” Usually, my mouth would dry, I would inhale before walking away, allowing them to enjoy a different form of entertainment. 

When I was 18, I attended a cool person’s party. I was never cool so I hid behind a lit cigarette and a drink, watching them, listening to their language, while slowly being pushed into the inner circle. The quarterback of our high school football team stood centre. I watched his fans listen and wait for  cues to laugh, what words to repeat. I joined because I could mimic, and banter flew, but then it turned racial, disguised as a harmless joke. It wasn’t harmless and it wasn’t directed to me but to the man next to me who wasn’t Jewish. As to my training, I spoke out. “Those jokes aren’t cool. People try to joke about Judaism too, but it is not ok.” The tone changed. The cool kid laughed as he looked at his friends and then me. “I can’t stand Jews.” He said this quite matter-a-factly and then continued,  “In fact, we needed more of those ovens.”  

That is when my world blurred with rage.  I screamed as I felt my friends pulling me away, back to my car. He watched, tutting, his friends’ heads down, saying nothing. My friends excused my sensitivity, justifying it by reminding each other of my father’s recent death. It wasn’t due to the death of my father. It was due to a lineage of those with subtle accents, whispering stories of others who couldn’t scream. I became their voice.  That story replayed over and over again for me as I listened to your story of the day you ingested a particular type of fear. 

At your birth, they commented on your “exotic” looks and asked the origin. I said, ”Me, my daughter looks like me.” I assimilated into my new country, the UK, absorbed into my new traditions and decided that you would belong to a kinder world, instead of one poisoned by generations of trauma. I would enjoy sitting with you in this world, unlike the scared women before me. You didn’t need to know of those who hated. However, here we are, at this counter, you smoothing out your hair before twirling it again and I watching you in silence.

“I told them I was only half Jewish and that you weren’t even that Jewish.” I watched you begin to cry. “I was scared.” You looked at me, afraid again, ashamed. Even though that part of your world, the vulnerable part susceptible to those who hate, had gone unspoken, as with osmosis, it seeped in. 

“Of course you were scared. You did the right thing, you kept yourself safe.” 

You exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.” 

I traveled around the counter and whispered, “Of course you wouldn’t know what to do.” You hadn’t been built that way, to hate or to expect hate. No, one lurking in your world until today. Today, what I tried to create for you was stolen and replaced by the same toxins that had also infected my world. I would say that to your father later when he held me as I cried. 

And then it happened to your sister (I decided to update this letter):

A few months later, the littlest one of you experienced similar on a WhatsApp group chat. A few years earlier, you were introduced to this historical hate. The teacher brought it to you in pictures of treacherous men with big noses, wearing yellow stars under the new vocabulary word “propaganda.” She also spread out pictures of men and women waiting at gas chambers, and children in ghettos behind fences staring.  The little boy, three seats down whispered, “If we lived back then, they would have taken…” You looked at him to see his finger pointing towards you; the other children followed his finger to you, the only Jew in the classroom, actually in the school. 

You burst through the door shouting questions, “Is it true, Is it true…How could it be true?” As you coughed through strained breaths and roughly threw words together that sketched out the lesson.  Refusing to drop your bags, refusing my kiss, even refusing to eat the cookies waiting, you wanted answers, maybe you wanted me to tell you the teacher got it wrong but she didn’t.  I stood unprepared, I just nodded and then picked up my shoulders. 

You then breathed out carrying the words, “Why didn’t you tell me?” We both stood in the quiet, staring, I bent down, looked at you and pick up my words from deep in my chest, confirming this hate exists, chipping more away at your innocence. You struggled with that. You struggled to sleep, worrying about being taken away like the children before you, it was months before I could leave your room when your eyes were still open. 

Those words in the WhatsApp group echoed the lesson, echoed what had been said to me so many years ago. Your pain reverberated and I absorbed it. Your sister held you. She understood. My shoulders raised again, this time to carry your pain, I had no other words to give. 

I AM Karen

 “Karen” is the new label for a woman who acts  “entitled” (whatever that means). A woman who is capable of creating discomfort in others, typically by losing her shit. Let me tell you, little ones, we all lose our shit and sometimes that causes us to become assholes. It’s OK because those moments in time, don’t define us. They are simply moments in time and those times happen because the world can be harsh and because we struggle and because our body reacts to those struggles.

Historically, women, who didn’t fit the mould, who made a choice to be honest, assertive or just openly pissed off instead of continuing the drive to be liked were labeled. Terms like hysterical, bitch, bossy, ball-buster, permanently on-the-rag etc… It all worked well to cage us.

I spoke to your dad with outrage about this fully swallowed term. I asked, “Couldn’t they see the sexism?” 

Your dad answered,  “Well, there is a Ken to the Karen.” 

Oh… right… ok, so was the term sexist if there was a male counterpart? I still think it is, as I see many more “Karens” flagged up on social media than “Kens.” I am not an academic in this area, I haven’t researched it. It is just my experience of seeing many women shamed in our society, given a more contemporary version of the Scarlet Letter branding. 

However, there is also the issue of shaming attached to the label Karen or Ken. It is the hot potato game, before we get burned we pass the potato on to burn someone else and then we are safe.  Or, we push others down to feel a momentary lift. Or we just watch it and don’t speak up, maybe, for a moment, we fit in or we simply feel a sense of relief that, this time, it is them and not us. Since, Karen and Ken aren’t very welcoming, we can shame them without much kick back. I have done it and, girls, you will too. To shame another has a strong pull and is so much easier to do than to sit with compassion. 

Shame, I suppose has a purpose, it keeps others in line, it pushes down what is bubbling up. It quiets voices that drags us from our comfort zone. And, sometimes,  it just feels good to strike out and feel justified. But, what if we need discomfort?  Discomfort take us off the treadmill and forces us to stop, breathe, and soak in the view? 

For the shamed, those exiled emotions, thoughts and behaviours don’t die, they just become fertile land for self-shaming.  That horrible stone at the bottom of your belly, that heavy cloud that pushes at the back of your neck and your shoulders, that self applied tattoo across your forehead that people stare at when you enter a room, that thought that curls your body up and pushes a quiet moaning out in the middle of the night. The amnesia that steals away your memory that your soul was born beautiful. 

At that moment, we want to stop the pain and we do lots of awful things to stop the pain. I have seen this as a therapist but also experienced this as a girl and woman. Ironically,  it is those times that “Karen” or  “Ken” take form.

I have had many “Karen” moments as has everyone I know, but I was lucky to have most of those moments before the blessing and curse of social media. Now, a picture of one moment in time captured with a few words is left for interpretation with no thought to bias, context, or state of mental health. In reality it is just a moment in time, showing someone  struggling to interact with the world. Where all the fucked up shit they contend with, burrowing into their body, momentarily escapes. 

One memory, in particular, comes back to me. I was in a museum with your grandmother somewhere in Canada and after waiting in a very long line, a woman, who seemed to hate her job or hate me, sort of sighed, snarled, tilted head back and forth and asked me for money for a ticket.  The price didn’t include the discount, I think it was the equivalent of 50 cents. I explained (with a long line behind me and Grandma next to me) why I was entitled to the discount. I pointed to the sign, but she didn’t care, refused my discount and just said that I was wrong. I started to get louder, explaining that I had a university degree, implying that she didn’t, and I could work out basic percentages and read the pricing categories on the tariff on the wall. She replied, “Well, good for you.” And the line grew and the snickers started, and I looked to my left and Grandma had joined the chorus. I started to demand my 50 cent discount! Berating the small town that the museum was located in (meaning that they must have nothing better to do than making tourist feel like shit etc..) She finally gave in, and I turned to walk away. People stared. Grandma gave me distance to lessen our association, and we made our way around the corner.  I think that I bumped into a few walls at that time, as I was walking through a blur of tears. I pretended to look at some exhibitions, with my mother standing quietly next to me. I remembered whispering through broken breaths, “Why didn’t you help me?” “Why didn’t you stand by me?” 

She asked, “Why?” 

I replied, “Because you are my mother and that is what mother’s do.” 

She simply said, “Well, it is done now.” 

But it wasn’t done, I carried that snickering for ages, that shame.  Had it been on social media, so that the pain could be continuously inflicted and shared,  I can’t even imagine how I would have contended with that, as my world was a bit fragile at that time. 

So, now for the back story, I was 21 years old on a 9,000 mile trek through Canada and the States, in a two person pop-up tent with no itinerary. I loved my mother very much but we struggled, only pretending to understand the very different languages we spoke.  When she suggested this trip, I questioned intent but not to her. 

The first few weeks of this road trip were filled with outbursts. She couldn’t escape me now.  We were both formidable combatants. But we fell silent from the screams, temporarily, when overcome by star-filled skies, or breathing in cool mountain air from a cliff’s edge. She would take my arm to protect me and I would let her.  

Three years prior, after a night of partying, I woke, head in hand, dry throat, to a knocking at the door. There was a phone call for me (the time before mobiles). I took a sip of water from the glass at the bedside table and walked to the payphone in the middle of the hall. "Yes," I said.  It was my mother, she had called to tell me that my father died, and just like that, my world was gone. 

The rest of that day, week and month were a daze. Auntie Sue and Uncle Steve came home soon after.  We all seemed to exist in parallel universes, wandering about the house but not acknowledging each other. I set the kitchen table for dinner, 4 places, instead of 5, but no one came. We went from being a loud busy family with a revolving door, to a busy for distraction family who functioned silently and then slowly disappeared. I just kept sitting at the kitchen table watching the empty seats. I did return to university. I came home often to check on my mother and my dog. I worked two jobs to relieve my financial burden. 

My mother didn’t seem to notice me anymore.  I became a repulsive force, like the wrong side of a magnet. I couldn’t catch her eyes anymore. She has beautiful eyes.  She had lost her father at a young age, which corrupted her world overnight, and now it was happening again. I remember her whispering to the window, while cleaning dishes, “This was not suppose to happen. I did everything right.” I watched her from an open door of her bedroom as she stare at his closet as if in a trance.  She felt cursed, continually experiencing retribution. What had she done? She had tried to find redemption all her life, rescuing those in need, volunteering, fighting for the underdog and still this…. I moved in to console her but she moved away.

Three months later we moved my great-uncle into my bed and I moved to the den.  He was a larger than life man, standing at 6’4”, blue eyes, and of few words. A father figure to my mother and she loved him. Soon the cancer left him to hardly make an imprint under my floral sheets. I struggled.  I started to have panic attacks when crossing bridges, silence felt threatening and then I couldn’t sleep. I fell out with friends and struggled to gain closeness with new friends and felt incredibly alone. The world grew terrifying.

My uncle wanted to die in my home, in my room, in my bed, Instead, I accompanied him to the hospital. I couldn’t face his next step.  For two days, I stayed away and when I finally did arrive, someone else lay in his bed.  The nurse explained, they had just finished changing the bed sheets and had not had a chance to call me.  I turned to leave and the elevators opened, it was his brother and sister, I explained that they were also too late. He had died alone. I explained that to my mother, who walked away and closed the door behind her. I called my brother and sister who came home and quietly cried. We never seemed to figure out how to share our sadness only our distance. 

My insomnia worsened as did my panic attacks, but I disguised it well.  I started to do much better at school, create a bigger social circle, make amends with old friends but the world still remained threatening.  I was always just making it. However, I learned how to survive feeling not good enough. I became the rescuer  like my mother, staying up to talk to the friend in need, doing that extra favour, joining with a cause. 

I became more and more self-sufficient, relying on nobody.  Dealing with university bureaucracy, landlord issues, car troubles, health issues, insurance, angry neighbours  etc… And in those few years,  I endured a few more deaths of people I loved. I qualified my life as G-ds bad practical joke. I stopped reaching out for support as accepting it felt uncomfortable and, instead, found some solace, in giving others support. I learned how to cope as I went and with each experience, I became more self-assured not of my abilities but that the world was capable of extreme cruelty, that I too was cursed in some way, that I deserved these hardships, bad things happened to me because maybe, at my core, I was bad.  That is why no one protected me, that is why people left me, not just my father in death, but my mother in life. I was in this fight alone, and as I fought feral,  I would usually win, but each win reinforced that I wasn’t ok.

That trip, rehashed all of it. How dare she suggest this trip.  How dare she want to play mother and daughter now. I don’t need her now! She left me overwhelmed, afraid and in pain for three years! She often had caught sight of my fear and to her it was a famiiar fear and still nothing? How dare she want a relationship now! And why now? Was any of this real? Was I being used?  I felt used.  These and more comments spit from my mouth reverberating within our car, parked outside the museum. There was no response, so this time I walked away from her and slammed the door behind me.  A few steps away I stopped to slow my breath, to unclench my sweaty fists. I wanted to scream, to run away into the mountains behind the building. But my damaged body that had moved through  three years of insomnia  and  panic attacks, instead, entered the building and stood in a line. 

I felt my mother behind me, and I seethed.  Looking forward at the sloth-like cashier in front of me and her look of disdain at her life, at her job, at me. I put my cash on the counter, looked up to see her slight smile as she enjoyed telling me that I had gotten it wrong.  I hadn’t got it wrong. I deserved that fucking discount as I deserved many other things. At that moment my rage, my shame, my incredible sadness took shape and Karen stepped in to be my voice and she was a fucking wonderful friend. She told me that I was entitled to love, entitled to kindness, entitled to protection, entitled to be present in this world, entitled to have been a child for a little bit longer and  then she turned to the cashier, her dead stare conveyed that damage creates fierce warriors. I collected my 50 cents, and Karen held my hand leading me away from the crowd to a quiet place where she stood by me as I felt my pain.

My thoughts on Meghan Markle: From one immigrant to another

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

Mommy, Last Night I Dreamt You Died

The other night the littlest you curled into me for a goodnight cuddle. You turned, looked up,  put your tiny hand to my cheek, and I saw your bottom lip quiver.  A slow wave seemed to flow down your delicate face, changing it from giggly and restless to  quiet a serious and solemn affect. I pulled back and copied your expression, asking what was wrong.

"Mommy, I had a nightmare last night."

"Oh darling," pulling you closer, "That must have been scary. Why don't you tell Mommy all  about it."

You settled into my arms, and looked at the wall and then I looked at the wall. You started to talk and then stopped, looked up at me. I caught your stare and said again "Tell me about your dream. It's OK."

"I dreamt you died," you paused, waiting for my reaction.

I tried again to mirror your expression and said, "That sounds like a very scary dream."

"It was Mommy."

"But I didn't die. I'm here with you right now and I am not going anywhere," and then I smiled.
I am not sure how you expected me to react but I think that you liked the fact that I didn't really react because that's when the talking began.  You gave me all the sad details of the dream, details I won't go in to now.  The gist was that I died saving you, but then you couldn't save me. You then began to say,  "If this ever should happen in real life  that you (pointing to me, your mother) should not...."

I interrupted at that point, "Of course I would as would any mother."
You began your protests louder and I smiled and calmed you and explained my reasoning.

It is that reasoning that I will write about today but while I write,  I appreciate you won't read this till much later on in your own life. A life, whose shape and colour will change with every gained experience you collect and I hope that you collect many.  Maybe, you will have your own little ones pulling at your sleeve, while your coffee gets cold, maybe you will only have the idea of them or maybe you will have chosen to not journey down that path. Whatever you decide is ok, if you are OK, which is the point of this blog. I know it is an old saying but it is so true live, love and laugh.  Enjoy this life honestly, the way you want to because that is how I have enjoyed mine and it has made me happy with very little regrets.

Your beautiful life is precious, as is mine. I have had a wonderful life. Partly, because I have you, your sister, your father and even the hairy beast. A choice, not taken lightly and made after a great deal of adventure and exploration. I enjoy life, which of course, makes me want to live forever but, sadly, I can't and even more sadly, I can't control or anticipate that part of my destiny. For me Death would be the uninvited and unwanted guest to my party.

At 18, when my father died, I pictured Death as a bit of a jerk who goes around a room ending conversations, shutting books before they are fully read, just because he can. A power hungry pretentious bastard, who ignores the cries of others as he callously leads a soul away,  as he did my father, as I screamed, as I cried, I pictured him walking on, his arm tangled through my father's soul and my father helplessly looking back at me as he faded into the growing distance.

You asked me if I cried when my father died. Yes, I did. I cried, I screamed, I beat my pillow, I beat the horn in the car, I ran and ran and ran, up mountains, down paths to be alone. I cuddled into my dog and cried into her fur. I released energy any way I could, which scared some and made them scatter and intrigued others who watched but didn't do much else. However, every so often,  a friend would hold my hand and sit with me.

Death angered me and my anger was immeasurable, like a tsunami it crashed down on this earth, spreading, smashing, soaking through, everything that inhabits its world but eventually tsunami's recede, leaving the scattered pieces displayed.  Anger is great and it can empower and release what torments but you can't stay angry forever. You need your energy to heal, life is waiting for you to reenter, to savour, to enjoy again.  My screams turned, to singing, loudly, while I danced, in my room, in a car, at a friends, at a club. My running turned to exploration and adventure, at the end of those paths were the stories of the unfamiliar, which made my own book more of a page turner. The hands that I held were attached to many that I began to love, who taught me the power of touch, love and friendship.

What has made my life enjoyable I can't describe in a few paragraphs or in a few pages but I can tell you that I had a part in it. It didn't just happen. It never does, too much time is wasted for people who wait and let other's take charge or give them permission.  I knew that there were magical things to be found and I wanted to find them.

I was brought up with one window, overlooking one world, wearing one outfit, using one voice and as you can tell in some of the other posts, that world didn't quite fit me. It gave me a restless, unsettled feeling. Probably, because that world was created by someone else for someone else, my parents, and it was meant to fit them.  It wasn't hard to journey past the window's view, all I had to do was leave my home.

First stop was university, I was never much of a student, not very dedicated as I had been diagnosed with a learning difficulty, dyslexia, which I kept secret, swallowing a presumed ceiling and adapting to it. Painted in shame and wearing it like an overcoat, disguised, I slipped on to campus. I think that I went to university because my friends did, because in my neighbourhood it was the thing to do, because what was the alternative.

Learning felt different at university, there was an energy, and excitement, people finding themselves among a new independent status never afforded to them before and I joined in. They asked for my voice, encouraged me to question, to debate. I, no longer allowed to melt away into the back of the class, took form. I chose what I wanted to learn. I created my path. I asserted my power as a student and realised I had something to offer.  I surrounded myself with books. There was a room in the library, with old journals, which I travelled through often. It was hidden treasure, so many secrets to unearth and behind each book, I saw men and women dedicating their lives to collecting this knowledge and they were talking to me, sharing their gift with me. I understood and still do understand how precious this is. Please remember the books that line our shelves. It is my world that I share with you. It has given me comfort, security, wonder and joy often.

Travel was next.  My first real memorable journey was with your Bubbie, 9000 miles in six weeks, listening to Les Miserable on the CD over and over again, while we laughed that we were Thelma and Louise. It was a healing journey for us both individually and in our relationship. I hope to recreate that journey with both you girls and your dad someday. There is something spiritual that happens when you lay under miles of stars and watch a distant storm explode or stand at a mountain top, breathing in a different  world than the one seen just a few hours before. And it happens again with the people you will meet in diners, in makeshift hot springs, at the bottom of a waterfall, who affect you and then move on. And  then again in the moment, when the mother, whom hurt distanced you from, takes back your hand and you both gasp at the beauty that surrounds you.

This journey encouraged me to journey more. I often think of the song Another Suitcase in Another Hall, as for awhile I felt a bit nomadic. I met barefooted drummers who followed me home to tell me stories of their rhythmic life, danced too close to strangers because at that moment it meant something, travelled down dirt roads bridged over long rivers that people bathed in, I bathed in rivers too, under hidden waterfalls. Some of my greatest stories seemed to take place between sunrises and and then between sunsets. Time changed its pace for me, so that friendships could emerge, so that love could develop and I did love. So many beautiful types of love that I was able to experience. It was fun, and it was wild and it was never for nothing, even when it didn't last because love's purpose isn't always to last.

I wanted to share stories of my journey and celebrate that little scared girl who finally decided to discard the overcoat and join in with the party. Some listened with interest, some with polite tolerance and  some simply mocked my joy. But they didn't tarnish my collected treasures because if you play to an audience you will always tailor yourself to fit their needs, which is futile and a waste of energy.  When you stop playing to an audience and just play, life is brilliant.

I met your father on one of these journeys. Time decided to speed through our night, filled with latin music, cobblestone walls to sit on and hours of story telling.  In a moment our friendship was born having no beginning nor ending. The sunrise I watched with him was by far the best and seemed to take away my need to find another sunrise. I was once told by a woman that we have to pick between a desire to have love or to have friendship.  I am so happy she was wrong. Your father and I have both.  I know that sometimes you will remember us fighting because we can sometimes be a bit strong-willed (please stop laughing) but that doesn't mean that we are not in love, nor does it mean that he is not my best friend.  What it means, simply, is that sometimes we fight.

You see, we have a  shared picture of what we want from life  and what we want from this relationship, and we are achieving that together. During a moment, when we are tired, overwhelmed, hurt or frightened, that picture may fall into the background.  However, when we stop, breathe and look back, we are reminded of the journey and of what we have created, together, and who we are because of it. It is like standing atop a mountain, to take it all in. I know that I have told you this before but I am going to say it again.  A lifelong commitment  is not just  had because of love, it is not just had because of friendship but it is also had because of the acknowledgement of the beauty that  emerges from keeping both dear.

I think I may have gotten it wrong all those years ago. Maybe Death isn't a bastard but the inevitable friend that holds us, soothes us, rocks us, as we cry. Maybe Death doesn't take us but instead merges with us, because he knows our life is special and our journey away from it far too arduous to bare alone.

Because They Don't Have You

Kafkaesque rhetoric,
a mean obstacle,
stumbling carelessly
across my path,

driven by a
pedantic bureaucrat,
maybe lacking
power but wanting
power,

maybe lacking
highs and lows
so engaging mine,
or maybe just
someone with just
too much time
on their hands.

Just just just frustrating,
knocking the wind out of
common sense sails
making me question logic.

Walking  by
with a peacock bravado,
Huddling with others,
like-minded colleagues
like little girls or boys
on a playground, whispering,

They,
following the rules,
their rules
that only they know
That only they
can change

within the breath
of a whim, while
everyone around them,
Me, waits and waits
and waits. They saunter by
But let them

Because they don't have you.

Today, I said,
"Not today, I am not in a mood."
You, the older one,
shrugged your shoulders
Paying as much mind to me
as they did.

You finished
telling me off,
took my phone
to play
and then looked up
and smiled.

My eyes travelled
to you,
bouncing off
laughing shoulders,
You refusing to take me
too seriously,

refusing to let it affect
your joy.
Did I give you
that joy, resilience, spirit?
Which you give back to me.

Some people take time
My time,
time that I don't have.
Leaving their angst,
And I take that home to you,

In their high tower,
they command,
They justify,
and the audience applauds
because they have to.
Or else the show won't end.

And the self professed
rithgeous dance to the music
victorious.
Let them dance,

Because they don't have you.

The littlest you
throwing bubbles in the air
at the furry beast,
And the beast dances
And you laugh
And we laugh
And the beast's sudsy beard grows.

You show me your hurt toe
that you say only I can fix.
It is small, just like the rest of you
My magical kiss makes the hurt forgotten
And we cuddle, making my hurt forgotten
Cuddles cure, at least yours does

Let them have  their pointing chins
and staring eyes.
Their paper clips, pencils and files.
Their special codes and closing doors
and windows that still allow secrets

Let their smugness
hide them away from me
Let them cuddle and cluster
together, it won't cure their hurt.

Because they don't have you.

Tonight, I sit
thinking of you two
tucked away
in rooms under a roof,
your father and I created

Sitting with him as I reminisce
and moan about the day,
He takes my hand  and says nothing
because he doesn't need to.

He sees me and that is all.
And that is all.

What's In A Name?

One day a breeze slid across a field of wild flowers, lifting a seed, soon to be named Alice, and  trapping her within the shivering breast feathers of a passing bird. This bird took flight across  glistening rock beds, through a forest of evergreen and  across a tumbling river where she finally fell into a field of golden wheat and it was there that Alice took residence.

Alice looked up to see the tall grains stretching towards the heat of the sun, as they did every morning and,  as they did every morning, they swayed together, gracefully, purposely, brushing against one another, creating a vibration the spread across the field, a hum, a quiet calming hum which moaned between the breathes of the earth she grew upon.

Alice, ever changing, woke, as well, to the warmth of the sun, and, as well, stretched not only to feed from the light but to be amongst the others. Stretching with such force that she felt herself break apart and at the same time rush forward.  Her body spread green against the gold, unfurling like an untold story to separate the congregating stalks that smothered her.

"Ahhhh,"the wheat screamed.

Alice hadn't noticed that she was born with prickly thorns around her stem and leaves, and unfortunately, Alice's first words would be used to apologise for her existence.

The ear bowed down to look at his now torn leaf and this odd plant that seemed to trespass on wheat soil.  He shivered with the other plants before returning to the rhythmic sway that didn't invite Alice to join.

Farmer Mother the one who tended the fields  looked upon Alice with curiosity. She had never tended to anything like her before and, frankly, she didn't know what to make of her. But, Alice had grown in her field and therefore, would be taken care of like all the others. She would cover her leaves and stems with soft cloth, and paint her gold so that she could sway within the group.

Alice ached, bending to and fro like a rusted metronome. She became more and more bothered by the constant humming sound and the brushing of the wheat and quickly her paint peeled off. She realised that she would never be part of the sway. She screamed loudly, "Stop it!" which startled even those who usually remained indifferent.

Farmer Mother quietly whispered, "Brushing should soothe you," but Alice felt otherwise and she cried and cried breaking the rhythmic chanting of the field. They stopped and they stared. So, Farmer Mother instead built Alice her own space that she could feel the sun and stretch out and grow. And Alice did grow and grow and suddenly and beautifully she had a rush of long red petals that  made the shape of a basket. Her petal basket held the sun but it also held seeds, dust, dirt and rain water shaken off by the wheat.  Alice felt the strain which bruised and wilted her petals.

Farmer Mother, tired after a long day of turning over soil, fixing fences, pulling weeds,  didn't have time, energy nor the desire to drain Alice so sometimes she would pretend to not hear her cries. Farmer Mother secretly wished that Alice would just do what was expected of all who lived in the wheat field, but Alice would remind her that she was not wheat. Alice would slump her red petals, and slowly they would fall out and lay at both their feet.

Farmer Mother didn't want Alice to be sad, she simply wanted her to sway and shiver and hum.  She wanted the field to return to calm but the Farmer Mother accepted that Alice was different and so chose to cut the others back, giving Alice more room.

All were contented but Alice,  as it is perfectly understandable, because, although their touch hurt, she wished it didn't. Hands stretched out desire to be held or at least to have the potential to be held and Alice no longer had that.

When the sun began to set and Farmer Mother's feet swelled in her boots. She breathed deeply as she went again to tend to Alice.

"Where were you? You promised to take care of me and I haven't seen you all day!"

Farmer Mother took off her hat, wiped her brow and said, "I am here now."

"I am scared, Mother."

"Why are you scared?' Farmer Mother looked at her watch and then looked to the house.

"There is a red beast and it comes out at night."

"Now that's silly. I have never heard such nonsense!" Farmer Mother began to turn away.

"It is not nonsense,"she cried and stooped her red petals and again they started to fall.

Farmer Mother let out a long deep breath, " Would you like to tell me about the red beast?"

Alice looked up, "He comes at night and takes over the sky and blankets the ground, sometimes he breaks into a million beasts and they all attack me."

"Shall I sit with you then?"

"Please,"she said more as a question than a reply. "If you would like you can rest under my petals?"
Farmer Mother thought of the little spikes on the flower, "No, I am fine here," and she sat on the hard dirt.

As darkness unfolded across the earth giving the stars their movement, and as the ears of wheat lulled themselves to sleep, the moon rose causing a red hue to travel through the sky, which cut across clouds before breaking apart above the golden land.

Alice shut her petals, bowed her head and yelled to her mother,"There he is and he is coming for me.  I am scared, Mother. I am scared!"

Farmer Mother sighed, "It is just the moon."

Alice became angry,"No, it is not a moon. It is a red beast and it is coming for me!"

Her shouts travelled faster than the red hue and the fields began to wake. Farmer Mother went to quiet her and she crawled beneath her red petals and there Alice's world took life in Farmer Mother's eyes. It was not just a moon but vibrant blasts of red shouting through the sky fracturing, exploding, expanding, fireworks set off by the unsuspecting clouds. The colours showered down on the wheat fields creating a brilliant, dynamic mosaic. Each overwhelming detail caught in Alice's veins. It's beauty which she created and held, which couldn't be seen by others but was gifted to her mother at this moment on this night.

Farmer Mother gasped, "Alas, little one..." trying to comfort, to explain that it was not a beast but a glorious gift that belonged to only her, but she couldn't find the words for this explosion of colour and sensations. Still Alice quieted. A petal fell down on her mother, crossing over her shoulders, "Alice, is that my name?"

Farmer Mother realised that in the excitement the little flower misunderstood her.

"Is that who I am, Alice?  I have often wondered as I knew I wasn't wheat, no matter how hard I tried, and if I wasn't wheat then who was I? Now, I am Alice or Alice is me." She straightened her stem and her petals reached out as if she was answering to an encore and  waiting for the applause to quiet. She, no longer trying to dance with the wheat, but now, instead, allowing the wheat to dance around her, her vibrance warmed the field and warmed Farmer Mother.

Alice turned to Mother and asked,"Do you think that we should name the others because if you look quite closely, they are not all the same, and maybe, one or two would also prefer not to sway or shiver or brush?"

"Maybe,"replied Farmer Mother witnessing the details of each one's own particular story.

"I name that one Lilly and that one Elliot." said Alice, and that is how Farmer Mother and Alice spent the rest of the night. As the field, which once was only gold, blossomed with colours so did it too blossom with newly recognised life and, as should be expected, each new life rightfully deserves its very own name.

My Chest Compressed

My chest compressed
like fragile ground under heavy boots
stomp and stomp and stomp and stomp.
Caving inward, unsettled rubble knocking about

My chest compressed
Deflating, air escapes through quiet rips
insides stick together, pulling me down
the darkness again rushes through, consumes.

My chest compressed
punched,  gasping, watching the window fog
my head against vibrating steel
the rhythm of the train takes me home.

My chest compressed
I enter to your quiet cries.
Your sister cradles you
as you wait for fairies to hide you away.

Our chests compress
as we think of the needle
that I am not sure you need
but the doctor would like anyway.

My misgivings growing
as does the red in your eyes.
I question my choices
The restless child in me struggles.

I lay Wonder Woman's armour
at your bedside.
and say it will shield you from pain.
You push it away.

Admonishing her
She is a fake!
The armour is a fake!
Everyone feels pain!

I concede. I cuddle, I kiss, you burrow.
running my thumb down your arm.
We lay sad together and wait for sleep.
We decompress