Showing posts with label battle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label battle. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Hairbands

She sat on the bathroom rug
With quiet methodology
Fingers grasped around the plastic tube
Holding black stretchy ring
She tested each for it’s elasticity

As they were pulled off and on to the floor


She looked up at me
With wide eyes bright
As I told her
“Put them back on”
Head back down
With determined obedience
Her little fingers once again clawed:
The ease with which they flew off
Was not to be repeated.

Each day we read.


With her wry grin
we turn pages,
sing songs,
speak high, speak low
and close our eyes into sleepy submission

But eyes were opened wide for these words:


And I feel my life
Is turning more into dots
A mass of gray
Gold desperate to twinkle through

More and more
My daily trawl of
Facebook
Online newspaper comments
Political discussion websites
TV debates
Seems like vomit
Thoughts of waste
Expelled from the mouths of drunkards
Down 3am dark alleys
Waking up with foul taste in mouth
Groggily justifying
“Hey, I’m entitled to my opinion,
I’m just saying what I think.”

I see your
#100DaysOfHappy
Your
#OnlyGoodThings
Your
#KindnessIsMagic

Desperate to speak against the barrage of hate of
#BigBenefitsRow
Controversy of
#CBB
Because nothing is sacred from public abuse
#HateTheQueen

Even when good is done
When NekNomination is turned upside on its head
With sandwiches instead of Smirnoff
Angry words still condemn

When did we get so critical
Deeming ourselves so high
So right?

When did we forget
That in each vein is blood
Pumping to heart
Desperate for life?

So me and my mini-me
immerse ourselves into the stories
Of the caterpillar that is hungry
Which lion is hers
Discussing the places she will go
And anything else
That allows me to do silly voices
And speak that truth
Reiterate It over and over
Until it becomes rote, ingrained, her being
Over and over:
The importance of words
The life and death they bring
And the difference they can make

They flick off so easily
So quickly
So flippantly
But can’t be put back the same

“Taste your words, before you spit them out”
The wise woman said.





Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Ceasefire

A comment I recently posted in a mum’s Facebook group received more than 50 "likes" in the hour following my scribing of it.
At my last check of it, it had exceeded 100.

We are a lazy bunch in the Miller household.

Steve’s alarm goes off at 6am (when he actually gets up is debatable) but Zella and I are only awake before he leaves if thereis a feed to be done or a poop explosion to clean. Some days 8, some days 9, on the lucky ones 10am is the hour we make it downstairs.


I still breastfeed Zella, in spite of her clamouring on top of me as if I were some gymnastics apparatus, and the occasional nip from the four teeth she has recently acquired. I am more than happy feeding her in public: on the bus, at cafes, at others houses, in parks, and, if the moment arises, while running to catch a train.

Some days, we hang out and play with the toys, some wooden, some with batteries. Often the only toy she’s interested in is my phone or the video baby monitor. I know I use technology around her too much because she can swipe the Mac and change my screens, and enjoys sitting back and looking through the morning’s Instagram offerings. I do try and do reading everyday as well, to make sure she is a book geek like me.

Sometimes we head to the park, or go on the swings. Yesterday we did this on the way to Tesco. That Tesco trip where I brought more than I could carry, and had to pile the buggy high and carry Zella home. Which wasn’t a problem…until it started to rain and I had to fashion a covering for her out of the shopping trolley seat cover I have because I don’t want her to get germs. Because for me, the germs in Tesco on the carts are far worse than the germs from the raisins I let her eat off our living room floor. I have also unknowingly taken her to this den of bacteria when she had a viral infection. I'm clearly going for mum of the year. 


Often we go clothes shopping. I often get caught out and spend far too long shopping and socialising in town and am suddenly faced with a screaming babe. I hastily feed Zella the baby snacks and pouches of puree, trying not to condemn myself for not preparing an organic feast fit for The Savoy. At home, dinner times are a happy chatter amidst of baby-led mess; our kitchen tiles’ the loser, splattered with the disregarded and thus flung regurgitations of our child.


And on our favourite days, we hang out with other mums and babies. A year ago, I didn’t know anyone in Birmingham with a young child, but classes and playgroups have grown our circles wide. One mum and her son live nearby so we often meet spontaneously and talk about cloth nappies. Another mum teaches and is full of advice for Steve as well as support as she has carried on full-time breastfeeding. One mum is ten years older, a classically trained musician and a highly disciplined individual; on paper we should have nothing in common, but she makes me laugh hilariously and we have great conversations.



The reason my comment on that post
Seemed to resonate with so many others
Was because I attempted to speak out
Against, what I saw, as an unfair judgment of amother

Breastfed vs Formula
Baby-led weaning vs Purees
Co-Sleep vs Cot
Cloth vs Disposables
Baby carrier vs Buggy
Pacifiers vs Thumbs
Staying at home vs working outside of the home

In our attempt to make ourselves feel better about our choices
Often others are put down for theirs
We draw battle lines and the mama wars begin once again
With angry and judgemental words
The media provoking and antagonising
This fervent fire

A fire that causes another mother to weep
Pushing back the waves of post-natal depression
As at her most vulnerable
One hand cradles her babe
While the other shields her heart and mind

Why do we choose “versus”
Rather than “and”, “with” , “or” ?

I am more than aware that I’m not theperfect mother
I write my daily choices to show they are
Both good and bad
But am learning
Steadily
To rejoice in the fact
I am a mother
With healthy child
Who delights in my face
Who delights in our life

I look at so many of you and think you are thriving
Although you may only see your flaws and failings
But the truth is
We are all doing our best
Serving them best
Teaching them best
Loving them best

And our best is more than good enough

Though we act like these decisions
Are life and death
Denying child a place at Harvard or Oxford
In countries near and far
The abuse of children is far more abhorrent
Than the outcome of these differing views

For my friends
With babes unborn
Uncreated
Unfertilised
Dreams in your head for the future
May you carry the baton
Of freedom in motherhood
And support and love
In the face of this torrential storm ofwords

May we be free from the judgement
Free from the lies
Free the tangled webs of the enemy
That would convince us otherwise
Of the simple fact

You, my precious fellow mother, are doing a phenomenal job.

And as gummy smiles and toddler eyes reveal
That we are succeeding
May we take these words
And be a blessing to others.


Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Deep Brown

My soul awoke this morning longing for jokes.
90 minutes with this girl satisfied that need:


For the record, this is my best black GIRL friend.
Apparently it can be offensive to say you only have one good friend who is black when you are sat next to this guy:




Our Skype conversations involve loud high-pitched screaming
Dissecting the world through our brown eyes
Crazing jokes about way back when
Our friendship spanning
Back to doo-doo plaits and
White patent shoes
For pew seats on sabbaths

With some friends we bond over English literature and fashion
With others our faith unites as we collectively seek to go deeper

With Angelene and Luke
our bond goes
Deeper than
Most.
For it is more than
Skin deep.
But yet it is
Defined by skin.

Mummy worked so hard, fought so much
For best area, best schools
Effort that made me
A small group of coloured faces
In a very pale crowd

Not completely fitting in
With middle-class families
and lives unlike my own
school canteen didn’t even cook
rice & peas & chicken

Grandma loved to take me to church
Worship and know His word
Effort that gave me
Sunday school peers with faces
and hair like mine

Yet I didn’t know the same music and people
my words and slang too “proper” for them
pushing against an enclosed circle
my name was not on the list

“coconut”
black on the outside
white on the inside.

The ultimate disgrace.

Fast forward to finding love in the arms of
A pale grammar school boy
Hands holding walking beautifully in step
And told
“oh.
You’re married.
We don’t have many people like that here.”

And shame of husband
mistaken for the boyfriend of
a 17-year-old white girl
because to piece our white and milk chocolate together
in social situations
seems unbelievable.
Interracial makes no sense.

And the untold pain of constantly living,
And breathing and being,
In a place where so few faces look like yours,
And no one seems to get
Why that is such a big deal
Why you feel like you might lose
A part of who you are.

My heart desires a
United Colours of Benetton kinda place
Where we see
the beauty in all parts of the world.
No matter the shade of the sky or of your eyes.
And delight in the food
from fields far flung.

The beauty they’ll be in our mixed-race babies
light cocoa skin
taking a bit from mummy
a bit from dad.

But my heart already breaks
for the moment narrow-mindedness says
“Why is your dad white, but you are black?”

Oh to be in an open space,
open place,
where differences are embraced,
as a chance to learn and
see new things.

See, I love all things in my world of brown
Grandma’s Jamaica dumplings,
my mum’s telephone voice,
the fact my hair costs a small mortgage.
The battle our race fights,
for under-achieving boys,
fathers long gone.
Equality in some ways,
still far behind.

When you say my name and see my face,
This is my story,
These are my people.
Heritage I can’t
and don’t want
To ignore
The beauty I embrace.

Skin-defined
But not just skin deep.