#BlackLivesMatter
I woke up at 5am feeling that someone dear to me had died and then lay in the dark wondering which of my three aged grandparents it might be, while knowing full well from sad experience that it could be anyone, someone too young..."before their time," is how we put it.
A few days ago it was the anniversary of my brother's death. After 5 years it doesn't quite kick me in the guts the way it used to, but make no mistake, living in the wake of suicide is endlessly tormenting.
The very next day we celebrated our daughter becoming a teenager. This child LOVES her bday and it's such a delight spoiling her. Personally I tend more towards my son's feelings on the matter. Before his third birthday he told me tearfully that he'd like to "crumple it up and throw it in the bin." His birthday that is.
We keep living though. Until we don't.
As a family we each chose a poem last week to memorise (an idea that I hatched while walking and walking my way to some sense of solace during this Global Pandemic) and mine was Derek Mahon's
Everything is Going to be All Right
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
And not just because the Hot Priest from that brilliant show "Fleabag" went viral reciting it.
When George Floyd was murdered I shared another poem about Eric Garner who died in New York City after Daniel Pantaleo, a NYPD officer, put him in a chokehold while arresting him:
 |
| My brother & my daughter |
 |
| My brother toasting my son at his naming ceremony: "Cheers & good luck...you're gonna need it buddy" |
A few days ago it was the anniversary of my brother's death. After 5 years it doesn't quite kick me in the guts the way it used to, but make no mistake, living in the wake of suicide is endlessly tormenting.
The very next day we celebrated our daughter becoming a teenager. This child LOVES her bday and it's such a delight spoiling her. Personally I tend more towards my son's feelings on the matter. Before his third birthday he told me tearfully that he'd like to "crumple it up and throw it in the bin." His birthday that is.
We keep living though. Until we don't.
As a family we each chose a poem last week to memorise (an idea that I hatched while walking and walking my way to some sense of solace during this Global Pandemic) and mine was Derek Mahon's
Everything is Going to be All Right
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
And not just because the Hot Priest from that brilliant show "Fleabag" went viral reciting it.
When George Floyd was murdered I shared another poem about Eric Garner who died in New York City after Daniel Pantaleo, a NYPD officer, put him in a chokehold while arresting him:
A Small Needful Fact
Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.
~Ross Gay
To honour our irrepressible daughter's transition into the teens she got the much longed for (and dreaded by me) cell phone.
Her first status reads:
We had just listened to The Moth podcast while baking an apple pie.
She has not always felt this way.
At 2 she was told by the little blonde girls in her playgroup that she was "the colour of poo" and that she "didn't have a real mother." At five she asked me sadly one bedtime if I didn't want "a white haired daughter." She also voiced one day as we were cycling side by side, high on life, that she wished I were black like her.
"Me too baby, me too."
Has being white ever been less comfortable?
Three things I saw in my Facebook feed -- thank you Aparna, Hot Mess Mama, & Robyn -- as I waited for the moon to set and the sun to rise again this morning:
All three resonated deeply. The first two are reminders that checking our privilege and dealing with our shame is HARD WORK. But necessary work. I'm reading an absolutely brilliant book that goes into the recesses of our discomfort in the most nuanced and tender way -- "Of Motherhood & Melancholia" by Lou-Marié Kruger. I can highly recommend it.
The third is far more tricky. It reminds me of a conversation I had with another friend last week. She voiced that she can no longer associate with Trump supporters. I said that I don't have that option. Too many of my family and friends are that. Ditto racism (you could argue they go hand in hand). To illustrate the point my grandfather called in the middle of having that conversation.
These are not abstract concepts. This is blood and guts on the streets of America right this moment. This is a reality everywhere. In the false dichotomies that rage on social media South Africans yell -- what about Collins Khosa?!
On the day we remember my brother's decision to leave, my dear friend gave birth to my godson. I can't remember the last time I felt such unclouded joy and hope. As I climbed a mountain with my son she gave birth to hers.
As I walked and talked with our mutual friend discussing Trump and other vexatious issues, I realised something very profound about the resonance of trauma in our lives and how there is only love when we see truly.
How the same brother who was a card carrying racist and proud of it had a very strong bond with my black daughter. How one of the few mementos I have of him is a comment he made on a photo of her: "This child is an angel."
How the very people who hurt us the most are oft times the ones who love us the most.
How there can be both tenderness and viciousness.
How we can in fact coexist.
How we must.
How this is the actual point of living.
To evolve out of false othering and see that we are in fact one.
Feel free to subscribe for more of my efforts to articulate how connected we all are in this act of living and dying.
Subscribe to Foot Sore & Fancy Free by Email
And please verify your email address (check your junkmail!)
Thanks :)
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.
~Ross Gay
To honour our irrepressible daughter's transition into the teens she got the much longed for (and dreaded by me) cell phone.
Her first status reads:
 |
| Hi! I'm thirteen and proud to be black |
We had just listened to The Moth podcast while baking an apple pie.
She has not always felt this way.
At 2 she was told by the little blonde girls in her playgroup that she was "the colour of poo" and that she "didn't have a real mother." At five she asked me sadly one bedtime if I didn't want "a white haired daughter." She also voiced one day as we were cycling side by side, high on life, that she wished I were black like her.
"Me too baby, me too."
Has being white ever been less comfortable?
Three things I saw in my Facebook feed -- thank you Aparna, Hot Mess Mama, & Robyn -- as I waited for the moon to set and the sun to rise again this morning:
The third is far more tricky. It reminds me of a conversation I had with another friend last week. She voiced that she can no longer associate with Trump supporters. I said that I don't have that option. Too many of my family and friends are that. Ditto racism (you could argue they go hand in hand). To illustrate the point my grandfather called in the middle of having that conversation.
These are not abstract concepts. This is blood and guts on the streets of America right this moment. This is a reality everywhere. In the false dichotomies that rage on social media South Africans yell -- what about Collins Khosa?!
On the day we remember my brother's decision to leave, my dear friend gave birth to my godson. I can't remember the last time I felt such unclouded joy and hope. As I climbed a mountain with my son she gave birth to hers.
As I walked and talked with our mutual friend discussing Trump and other vexatious issues, I realised something very profound about the resonance of trauma in our lives and how there is only love when we see truly.
How the same brother who was a card carrying racist and proud of it had a very strong bond with my black daughter. How one of the few mementos I have of him is a comment he made on a photo of her: "This child is an angel."
How the very people who hurt us the most are oft times the ones who love us the most.
How there can be both tenderness and viciousness.
How we can in fact coexist.
How we must.
How this is the actual point of living.
To evolve out of false othering and see that we are in fact one.
Feel free to subscribe for more of my efforts to articulate how connected we all are in this act of living and dying.
Subscribe to Foot Sore & Fancy Free by Email
And please verify your email address (check your junkmail!)
Thanks :)
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