It’s taken a while and I’m still not sure it’s right, but here it is:
I am from tracing paper toilet roll (“Now Wash Your Hands Please”), from the ZX Spectrum and tobacco packed tightly in a pipe.
I am from the bungalow near The Hall, with the treehouse by the field (tall golden ears stretching into the distance, a hunter’s playground).
I am from the nettles I found (painfully) under a log, the bougainvillea and red hot pokers by the roadside, from yesterday, today and tomorrow.
I am from keeping a stiff upper lip and getting on with things, from a brave or foolish mother whose name was whispered if spoken at all and a perfect brother much mourned but barely mentioned, from Granny Green and the Grooms.
I am from teaching and shopkeeping, from using your hands and using your head.
From “look after your sister” and “you’re a goodie-two-shoes”. I am from never being good enough, or being too good.
I am from Methodism, from local preaching, reading, singing and getting involved. I am from making a difference, even when it seems nothing can change. I am from God filling the gaps, holding me tight, from seeking and finding and being given with open hands.
I’m from Kitwe and Norfolk, from mealie-meal and mangoes and braais in a 50-gallon drum, from tea in china cups (or mugs for the garden) and Norfolk shortbread.
From the houseboy who fed us half his ration and blew on hurts to make them better, the teetotal grandmother who downed a glass of Bols and choked, and the nanny whose dog chewed dominoes and had to be carried down the stairs he gambolled up so happily.
I am from the boxes and bags I don’t need but can’t let go of because everything else I failed to guard has disappeared, from the gold earrings preserved as a memento and “lost” by a jealous stepmother, from the family tree in the family Bible which no-one will admit to wanting but all will fight bitterly to keep when Poppa dies, from my mother’s long ponytail which turned out to be the same shade as my grown-up hair, from the happy memories I try, and fail, and try again, to make for my children because I have so few of my own.
Extraordinarly difficult to do, and very interesting to read. Thanks for persevering.
Oh Katy, i knew yours was going to be a tough one from what you told me at camp. It seemed to me that your children have a joy of life that you are allowing them to have, for which you should be proud. It is hard enough to throw over the traces of small handmedown behaviours i want to change, let alone feeling there are mountains to overcome.
Katy, this was a wonderful piece to read. Very moving and encapsulated a feel of what it must be to have had your experiences very well. And yeh, it is difficult to do this ‘where I am from’….but I think everyone should have a bash at it.
Blowing on hurts. I’d forgotten all about that.
katy, so so sad to read this. BIG hugs.
i tried to do mine but it was just too depressing and unedifying!
looking forward to seeing you 🙂