Terrorism: Help Us Defeat It

I left my luggage trolley for a moment, to buy stamps for thank yous to send to hosts with big hearts. The aisles of WHSmith threatened the width of my bags, filled with engine-parts for landrovers in Africa. In stamp-buying time (queue less, note), there he was, his black-vest a hard-shell, like the coat of a cockroach protecting its dirt. Gun, helmet, badge and radio.
‘Are these your bags madam?’
A cold-hand grips my warm-heart and I fear authorities who fear terrorists: there is no logic where panic burns up sense like fire on oil. But I know this game and I play it well and sweet innocence works like a power tool against men in armour who carry guns against terror.
‘Are you going to shout at me?’ I ask with a smile. ‘I was buying chocolate for my Dad. He likes the fruit and nut, you see. He’s convinced every bar belongs to him.’ I sell out to manipulation: woman's greatest weapon?
I show him the purple wrappers. A smile in return and I’ve won.
He laughs and jokes and warns me – officially, he says. He has to. I get a copy of the warning for future reference (it is not a record, I am told. I am assured I do not have a record for buying stamps.).

Seen outside WHSmith Terminal 4. Trolley unattended. Words of advice.

I am asked to identify the colour of my skin: I'm offered lists of PC terms for shades of tone and heritage and I tick the appropriate box: there’s a double meaning in that. We all know that sniffer dogs at airports are trained to target colour. He ticks the Stop Only box, as opposed to Search, or Arrest and the Outcome Code I am given is ‘2’ for Advised.

1 for No Further Action; 3 for Verbal Warning; 4 for Arrested; 5 for Other.

But I am not Other, where Other is Colour, and I know this and use it, despite my conscience. I chat on and he does too. He asks me where I am going, I tell him the details. He supports a child in Ethiopia through my employers. The irony is laughable. I say I must go – I need to check in. He says nice people like me shouldn’t be forgotten and writes down his details. He is PC 674D with the Met Police. Should I ever need any help, I should feel free to contact him. I do. I smile.

I walk away, knowing my soul will need forgiveness for its manipulative ways. I fold my copy of the report behind my passport, irony bleeding through the paper-white sheets. Terrorism, it reads. Help us defeat it.

Searching for Courage

We lie together in bed
Beside ourselves.
The only feeling between us
Is the iron-taste of loneliness.

A wise woman recognises that people who spend their teenage years transitioning from one culture, place or role, to another, may often find that their emotional growth is somehow caught in limbo at the age it was when transitioning first begun.

The challenge of choice is my mind's dilemma this month. Having spent the entirety of my adult years longing to be somewhere I am not, I now find myself faced with the decision to leave it. My emotions may have stalled with those of an eleven year old girl, terrified of losing her safety net and grieving for her home. My emotions may also be clutching the hand of a depressed and anxious sixteen year old, terrified by her peers and trying desperately to fend for herself in an unfamiliar and frightening place. Either way, I am no longer the child who can reasonably expect to feel like one. I am a young adult with a choice and the crippling fear I feel at the idea of flying away again is neither rational nor positive.

I cannot tell you how much I dread leaving; I cannot describe how terrified I am by the idea of transitioning once again; of saying goodbye to friends and hello to strangers, of fighting loneliness and sadness, alone, whilst burying the wishful thinking of being in a world that carries on without you, miles and miles away; like a lover on whom you have turned your back. I can only tell you that, at night, in the darkness, my insides clench tightly and the fear and grief of a lost little girl lies beside me in bed.

Giving Up or Growing Up?

I was recently given a lucky opportunity to chase a career… the generic way. I have yet to turn it down so it remains a possibility, and I ponder it over daily. The strongest argument in favour of this wintry 9-5 is that, unless your C.V. carries the experience to justify your opinions, you are simply over opinionated. A second factor is the promise of experience, of challenges, and of belonging in a world where I can truly relax; of voting, objecting, living and doing without compromising myself or doing so on others terms.

One of my biggest fears is of losing my identity; I fear merging into the crowd of commuters on a gray weekday morning, my clothes nothing but alternate sizes to the ones marching in front, my goals the same as my journey’s partner, who coldly edges away in case the corners of our identical coats should brush.

But I look at the big people, the successes, the voices, the ones who challenge the status quo with inspirational change, the men and women I most want to be like, and I suspect they probably did time in a concrete office, twins with the world of Non, and feared it too.

It is not so very bad to merge with the norm at times. And the ability to do so demonstrates the self-awareness and maturity to live in Non and not become a part of it. I jump in, eyes tightly shut, and hope I have what it takes.

Your Brown Skin

Your brown skin
Is the promise of redemption;
Time erases whiteness.

Your elegant stride
overshadows my gaucheness;
Your pride is your power.

Your hand in mine
Is resilient: strength grips shame;
Your reality is my sin.

Pockets of Life

It is hard to write and I hardly write. Life is cold and hard and hazy round the edges; a gentle reminder of what I expected but haven’t yet found, and a small nudge in the direction of despair. I cling to a story I insist on believing, determined that the myths of my youth are not entirely lost in the shadows of reality. There will be love, I tell my soul, and it nods slowly back, clinging to my belief with the naivety of a child.

I live between pockets of air, with pressure spelling different scenarios out in my head. I can take it or leave it, depending on the scent, but the choices once so endless are stiflingly small and I invariably wish for the grass on the other side.

I can see the future before me; my before, seeable future stretching out, slightly curved downhill is the passage of time in my mind. Despite my loneliness, I am a dependent. I do not stand on my own two feet, but dance on the feet of life like a child too small to go alone. Life and I stride round the room, he claustrophobic and weighed down by my fear; me clinging tightly to one more illusion of hope, aware of my audience.

The torment of memories follows my walk and I acknowledge with each step: we are a product of our history; the result of our damage; we are victims of our experiences, whether good or bad. There is a way to be stronger, to walk towards the light, but the shape of our breath spells the song of our soul and the freedom we may find rings with the memory of its need.

Now, my ideas come in short bursts of song that fill my head like a rage and I run to write them out of my mind like a prescription for peace. It is a dark place I return to, but I find myself going eagerly, hoping for inspiration and pleading for the light. I will walk the path of my history if redemption lies at its end. I am not one to wait patiently, and I charge forward to search for my soul amongst the graves of dead mornings. Now I drink my tea in the warmth of inside, with memories of sun-drenched dawns a distant design of my dreams. I wait for reality and dive in head first. It may be painful, but a soulless existence poses more agony than facing the truth.

Shame and Guilt: My Closest Friends

I can taste shame in my mouth
like the furry effects of a hangover.
Close. Warm.

Guilt is my nightly companion.
His heavy body is too close to mine and
I cannot breathe in the darkness.

Outrage

A small child ran out in front of my car today. I came round a corner and he came flying out from behind a bush, leaving his friend standing frozen on the side of the road. I couldn’t swerve – I would hit the friend. But I couldn’t brake fast enough and I skidded sideways across the tarmac. Say what you like about angels, but the child reached the other side of the road, and kept running. Out of my mouth came the loudest, most terrified sound I have ever heard, ‘HATARI! Be CAREFUL, do you want to die?! DANGER! ANGALIA! This is a ROAD!’ My head vibrated with the sound of my fear. He hadn’t looked. He hadn’t seen. He hadn’t stopped.

I sat in the road for a good 5 minutes, my legs like jelly and my heart racing. My whole body felt numb with pins and needles, and the only feeling I could identify was my fury. This child couldn’t have been more than 4. He was not old enough to go to school. It was 7.30 in the morning. Why was he alone?! And if his parents couldn't be there, why had they not taught him to look after himself?

In primary school in suburban England, I was demure and timid and unquestioningly obedient. Mrs Wherry of Year Three fame strictly instructed us on how to cross the roads and I took great pains in looking both ways and holding the hand of an adult. I was scared and I was taught why.

In middle school we had to write a diary of our weekend activities. One Monday morning, Shane Woolacott’s entry began ‘When I was playing on the train tracks…’ My teacher took the diary to our headmistress, who called National Rail, who sent an expert, who spoke to 400 frightened children in a 1980s school hall on the dangers of train tracks, all prompted by Shane’s confession. National Rail showed us a film, which I can still picture. It showed two boys, our age at the time, playing amongst some old trains. They were racing and hiding, racing and hiding, and it looked so fun. One of the boys crawled under an old train to hide, and it rolled… When I close my eyes, all these years later, I can still hear the sounds – the train brakes creaking, the shifting and rolling of this enormous hulk of metal, the screaming boy whose body was cut in two. To this day, I have problems stepping onto a train. My heart jumps when I look between the gap and I have to control my mind from filling my thoughts with the screams of a dying child. My stomach knots up and I pretend to be busy and unapproachable as I assure myself that yes, I am on the train and yes, my whole body is too.

National Rail may have given me a lifelong fear of train travel. Mrs Wherry may have instilled in me a not-always-healthy fear of breaking the rules. But I never once ran out onto a road or played on a train track, and I can assure you that no child of mine will ever do so either.

When I at last pulled away to continue my journey to work, feeling terrified and angry and determined to drive at snails pace on all roads, forever, it was Shane Woolacott’s face in my thoughts. He hung himself when we were just 22.