Week 8: Synchronicity or what?

After completing Week 8 something happened. I just happened to be browsing an on-line newspaper and tucked at the bottom of the page was a request for readers to write about experiences that have happened to them; experiences they have fictionalized.  I quickly went to my ‘recent documents’ on Word and looked at stuff that I had written some time ago. I found a story that was close to the word count requested and spent a week tweaking and altering.  When I felt it was close to perfection (just kidding) I submitted the story, with a part of me asking myself why was I doing this? Did I really think they would select this?  Five days later I receive an email from the editor telling me that he had selected my story to be published in the next edition of the newspaper.  I could not believe it!  It had made my day, it had made my week.

Clearly, The Artist’s Way is an amazing book.

Week 8. And so finally…

I have finally gone through Week 8; it has been moving, frustrating, trying, freeing. The Artist’s Date?  I’m now in London to spend the Easter with my mother.  Right now, the time is 11.55pm and I’m typing this and at the same time watching the riviting Law & Order (the US one).  The weather fluctuates between really warm and a miserable cold.  And the cold is so cold that my left knee has quickly begun to react by throbbing a dull ache.  Annoying!  I’ve dug up my thermals and thick tights, telling myself I have to wear these daily, even if the sun unexpectedly begins to shine.  I didn’t do the MP’s today but tomorrow I will read Week 9 and start my MP’s on Monday.  Have a good week!

The Artist’s Way – Week 8: Does this ‘Week’ know me? Has it ever met me?

I read Week 8 then stopped.  I could not believe what I was reading. Did Ms. Cameron specifically write this for me? As ‘it’ seemed to be so apt: talking to me, knowing exactly where I was in my life and what my problems were?  It knew why I felt the need to blame someone, anyone; why I was hiding and therefore procrastinating on what I was meant to do. The conclusion drawn: fear was the driving force and I allowed it to dominate me.

But nevertheless I still need to read it again just to make sure I have not missed anything. Well in fact I have!  I must read it again because I really didn’t have enough time to do the tasks and exercises which as any TAW follower, is a must! But I am finding this book to be thought-provoking, even to the point of being slightly disturbing.  Will keep you posted!

The Artist’s Way – Does it really work?

The Artist's Way

I realize this is the wrong time to mention The Artist’s Way as I’m currently on Week 5. Never mind so what am I experiencing? Anything profound?  Difficult to say only except that no matter what I feel that I have to keep going. I bought this book over a year ago and just watched it collect dust while it was on my book shelf.  Then one day, I said to myself that ‘tomorrow’ will be the day that I will start this thing! And so I did.  I did my Morning Pages, sometimes the Artist’s Date, occasionally the tasks and had to keep reminding myself to do the Check-ins, and then I stopped, without giving myself any reason.  This year, I promised that I would restart it and complete it. When I completed Week 2 I understood why I stopped last year. I was afraid.  Afraid that this book could impose some changes that I was not ready to handle. The strange thing was that after Week 3, I went for a walk to the nearby park and three Rottweiler’s charged towards me! As I stood facing the gate of house, hanging on and screaming my head off for dear life (as I really thought I was going to meet my maker!), two of the dogs ran past but the other one bit my calf.

Shaken, I went to a house and took refuge in the property until the dogs were harnessed put away. An exchange took place between me and the owner of the dogs. She apologized for what happened but was very defensive about her dogs. She insisted on taking me to the hospital and paying for any medication. I was given a cocktail of tetanus, anti-rabies and antibiotic injections plus a number of tablets. I found out several days later the owner lied about her dogs being up to date with their shots. But anyway, I am fine. But it got me thinking. Synchronicity? Even before coming across this word in the Artist’s Way I was never a believer in ‘coincidence’.  So the question I put to myself was did I bring this negative experience into my life, and if so, why? I still don’t know the answer (unless any of you guys can tell me).  But I pray that as I continue with this journey which I want so much to work that the ‘excavation’ does not unearth anything else profound.

Week 4, I found myself writing more than just three pages. Writing a letter to myself when I’m 85 and writing a letter from myself at eight years old I found totally cathartic.  The experience stayed with me for the entire day, and just kept me thinking about my past. My past was not all that great but I guess I have learnt to bury all the debris deep within, believing that I would not have face it but in Week 4 I did.  I’ll keep you posted.

I know it’s a bit late but Happy New Year everyone!

I am running late. Just got back from a trip in Ghana, and whoa, it really was a busy and enjoyable experience. From going to Cape Castle, to Aburi botanical gardens and how could I forget Kakum National Park. The firework display on New Year’s Eve, at the hotel, was spectacular. I think just as good the one witnessed in Dubai.

Now back to everyday. One or two resolutions that I hope that I don’t break and that is to do The Artist’s Way without stopping or ‘breaking’. I started this book before and just got up to week 5 and then I stopped! Can’t remember why but I never got back to it again. Now I’ve restarted (just completed Week One), I try to make myself be more conscious of what I have to do. There are some principles that the author (Julia Cameron) wants you to follow, so I have to do that. Let see how it goes.

The second resolution is to lose weight. Gosh, how many times have I promised myself this?? I’ve lost count. But I just hate how my body shape seems to have settled down and refusing to accept change, aided and abetted by myself of course! But I will try my hardest to lose this weight.

2011 was a tense ridden year for me; from problems that involve loved ones to problems with the State. But as my Pastor constantly tells me: The Almighty Father never gives us challenges that we cannot overcome. I guess there must some truth in that as I’m still here!

I hope and pray for a more positive time, to be more forgiving and understanding to others and for peace to be given more of a chance.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Stephen Kelman; Pigeon English – More like Broken English and broken spirits

Well I have read Stephen Kelman’s book – Pigeon English and noticed that it has been shortlisted for the Man Booker prize.  Maybe I’m just a jealous frustrated writer or maybe I need to get real and see some of the themes he writes about of my community instead of me trying to write the decent things that do exist in places like Tottenham.  But instead, this is a book that even before you get to the end you know damn well there is not going to be good ending.

Pigeon English is about a young boy who arrives from Ghana settles in an estate that could be Broadwater Farm; a story which features black Brit-on-black African crime, a story that makes you think about the murder of Damilola Taylor, a story which makes you think what it is to be young and black in modern day London. A story about parents/adults who are not engaged with the kids.

I guess my usual moan is what would a white middle aged man know about black youth?  Okay, so the author grew up in a council estate but does that mean he has understanding of what it is like to be black/Ghanaian?  It almost seems as if there is an idiot’s guide to black people that is available somewhere that writers of a different race and colour can imagine and write what they think it must be like to be black! I wonder if I could get away with as much.

But my really biggest moan is the ending. How dare Kelman conclude the story in such a way which suggests that for the black/ethnic youth there is no hope? The actions of the looters in the recent riots in England, already tell us that a lot of the youth are not engaged in their environments so I don’t think it helps to have literature that affirms that. Instead, the book could show how overcoming ‘adversity builds character,and character in turn builds hope’.  I just wonder if a young person from a certain background were supposed to read this book, if they wouldn’t find it despondent, because I certainly did.


Review: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

What did I think? It was well written, interesting characters and a great setting. But I have to admit, I am slightly jealous.   Here I am, trying to put a story together.  I’m always trying to put a story together. Once that’s done then I send it off to the publishers which is followed by some rejections.  Nothing to do with the writing they say, but what seems to bug them is I have created scenarios where one of the black characters do not like the white characters.  If there is one thing you cannot have is black characters hating white charactersThe readership would never accept it! Mmn!  I am confused as it is not to say that my black characters are not properly punished if they are bad, or, some of my black characters don’t have white ‘friends’.  In the same way Stockett has written, I am also interested in the underlying conflict which we know exists between people – whether it is people of the same race or people of different races or people of the same class or different.  The film ‘Crash’ is a perfect example of what I am trying to explain.

And then I come across The Help and the character Minny who is sayin’ it jus like it is’.  I have to ask myself, when black writers will be able to have their stories published without the having conditions attached? The Help was a fascinating read but I just wished it was ‘us’ who are allowed to tell such a story.

The photo from the site – A Critical Review of The Help

The Introductory Creative Writing Class


Hyacinth had just twenty minutes before the intro to Creative writing class began.  As she stood among the many passengers on the tube, she remembered that she needed some food items and a magazine. She struggled off the tube onto the crowded platform and climbed up the escalator steering her way through the weary crowd at Seven Sisters underground. Within minutes she’d reached the nearby supermarket, Tesco’s.  It was teeming with shoppers enclosed in their coats and scarves, hauling their trolleys and baskets full of groceries.
She picked up a basket feeling a little apprehensive and a touch excited at the same time.  It had been 17 years since she last did any kind of ‘educational’ activity and many years since she’d attended an evening class.  Writing remained a strong interest of hers; it wasn’t something she had been consistent with, but she knew with the right course and teacher plus her determination, she could be another Andrea Levy.  These days, though, she felt more and more like an automaton doing her admin job and also found herself increasingly keeping company with her invalid mother whom she lived with.  In one swoop, she picked up the magazine, placed the eggs and baked beans into the basket and then looked for a till where there wasn’t too much of a queue.  She trekked through what little was left of the snow and noticed the flakes fall and land with a softness on the concrete ground. She hoped the snow would not settle.
As Hyacinth shot through the automatic doors of the Marcus Garvey Library, the security guard pointed out where the class was held without her asking. She sat at a table in the improvised class room that was part of the reference section. She wrapped at least three of her braids around her two fingers as she tilted her head back to face the ceiling. She was annoyed. She had forgotten to bring one of her short stories which she’d left in her bedroom. With her head cradled between her hands, she looked at the pieces placed in front of her on the table; they were good. They showed she had talent but it was the one at home she considered the best.  She glanced at her watch. It was almost 7.30. The teacher ought to be here, she thought with some irritation.  She jerked her head to look at the poster ads dotted on the walls as if each one was different. They were in fact of Betty Ross, the celebrated journalist, activist and an occasional novelist who was to teach the introductory creative writing lesson.
Hyacinth looked around the room and noted a small number of people clustered round a set of tables. They chatted knowingly about aspects of their lives and laughed with a comfort making her feel they didn’t take life too seriously. She let rip a small smile, imagining she was a part of them, hoping they would look her way, maybe even say something to her. But they didn’t. Conversely, there were familiar faces in the room known to Hyacinth, and they had recognized her but neither felt the need to greet the other.  They sat at the far side of the room, alone, trapped by their detachment.  There was a certain type of expectancy they exuded, as if this time, depending on the genius of the tutor, they would be discovered.

Do they really think they have talent?
She asked herself.  Looking at the makeup of the class, she rashly deducted that only a handful had a real reason to be there. She was confident that her stories had enough potential to be of interest to this particular teacher. As if attacked by a plague of fleas, Hyacinth shook her head making the others at her table to glance.  What’s happening to me?  She wondered how such thoughts could enter her mind. Hyacinth was only 38 years old but noticed with alarm she was losing herself more and more to a jaded and cynical view of life. She looked across again to the loners, as she labelled them and firmly told herself she was not like them and could never be like them.  The class would give her focus, a goal she thought; it would give her something to do, make friends with like minded people and stop her from succumbing to all these negative thoughts. She had dabbled here and there in writing; attended the retreats, did the correspondence and online courses but didn’t receive much joy. She found an online writers’ website where she submitted pieces and to her surprise, received positive feedback. She was greatly inspired by this but still felt she needed something more. When she saw the ad in the local advertiser that Betty Ross was starting a writing course at the nearby library, it was an answer to her prayers.
The tutor, Betty Ross, came into the room along with others who quickly took their places. Everybody gawked at Betty like she was a minor celebrity.  The atmosphere was charged with their enthusiasm to know her and what she could do for them. But as Hyacinth scanned the full room, she wondered how many of Betty’s books they had read, or listened to her on Woman’s Hour or read her articles in the various quality newspapers.  Hyacinth reckoned that most were there because of that stint on Question Time where Betty had hinted at the lack of progress black people had made in the UK.  She went on to boast that the success of President Obama was due to the legacy left behind by such legends as Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.  Hyacinth smirked to herself thinking it was an unnecessary storm in a teacup: as usual, the community always liked to take things out of context. Didn’t they realise this woman was different and had something to offer?  Hyacinth, with her head rested squarely on her clasped fists, felt empowered by the fact that she knew and understood this woman; and it was certain that once Betty had read her pieces, she would be interested.

Hyacinth’s attention went to the front of the class where Betty stood, smiling.  Her thick unlined flesh which made up her face belied her 60 years; her legs covered in woollen leggings emphasising and defining their shape were crossed at the ankles; and the books she had written peeked out from the top of her expensive handbag.  Unconsciously, Hyacinth looked down at her misshapen sweater and pulled her jacket just enough to cover it. Her fingers, with knuckles toughened by the cold winter, twisted braids of a hairstyle that needed a makeover.

‘OK everyone, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Betty Ross. I’m so happy that you’ve taken time to come and learn something about writing.  Remember, y’all here because you are meant to be here.   Now, I want to lay down a few ground rules before we start…..’ One of the loners put his hand in the air.
‘Hi erm, just wanted to ask, that time, when you made that comment on Question Time – do you really think there are experiences…..I mean differences between the black community here and African-Americans?’
‘What’s your name?’ Betty asked,
‘Thanks Matthew for asking that but in fact, I will be giving a talk about the African-American experience at some point. Keep a check in your local papers to know when the date is but as time is limited right now, I really wanna focus on why we‘re here today. OK? Good!’ 
Matthew, wearing a thin smile, tapped his pen on the table. He tilted his head sideways and raised an eyebrow at the person sitting opposite. Unfortunately Matthew’s question made way for others to ask questions about Ross’s controversy but with a firm softness she refused to discuss it. Some people, who quickly became impatient, got up and helped themselves to refreshments on the table.  Hyacinth watched them go back and forth, behaving as if they had not come across different brands of refreshments before. A man even took the opportunity to distribute leaflets to everyone and in a brief sentence, gave the time and venue.  Hyacinth picked up the leaflet and read. The man, Linton Joseph, was looking to promote himself as a potential candidate to run as MP for Tottenham.  As this was an election year, he wanted people to attend a local meeting where he would advocate the changes he’d make once elected.  He devoted a few lines to accusing the current MP for expenses scandal and choosing to live in another borough!  Vote for Change the leaflet said.
 ‘Hmm!’ Hyacinth smirked as she dropped the leaflet on the table.  Hadn’t she heard all that before?
‘OK sorry about that…y’all can come back and sit down.  Excuse me Sir….Sir? Maybe you can give those out when the class is finished. Thank you so much!’ Betty quietly demanded. Linton unperturbed by the fact maybe Betty had a point, handed her a leaflet. She thanked him and placed the leaflet on the table.  ‘…..as I was saying…. y’all know I write myself but I don’t know the tricks other than the obvious – you just have to get on with it!  Knowing publishers and having contacts – I don’t know of any and as y’all know things are pretty rough out there, publishers are selective with what they choose to publish.  I don’t particularly critique people’s work and I don’t want to judge anybody’s work.  And not only that, I find it pretty disorientating to be reading other peoples’ work when I’m writing.  It’s distracting!  Have any of you guys tried doing that…’ She surveyed the class and waited for a response.  ‘OK, no-one.  It really is difficult, you should try it!  And finally for those of you who’ve just come to have a look or who are not serious, then maybe this isn’t the place for you. OK guys! Right!’
Hyacinth glared at Betty then looked around to take in people’s responses.  It was as if the energy of the class had grounded to a halt: everyone trapped by their anticipation still waiting for Betty to begin.  Hyacinth took a deep breath trying hard to suppress the growing negativity that could be likened to bile rising in her stomach. Why didn’t somebody say something!  With a flash of annoyance, she removed her long braids dangling in her face and when she looked up at Betty, she was already staring at Hyacinth. 
‘I don’t understand’ Hyacinth blurted, ‘I thought we’d get some help with our writing….some of us have brought work…’  Hyacinth looked over to the loners in hope to evoke some sort of unity but they sat motionless, purposely ignoring her plight.  The cheerful clique restrained their positive mood and looked on with pity. 
Hyacinth kept her head down as the feeling of embarrassment descended. It was as if the emotion had decided to grant her a visit.   The class was silent for a moment before Betty decided to give a response.
‘Look Honey, you’re already writers.  Like I said, you have to just keep on writing. That’s how I’m doing it.  There’s no other way but just to keep on….’ With Betty’s enlarged eyes and relaxed smile, Hyacinth was confused and felt stifled by an accent which possessed a delivery style that made sure it never offended.

Both Hyacinth and Betty’s thoughts were jolted by the sudden cold draught brought in by a late comer.  He sat at the table next to Hyacinth’s, glanced at the election leaflet and pushed it as far as possible across the table, then pulled out a flash looking exercise book and dropped his flash pen on top of it.  He removed what looked like manuscripts from his duffel bag and placed all three on top of his book with precision and importance.  An elderly woman sitting two seats away experienced a sudden feeling of panic. She stretched over to him.

‘Please, do you have any spare paper? I forget to bring some paper,’ she asked.  The man, with great care, removed the manuscripts placing them neatly on one side, tore out blank sheets from the book and handed them over, without looking her.
‘T’ank you m’dear, t’ank you!’ she said smiling. He then whispered in a loud tone to the man next to him wanting to know if he could explain what was going on. The man responded by shrugging his shoulders.
‘OK everyone I want you take a sheet from your exercise book, write just a sentence on any topic or subject but keep it hidden from your neighbour.  When I say ‘stop’ pass the paper with your sentence to the person sitting next to you on your right and the person on your left, passes their paper with their sentence onto you. And you continue this until I say ‘stop’. OK, everybody got that? Begin.’ 
The exercise was for fifteen minutes allowing people to write a number of sentences on different sheets of paper. There were some people who still got up to get themselves a drink and there were others who stared at the blank paper and missed their turn when the sheet arrived in front of them. Hyacinth came up with an idea which she was able to write about it each time a different sheet was in her hands. She was pleased with this. When Betty had ended the task, she asked the class how they felt about the exercise.  Some people made constructive comments whereas others made comments that were off course.
Listening to all the comments, Betty’s eyes twinkled as she smiled, showing a concern that Hyacinth wondered if it was real.  Hyacinth decided that Betty had an assurance she didn’t like.  An assurance that said she couldn’t be pigeon- holed by class and an assurance that racism was no longer an issue for her. She was old enough to have been part of the civil rights movement; and Hyacinth could see how Betty’s experiences would be intriguing to those who could only have an understanding of such experiences through history books or Hollywood movies.  She could also see how Betty’s uniqueness would easily sell a certain type of viewpoint, not because she was an American, but an African one.  She was at a disadvantage Hyacinth concluded. People would mistake her confidence for arrogance.
‘OK folks!  Settle down!  I’m glad y’all enjoyed that.   Now there is something that I want you all to do for me.  I want you to write something about your life in London. What’s it like? It can include you or someone else, and you can do it first pov or third pov – whichever!  On A4 size paper.  I just want four pages if word processed or six pages if it is handwritten. I’m going to be quite busy so let’s say I’ll be back here in 3 months time. Did y’all get that?  Any questions?’ She asked.
An array of questions flooded the floor.  The man who came in late placed his manuscripts and books with care into his bag, then got up and left. The ‘loners’ who remained inactive throughout other than doing the task, all followed each other out of the room in silence as if they’d finished watching a movie and couldn’t be bothered to read the credits; and the cheerful clique resumed their conversation about their lives and discussed little else, trying hard to pretend their satisfaction.
‘How do we get in touch? I need to publish my material quick, can’t you help? Seeing you in three months, isn’t that a bit long?!’  Betty’s responses were intermingled with thanking every one for turning up to reminding people what she wanted them to do while struggling to put her arm through the coat.  Hyacinth stood up and buttoned the front of her jacket while she watched with interest the remaining members of the class surround Betty. Matthew, who eyed Betty as if he was no longer impressed, stood behind Linton.   Linton collected one of the many leaflets left on the tables and looked on with admiration at Betty hoping she would talk to him.

‘Y’nah give the woman a leaflet already?  Chah Man! Let’s go!’ said Matthew rapping on Linton’s arm with annoyance. Linton shook Matthew’s hand off and remained spellbound. The others were disgruntled but polite as Betty struggled with the coat and told them she was in a hurry.  Amid the desperate questions and the beckoning faces she saw Hyacinth turn to leave and called out to her.
‘I hope I will see you in three months.’ Again Betty gave a big smile.  Hyacinth turned and narrowed her eyes as she looked at Betty, but this time there was no confusion.
‘Of course I’ll be back. Goodbye’ answered Hyacinth, assembling a smile, hoping that what she gave was as generous and made her way down the stair case.   She folded her stories and pushed them down into her bag as far as they could go.  Of course, she had no intention of going back to attend the course. 
After Hyacinth had walked through the automatic doors, she stood and tightened her scarf around her neck then inhaled the cold air. As she exhaled, she watched a tunnel of warm breath mingle and disappear into the mist.  It served her right, she thought walking on the layer of untouched snow, to think she had something in common with Betty.  With suddenness, Hyacinth took two steps back towards a wall when a car skidded and almost climbed up on the kerb.   She stood frozen while the driver manoeuvred the vehicle and after some seconds managed to position the car and drive along the road.  She watched the lone car fade away into the distance thinking she would have to find another writing course where they would appreciate her talents. It was just a matter of time. Her mind drifted to Betty. She imagined Betty leaving to dine with her liberal friends who made up the Great and the Good.  But Hyacinth wondered how many people, like herself and others in the class would be there.

Experiences: Moving to Scotland

Once upon a time I used to live in Scotland, somewhere near Glasgow.  My husband was offered a lecture post at one of the Universities. As someone born in London and having lived in London all of my life, this was my first venture into another ‘country’.  Initially my husband and I debated whether such a move would be good but of course, we decided to give it a try. What was it going to be like, I asked myself. What could I expect?

We found ourselves a smart flat that was in a four storey building.  We were told several times by the owner that the ‘block’ was mainly made up of elderly people and we should respect their peace and make sure that each time we emptied our waste, the bin had to be ‘dettoled’ and washed.  No problem, I told him. Maybe he thought we didn’t know how to be clean and respectful. We did what we were told and made sure we were on our best behavior.  Whilst my husband was at work, I would be home looking after our three-month old baby and for most days I went out. I was curious about this new place and I wanted to know more. The more I went out, the more I realized there were very few black people in this area.

I would take the nearby train to Glasgow to browse around and shop.  I found that Scots were completely different to the Anglo-Saxons.  Very upfront and  forward.  Wherever my son and I went, we were constantly stared at, and people would come up to me and ask questions as well as play with my son.  They were totally fascinated with this black child, like they had never seen one before!  But one day, I received a shock.  I decided that I needed some stamps from the nearby post office.  So I wrapped my son up and put him in the push-chair and left.  It was a cold, windy day and I remember struggling to push the buggy up the road, against this powerful wind.  I got to the main road and tried to cross but the traffic was too busy, so I walked to the nearest traffic light – which was right down the bottom of the road.  A good ten minute walk. Although on that day there was a lot of traffic, there were not that many people, except for a woman who was in the far distance coming in the opposite direction.  As I gradually approached the traffic light, the woman crossed over the road, still heading towards my way.  Just as I reached the traffic light to press the button, she stopped in front of me.

            ‘How do you cope being a black woman living in Scotland?’ she asked.  Totally dumbstruck by her question and frankness, I responded to her by saying that I coped pretty well.

            ‘Have you been here long?’

            ‘Just a few months’, I said. 

            ‘Where you from?’

            ‘From London?’

            ‘No, I mean, where you really from?’

            ‘I’m really from London.’  I answered, making sure my English was crisp and clean.  Like two bulls about to engage in a fight, we stared at each other, gridlocked.  She was shorter than me but stockier, her short hair was made up of curls which moved with the wind but kept being swept back by her hand; her jeans were tucked into a pair of cowboy style boots and the over worn three-quarter length jacket was too tight for her.  The wind continued to bluster but I stood frozen in my shoes with my eyes firmly fixed on this woman.   It had been a long time that I had to give explanations for my existence and I was not about to start now.  And besides, the strange thing was that after many years of living in London, I was used to the fact the English had gotten over their curiosity about us.  As I peeped down to look at my son, he was fast asleep and totally oblivious to what was happening.  She followed my gaze and commented.

            ‘A lovely wee lass’, she said, smiling.

            ‘It’s a boy’, I said sharply.  She continued to smile dismissing my annoyance.  I stepped back to move the pushchair.  ‘Look, I have to go….’

            ‘Do you know where I can go to see someone?  I’ve just been raped.’ 

            ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand….what do you mean?’

            ‘I’ve been raped!  Do you know someone who can help me?’  I don’t know what was more shocking.  The fact that she had been raped or the casual way in which she delivered her ‘experience’. I continued to stare and the large brown eyes behind the oval glasses looked distressed.  I could feel myself softening. I asked her if she’d belonged to a church.  She said she did but the priest told her to pray about it and wasn’t very supportive. ‘I don’t think he believed me. I said to him that I was scared I could be pregnant.’ Prayer was a good idea I thought but not exactly practical.  She needed help.  I looked through the plastic cover to see my son slowly rousing from his nap and wondered if I should invite her home.

            ‘Maybe you should check The Yellow Pages to see if there is a rape centre somewhere in town or go to another church, another denomination where they may have contacts…..people they know that can help you.’ 

            She raised her head to the sky and the wind further tousled her curls about her forehead. She continued in thought as she stared across the road and then leaned over to my son.

            ‘Oh, look, I think we’ve woken him. Hello darling, how are you. Ooh, you’re such a wee thing!’  She smiled like there were no problems. She stood up and looked at me with her wide eyes. ‘I’ll go to another church. That’s a good idea. I never thought of that one and if I don’t get any help, I’ll check The Yellow Pages..Thanks!’

            ‘Then there’s the Citizens Advice Bureau. I don’t know if you have similar in Scotland.’  As my thoughts were pulling together in giving advice, she was slowly walking away from me, repeatedly thanking me and commenting on the beauty of my son. I was about to invite her but the speed in which she left made me feel as though she anticipated that I wanted to ask but had doubts, so she spared me. Did me a favour. As I watched her hurry into the distance, my mind was still trying to make sense of the whole thing.  I waited for the traffic light to turn red and crossed over to the post office. There was a long queue.  I stood and waited along with the usual stares and whispers. My son was now awake but he seemed happy to amuse himself with the toy that dangled over his head. Some fifteen minutes later I collected the stamps and made my way home. My stomach churned as the seriousness of what happened to the woman hit home.  I wanted to turn the pushchair around and look for her.  I prayed that she would get help.

Some months later, my husband and I decided to leave and head back to London. Our ‘strangeness’ to others was just too alien for us. Their experience of people from a different race and therefore ignorance was too demanding in terms of us having to constantly give explanations of ourselves.  Of course, not everybody was racist and the elderly people in particular were very friendly but it wasn’t enough. There were still battles in London and always would be but my time in Scotland made me realize that parts of England had come a long way. It had grown up but still had not reached maturity. My time in Scotland and this experience happened back in 1988.  I know in the current Scotland of today, it has made great strides and progress.  I’m confident that Scotland will head to maturity sooner than we expect.