Rejection

Is just not nice. There are many ways of wrapping it, hiding it, dressing it up. But it is what it is. They don't want you. Whether it's as a girlfriend, a friend, a piece of writing, a short story, an employee, a synopsis and first three chapters. It might be good, but it's not the one.

I have had many rejections in my life, and I'm sure I've rejected, too. But I had my first literary rejection just the other day, and it's only hitting home now, haha.

It was in the shape of an email, whatever shape that has, and the rejection bit said,

We carefully considered your story and we are releasing it to you in hopes that you find a good home for it elsewhere. 

Well, now. That's actually not bad for a rejection, and did make me feel like going on. I know, it all sounds so dramatic, doesn't it? Well, to me, it is!

Giggle, giggle. 

Londoners running the Underground

I've had a couple of funny moments on the tube, lately, so thought, why not share?

I was running for the tube the other day. Before you ask, I wasn't late, and I wasn't going to work. It was really here nor there if I got this tube or the next one, in, say, 2 minutes. Now that I'm back in London I realise that the need to run is inherently ingrained in me. When I see the tube on the platform and I hear the beeps I have to run for it and throw myself in the gap that's closing between the doors. Phew! I always make it. I know the sounds and the timings to heart so I earn some smiles when on the right side of the closed doors.
     This time as I lunged myself at the doors and jumped gracefully onto the tube, something different happened. As I jumped on, something shot up behind me and there was a loud bang that made me scream and everyone in the carriage turn and look. It was like a serve moment in a tennis match: all heads turned to me. I swung around to see what the noise was and what did I find only a man on the ground holding his forehead. Directly in front of him was the yellow pole of the Underground. I think everyone was waiting to see how this panned out. I could almost see the birds flying out from this guy's ears as his head spun around inside itself. Are you okay? I asked him. Yeah, he said. His accent told me he wasn't a Londoner, and his face said he didn't feel very well.

Another night on my way home from watching the Barca-Real Madrid game and a guy had his rather large man-bag on the seat next to him, which became my seat and meant I had only half of it. I sat down and when he didn't look up from his magazine I thought, what a wanker! I thought I'd shimmy and give him the hint; it would shake his bag and the magazine lying on it, which he was reading. I began to shimmy and he looked up. You must think I'm a right ignorant pillock! he said. I'm so sorry! I was away with the fairies. Then we both laughed hard as we knew he'd hit the nail on the head. My annoyance floated away as we chatted.

I find the tube in London quite a funny place (funny weird). No-one talks, no-one smiles, no-one says hello, how are you doing? But I still manage to break though it all when I can and have a giggle with a stranger. It's good fun. Try it, you might like it.

A short, short story called, Finally

     When he told me truth, I was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
     I couldn't take my eyes off his feet. They were bare; the knuckles of his toes knarled, the hairs; thick and black. I wished I was sitting down. The strength in my knees was gone, but not enough to let me slide to the floor. 

     Slowly, I lifted my eyes to meet his; the pale blue disks looked back at me. They usually told me so much, those eyes, they always spoke to me in soft whispers. I searched for a smile, for the ends of his mouth to turn up in a roar of laughter, but there was nothing. 

     So, he didn't love me. That was why he'd been behaving like a stranger; a shadow in the house, in our bed. He'd fallen out of love with me. It was so unromantic, so understated. Me, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Him, in his floral shorts after coming in from the garden. 

     I wonder what made him tell me, then. If it was the sun blasting from the sky that made him finally run for cover, to find me, coming down from getting dressed into a light green dress that was soft on my new, round belly.

Diaspora at Home

People find it amusing to find someone born and bred in Willesden Green, which amuses me in turn. I'm sure there are quite a few of us, and really, it needn't be such a surprise.

I went to the LSE Space for Thought Literary Festival in February. Its theme: 'Crossing Borders'. In one lecture they came on to second generation diaspora and my ears pricked up. It was about the thread of diaspora, and the fact that it  doesn't stop with the person who sails. They mentioned belonging, completion of the self; something we all want to do and which are complicated by diaspora. I identified with this, and thought of it the other day when I saw two teenagers with cockney accents in hiqabs on the 98 bus. I also thought of an Irishman my mum used to talk to, and when she asked him what part of Ireland he was from, he said he was born down the road.
     When I say to people that I'm from Willesden, the usual reaction is,
     'Oh! So you're actually from London, then?'
     Well, yes, I guess I am.
     Though it took me a long time to get to that bit. I am just like the kids I see now going to school, with their mums in hijabs, or a scarf, or whatever they might have on. My point is, my parents are from somewhere else, too. So it took me a long time to think I was from here when I used to have an Irish accent myself, when I thought I was from somewhere else. I've argued the point a lot, but I don't bother so much now. When I live in Spain, or should I say Catalunya, then I'm English. But then they say I don't look English, so I say my parents are Irish, and then the reaction is, 'Oh! So you're Irish?'
     Well, I guess I am.

In Ireland, I am English. At University, I was the Irish girl. In Willesden, I'm from Willesden. Sometimes, people are more extreme nationals of their own country when they are out of it. Home is always home, even when you've been living in another country for fifty years and at home for seventeen. Someone asked me the other day why second generation Irish want so much to be Irish? ... Interesting, I said. Maybe it's because they grow up hearing about another place called home. They go home every year. Their extended family are at home. Then you grow up and realise your home is not the same as the one you've grown used to hearing of.

So, in my home, Willesden Green, there are the following places, to name a few:

• Irish pubs (Angie's, Lula's, McGowan's and more)
• A Church, with a Polish congregation
• KD's (A Caribbean take-away shop)
• Mandy's (an Irish shop)
• Liquid (used to be an Aussie place, maybe still is?)
• Red Pig (a Polskie butchers)
• The Charcoal Grill (Kebab shop)
• The Central Mosque of Brent
• The Queensbury Pub (used to be The Green)
• The Queensbury Deli
• Nest, a cafe by Willesden Green station
• Foxtons - a big disappointment. Pizza Express should have got it...
• Pomegranate - a Thai BYO

What we used to have:

• The Spotted Dog - an Aussie hub, gone now apart from the façade
• D & G's - that great family-run Greek
• Shish - never quite as good as D & G's but a lot better than Foxtons

These places tell me that so many threads, textures and colours meet here, and I think of a line of a poem: 'Wherever I hang me knickers - that's my home', by the Guyanese - British poet Grace Nichols.

Mummies Mummies Mummies: food for thought

I stumbled into a 'Mums and Bumps' group yesterday morning. Lots of lovely mummies, or soon to be, sitting around old wooden tables, eating chocolate cake and chatting.

And there I was, alone, reading Fat Is a Feminist Issue by Susie Orbach (for research purposes). It was uncanny. The page I happened to be on went like this:

"For a mother, everyone else's needs come first. Mothers are the unpaid managers of small, essential, complex and demanding organizations... For her keep, the mother works an estimated ten hours a day (eighteen, if she has a second job outside the home) making sure that the food is purchased and prepared, the children's clothes, toys and books are in place, and that the father's effects are at the ready. She makes the house habitable, clean and comfy; she does the social secretarial work of arranging for the family to spend time with relatives and friends..."

I looked around at this group and wondered if the 'bumps' were ready, and how the already mummies were coping with it all. And their jobs, what were their jobs? Ah, back to the book...

"In a capitalist society everyone is defined by their job. A higher status is given to businessmen, academics and professionals than to production and service workers. Women's work in the home falls into the service and production category. Although often described as menial, deemed creative, dismissed as easy, or revered as god-given, women's work is seen as existing outside the production process and therefore devalued."

Susie goes on to say that "women are seen as different to normal people (who are men), they are seen as 'other'". I look back at the women around me, who have reserved an area of the deli for their Tuesday morning group. They don't look the 'other' to me; they look like they're having fun. Orbach's book is old, now, so maybe lots of this is out of date, and let's hope it continues to become more and more so by the day. These women are attractive, powerful, full of energy and chat. They are not victims, but friends, professionals, people who are also mothers.

I am not a mother. I have one who struggled with the issues Orbach mentions, as many have. I hope that it's easier for mothers, nowadays, to be everything they want to be.