Songs I used to sing with my father while walking:
1) She'll be coming round the mountain 2)This Old Man 3) If I had a hammer 4) Puff the magic dragon
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Literary metissage is a creative strategy to braid socio-historical conditions of difference and points of affinity into autobiographical texts. It is literacy that transforms readers and writers and the public, social, political places in which they live.
(Haraway 1994 cited in Hasebe-Ludt, Chambers and Leggo 2009) When I remember I flit between being there next to them and flying overheard, like a bird soaring over them. We are walking side by side on the dusty path along the side of the road. Me, my Dad and my little brother. My little brother in his pushchair. He’s not quite steady enough on his feet or trustworthy enough to not dart off into the road, giggling. We walk beside the dusty ditch and past surrounding fields. It is quiet and the sun is shining. Occasionally cars drive by, whipping up the wind and silence. We are singing. My Dad would often make us do this. He would teach us songs and have us singing at the top of our lungs. Without inhibition. Now I’m shocked that I didn’t care what others would think if they heard us. What would they think of this grown man, his 10 year old daughter and 3 year old son, singing at the top of their lungs. Singing “She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes. She’ll be coming round the mountain….” making up silly lyrics as we went along. songs of peace, progression and social activism. I wonder where he learned them. It felt so good. He would walk us for miles and we didn’t notice. Over the years he has walked us across fields, up hills and down lanes in the sunshine and pouring rain. We talked as we walked and set the world to rights. We had his undivided attention. As we walked he would listen. As I grew older, he would listen, wax lyrical, have philosophical debates about the world. Many a lesson in morals and ethics. How to treat people. As we walked he would point out things in nature. He would name trees, plants, flowers and birds. Taught me their latin names. We would revel in the awe of it all. Afterward we felt cleansed, exorcised and calm. Sometimes a quandary was discussed, we left resolute with what action to take next. My Dad, my saje, my shaman. Us three. Indivisable. A unit. My family. Over the years we grew up and grew out of those walks. Now I feel a pang of jealousy as he tells me he is going for a walk with my 6 year old niece and I am not invited along. I want to walk with him, sing without inhibition and have his undivided attention.
I haven’t been able to find the perfect pot or the perfect size container for them. I have searched and can’t find the perfect one. Delayed putting them in a new home until I found the perfect one. But today I realized it does not have to be perfect. I can put them in the not-so-perfect pot that is not quite the right size and they will be ok. I don’t want to delay anymore. I want to enjoy them now. So I rip open the bag of soil and reach in. The smell of soil and it’s softness in my hand take me back. Standing beside my Dad in his greenhouse, pricking out his seedlings. Planting baby plants for his garden. Like he showed me I place soil 1/3 of the way up the pot, moving it against the sides to make room. I pour a dash of water to comfort the root. I gently hold the pot in one hand while holding the seedling between finger and thumb of the other. I tip the pot upside down and pat its bottom, gently squeezing the sides of the pot to release the soil and root into my hand. I place the pot shaped mound into the center of the soil in the new container. I scoop up some fresh soil and place it around the seedling. I push the soil down around the edges, like I am tucking the seedling into bed. Like he told me, I am careful not to break the root or leaf, while I scoop, drop, prod and press down gently with my fingertips. I press down the soil down so it is firm enough to support the stalk and stands upright. Now I will watch them grow and tend to them in their imperfect pots . I hope they will be ok. Later as I write this , I am soothed, close my eyes and nod with sleepiness. My Dad has Cancer. My Dad has Cancer. My Dad has Cancer. I find myself saying this to myself with my internal voice. Throughout the day, each day. I'm in the middle of listening to someone and oops there it goes My Dad has Cancer. I'm walking down the street in the rain, enjoying the cool sensation of raindrops on my skin, the wet pavement between my toes and sandals. Ooops there it goes again My Dad has Cancer. I say it in different tones in different ways. Imagining the emotion with the statement. How is one supposed to say it when I say it out loud to tell people? I have an ongoing dialogue as I am speaking. If I say it without crying, will they think me unfeeling, cold? If I cry can they handle it? How do you tell someone to explain why you might be distracted, disorganised and scattered without playing the "cancer card". Should I tell people now or wait until I know more? Will I give a fuck when I know more? Will I care what they think at that point? My friends who will support me- I feel awkward. They have enough on their plate. How do I explain that I want them to know but want to be alone. I want to watch them from the sidelines. I want to observe life happening but don't want to participate. I'll just stand over here and think to myself "My Dad has Cancer". Maybe if I keep saying it to myself I will believe it.
The Drum, My Heart After I told her, What happened that day, She handed me the drum, Skin stretched taught across the frame, Twisted fibres webbed across the back, Like a shield, Like the sun, Fingers curled upon the web, Stick with swaddled tip in other hand, I close my eyes, Feel the vibrations once again, Each strike reverberates across my body, Bounces off the bodies around me, Back to me, Boom……Boom……Boom, Hit me in the chest, Into the heart, ribcage, solar plexus, Boom…….Boom…….Boom, Deep vibrations through my soul, In and out, around and back again, Boom…….Boom……..Boom, Deeply grounding, Connecting me to the earth, To my roots, Boom……Boom…….Boom, Breathe…….Boom, Breathe……..Boom, Breathe……..Boom, Boom. Feel your heartbeat, Boom……Boom…….Boom, Notice how your heart aches, Yet continues to beat, Boom……Boom…….Boom. It's been a hell of a week. Mass shooting in Orlando, child drowned by alligator, singer shot by fanatic, MP shot and killed by bigot racist nationalist. Just when you think your heart can't take anymore, that it will explode. So much pain and love for those affected.
My heart making two beats Lub-dub, Lub-dub, Lub-dub. One Pain-One Love, One Pain- One Love. But then The News. The news delivered in the remote voice of my brother. Too far away to be accompanied by a hug. My little brother shouldn't have to deliver this news to his big sister. Summoning all his strength and muster to deliver the news in a calm, clear voice. To not let the voice crack, break, roll off into tears. The News. About my father. My father, invincible, immortal rock. "Dad got his results back" Audible Gulp. " He has cancer of the Oesophagus." "What?" voice small and distant. "Are you kidding?" Of course he wouldn't joke about that. Tests two weeks ago. Biopsy was undisclosed. Phone call. Still went on holiday to south of France. Shocked. My brother "You know how I was Sis. What got me through was being positive. Dad wants to be like that. He just wants to get his head down and get on with it." My words or his? He wants to keep going to work and be as normal as possible. My words or his? "Did he ask you to tell me?" "He said he didn't know how to tell you. I said I would." As I write, Radiohead-Full stop blasting, raling, coasting, rushing, pushing everything out. Instrumental drowning out. Rushing in my ears. Not real. "How do we learn to love how something/someone needs to be loved, not how we think we want/should love".
Vicki Kelly in class June 18th 2016 |
Helen Kennett-BaconOriginally from South Yorkshire in England, I've lived with my husband Neil in Kitsilano, Vancouver for 10 years. We are fur-parents to our French bulldog Dave, I am a Registered Psychiatric Nurse specialising in ADHD. Archives
August 2016
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