The chaos
No routine
Smokey rooms
Loud music
Monged-out-erratic vibrancy
Bin liner capes
Big cups of squash
Late nights
Chesty coughs
A soundtrack of drum and bass
No difference between us and them
The laughter
Blissful Ignorance
Free flow energy
Survival. That was the game
Day to day living
Freedom
Beautiful, flawed, boundariless childhoods
Now we know too much
It can’t be the same
I worry I go through life forming bonds, then unintentionally discarding them
I worry that when my grandma died, my culture died with her
I worry that some of my most significant friendships have become long distant, digital ones, even though we live in the same city
I worry the extravert in me is a survival technique from my past
I worry I don’t know who I am
I worry I only do charitable things to feel good about myself
I worry I don’t know how to be vulnerable
I worry I can’t stick to things
I worry I’m never going to get to where I want to be, career wise
I worry I’m not present
I share because I know I’m not the only one who worries.
I watch him grab my son’s hair, controlling his movement like a puppeteer, his fingers intertwined in the sun-kissed curls I had taken care to condition and comb the day before.
As he reaches down and snatches the water gun we’d bought from Tesco out of his hands, I’m reminded of the times people got physical with or around me. A slap around the face, a punch in the throat, a headlock to try and diffuse the situation. This, for all intents and purposes, was no different. Except it’s not happening to me, my dad, or my boyfriend. It’s happening to my child. And this sends my adrenaline into overdrive. I sit staring as the fight or flight hormone rushes around my body at lightning speed, paralysing me. The fact that my son doesn’t flinch or even make a sound as his hair is yanked taut against his four-year-old scalp, makes it both easier and more gut wrenching to watch. “Give this man a shovel and he will bury himself” I think.
“Did Arlo’s daddy grab you by the hair?” I ask.
We’re in our tent, it’s oppressive and safe. The smell of nylon bathed in the morning sun is oddly comforting. He says nothing, looks down and, by doing so, tells me everything I need to know.
“If he did, that’s not okay, and mama is going to have a word with him. So you must tell me, did he grab you by the hair?” He looks up, meets my eyes and nods slowly, still silent.
I remember, when I was little, asking my dad to recall memories from boarding school, as we lay in his single bed. Something about the way he and his fellow classmates were neglected by their parents, and abused by their teachers, made my heart both break and swell in equal measure. I could close my eyes safe in the knowledge that, although we were in a bedsit and things with my mum felt uncertain, my dad had survived, and life for him was better now, than it was in 1967.
We leave the tent hand in hand, careful not to trip over the guy lines as we head over to Arlo’s dad. I have draped a protective cloak around my boy, the way I wished my mum had done for me when I was younger.
In my first week at secondary school, my neighbour, who was in sixth form, threw my bag into someone’s garden as we waited for the bus to take us home. The bus, which was not frequent, came, she got on with her friends and I was left to figure out how to retrieve my Gap satchel.
Once I’d figured out how to get my bag back, I made my way to school in tears. I was upset that I’d missed my bus home and embarrassed. The school had a no bullying policy when it came to sixth formers, and expelled Maddy immediately.
A few days later my mum, Maddy’s parents and brother circled me like vultures.
“You didn’t have to tell the school! This is all your fault!”
Everyone is angry. I feel the frustration and heartache rise like bile from the depths of my gut. I’m baffled as to how I’ve found myself in a room full of people who are all against me. I plead with my mum to take my side, protect me from the relentless tidal wave of resentment. But she can’t. She needs us all to get on, so they’ll take me on. Feed me. De-lice my hair.
I quickly realise there’s no place for truth here.
They’re living a lie, and I’m expected to play along. It’s opening night, and I’m the main character in a play for which I was never given the script.
I close my eyes and lead with my heart one last time, in the hope that my audience will soften and connect with me. But it comes out wrong – three words instead of the heartfelt monologue I’d hoped for – “FOR FUCK SAKE!!”.
My mum slaps me around the face. I am alone. No one has my back.
I’ve never been much of a helicopter parent. Our NCT group learnt not to react if Cas fell while running. I‘ve always trusted in my children to let me know if they’re hurt.
But on that sunny first morning of our camping trip, I could finally empathise with the constant need to feel in control. I thought we were with people who’d go out of their way to protect my children. I was wrong. I now know the type of anxiety that forces you to watch a person’s every move.
All this races through my mind as we walk the five metres to confront Arlo’s dad, who’s about to realise Cas is not alone and that I absolutely do have his back.
My heart breaks and swells in equal measure as I fight to suppress the intuition to tear this man limb from limb. “Just give him a shovel and he will bury himself Quincy. He will bury himself”.
I walk slowly towards the waves, my cinematic playlist softly floating on the breeze as goosebumps caress my skin. I close my eyes and enter the water, bracing myself for the inevitable. A spiritual immersion. Mother nature’s icy licks crash over me as M83.’s My Tears Are Becoming a Sea reaches its crescendo (1min 12s). My breath becomes shallow. My body works hard to acclimatise. Inhale, exhale. I remind myself that I’m in control, while simultaneously at the mercy of the tide, the waves, the elements. Both powerful and powerless. Fully here. Present. I bob around weightless in every way. My curls are uniformed. They mirror the depth of the sea, wilfully moving in tandem. I could stay here forever, but reality calls me like a harmony on the wind. I close my eyes and let go with one last breath, allowing the water to wash away my fears. Ibeyi whisper softly in my ear “let me baptise your soul with the help of my waters”. Resurfacing I am reborn, and ready to experience what the day has to offer.
I mean, wrap me in a poncho and call me Wim Hof!
Trust me, If that had been my experience, you’d see me rolling around in a Dryrobe everyday – evangelically telling people at the school gate how soul shifting cold water swimming is. But it wasn’t. My experience was a tad different…
I walk slowly towards the waves, my feet already aching from the cold, dense sand underfoot. “How the hell is the rest of my body going to cope if the surface area of my size 6.5 feet are struggling’” I think. The others trot along, like those exhilarated horses in that banking advert (bravo Lloyds, those black beauties get me EVERY DAMN TIME).
We arrive at the rocks. The tide’s on its way out. I’m conscious that a mere 20 minutes ago this part of the sand was fully submerged under the sea’s salty licks. You can still see the patterns from the wave’s rhythm. Nature is mad. I faff with my sweatshirt, trying not to get it wet as I reluctantly de-layer. “The suns breaking through the clouds” my husband enthusiastically exclaims, as I try and tuck my pubes back into their rightful place. “One last check that my tampon string isn’t dangling out and I’ll get in. I wouldn’t want to attract a shark” I tell myself. The others are already fully submerged. Marcus was right, the Cornish sun has donned his hat. And it’s made absolutely no difference.
I take a moment to think of those no longer with us. I think of people in hospital. I think of my grandad and how much he’d love to be able to run into the Cornish Sea – he’s not dead but has a dodgy heart. This is how I make myself do difficult things – a challenging conversation, a solo in front of an audience. I basically guilt myself into feeling the fear and doing it anyway. And it works. Before I know it, I’m shin deep. And I keep going, and I’m still shin deep. WHAT THE FUCK! WHY IS IT SO SHALLOW.
It’s painful, it’s arduous, but… it’s happening! I’m doing it!! I see a sizeable wave approaching me and accept my fate with a grimace and gratitude that it’s finally going to be taken out of my hands. I crouch down as the wave laps me, working hard to keep my head above water, a bit like a dog. My breath has become hard to control and I find myself panting, a bit like a dog. I look over at my friend as the same wave ushers her back to shore, like a beautiful mermaid with legs, her thick wet hair and bright blue eyes glistening.
I’m elated. It is done! The waves keep coming as I involuntary start gagging. It must be the shock of the cold water. I try to steady my breath between gags. COME ON QUINCY, FIND THE TRANQUILLITY. DIG DEEP, DIG DEEP. But it’s no use, apparently my spirit animal is a short haired, wiry dog with a sensitive gag reflex, and she is ever present. Nevertheless, filled with pride, I wade out of the sea and can finally feel the warmth of the Cornish sun on my skin. The others are all robed up, and Marcus comes toward me with a big grin on his face. “Well done bubba” he says, wrapping me tightly in a towel. I smile both at him, myself and my tampon string, that is still safely lodged in my bum crack.
Bluey was our favourite programme to watch together. Bandit and Chilli’s laissez faire parental approach was inspiring. It left me wanting to be the kind of parent who can give in to the chaos, maybe even enjoy it.
The emotional rollercoaster that is trying to throw your children’s artwork away was captured beautifully in The Dump (S01 E34). As was the deep, ordinary love between Bandit and Chilli, Bluey’s mum and dad, in The Pool (S011 Ep 22). I mean, can we please take a moment for that Baz Luhrmann-esque closing scene: Bluey dives underwater to retrieve a sinky, looks up at the glistening ripples on the pool’s surface as her parents float towards each other. Music that has a touch of M83 takes over as the distance between them closes and they kiss. It’s nothing short of cinematic. Bluey’s contentment with this portrait of her loving, stable family is palpable. Yes, they’re dogs, but in that moment, I was sucked into their idyllic life too.
Sadly for my human children, all that changed somewhere between Grannies (S01 E29) and Fairies (S01 E30).
As they run towards me, sticks in hand, I stop floating and wake up to the weight of this unattainable standard of parenting.
“I am not Bluey’s dad! We’re not Australian cattledogs, So STOP!!!”.
Suddenly I find myself crushing my 4 and 6 year olds’ tiny, impressionable spirits. A bit like if Marcus shouted “I’m not Irish, we’re not 17, you’re not Marianne” at me, after watching Normal People. Ouch!
The problem is, Bandit and Chilli seem to have a level of patience that I am yet to tap into. It’s gentle, forgiving, even empathetic at times. Any loss of temper is quickly counteracted with an acknowledgment of their children’s feelings, a humble apology, and topped off with some make-believe play, that they genuinely seem to enjoy.
I long for less aspirational family viewing. The Simpsons has the dysfunctional family, Hook has the workaholic dad and child abduction. Nearly all the fairy tales have at least one dead parent. But not Bluey. Bluey has it all.
Ultimately, I lack the ability to play the game in Blue Mountains (S01 EP21), in which Bluey and her family turn their hands into puppets. I just can’t seem to get out of my head enough to allow Oli, Cas and Marcus to adventure over my chest and stick their hands in my mouth – SERIOUSLY BANDIT, WHERE ARE YOUR BOUNDARIES?!
This means that Bluey is now in the ‘if-they-watch-this-they’ll-be-content-for-seven-minutes-and-annoying-for-the-rest-of-the-day’ category, along with Bing!
I have dipped in and out of Yoga for the last 13 years. From giggling at the back of the class in my teens at the mere mention of downward dog, to losing myself in the depth of my breath in my 30’s, as tears stream down my face. It’s been a journey.
Mostly I’d watch other people bending like pretzels, the sweat glistening on their smooth skin like small, satisfying rocks of salt, while the blood rushed to my head and I struggled to keep my back straight.
I had always found it hard to connect all the things I felt Yoga required of me – the breath, the movement, the strength, the patience, the zen. This is for them, I’d think; the people who wax and have perfect feet. The ones who look sun kissed, all year round. No amount of joss sticks or ‘relaxing’ pan pipe music can mask the fact that this space is exclusively for the ones who wear low rise leggings. This is not for me.
So I continued to dip my (imperfect) toes in other forms of movement – tap, pole dancing, boxing…
But it’s funny. You know how they say (they being Simon Amstell and, probably, Sting) ayahuasca will come calling when it’s your time to experience her. Well that’s exactly what happened with me and Yoga. In my time of need, both emotional and physical, ring ring THERE SHE WAS, in the form of value-for-money-introductory-offers at LEVELSIX and Yogarise. A bit different to the spiritual awakening that is throwing your guts up in the Peruvian Amazon rainforest, or a Spa centre in Staffordshire, but I was here for it. By the time I’d finished my final class, I was hooked.
I’ve cried, fanny farted, laughed and reached levels of zen that I thought were for them and not me. The magnificent, shiny pretzel people are still there, but I now recognise that they too are on a journey. I was searching for something to transport me emotionally, while keeping my feet firmly on the ground. Who knows what they’re searching for, but one thing’s for sure – we’re showing up for ourselves in an inclusive space, hearts, minds (and sometimes legs) wide open. Big love to LEVELSIX, Yogarise and my teachers – Zinzi, Becky and Junior. They are my safe place.
And for that I am grateful.
I’d just finished a 75 minute yoga class. The sun was shining, the birds singing. I often hear people say “you can’t beat London in the sun”. I disagree, you can absolutely beat it, but it was pleasant enough.
As I approached St Giles Church, I noticed two hearses with large black, green and yellow feathers on the front, a horse and carriage draped in Jamaican flags and clusters of people dressed in black. I stopped to take it all in. What a lovely send-off, I thought, as the sun warmed the back of my neck.
I turned to carry on walking and overheard a man asking two women where the local food bank was. I watched as they kept their distance, almost shooing him away. My heart broke. I went over, made a conscious effort to stand close to him, and looked directly into his eyes as I explained that the food bank was just across the road from where we were standing. I hoped this would undo any self consciousness he may have felt after such cold treatment from the bitches of (south) Eastwick.
As he thanked me, he started to pull his trousers down and do a poo, right there on the pavement. He was so heedless that suddenly I was the one who felt self conscious. Like I’d accidentally pushed an occupied cubicle door open. Which I kind of had. Except the cubicle door was the pavement outside St Giles Church. He casually pulled his trousers up and walked off (in the right direction).
Stunned, I turned to the horse drawn carriage and wondered if this was all part of the person in the coffin’s elaborate send-off. Horses, flags, feathers, a human poo. It felt like a metaphor for life.
One minute you’re in Savasana, the next someone’s doing a shit on the pavement next to you.
The most annoying thing is, I was on my way to get a falafel. Suffice to say, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I usually do.
We didn’t date boys, we linked them. And cars seemed to be where most links took place between the age of 16 and 18. The boys would change, but the setting was always the same – aggressively air freshened Peugeot 206’s or Polo’s, with the soundtrack of a Slow Jamz mix CD.
A boy once got my number by simply shouting from his car window as I walked down the street on New Year’s Eve. A week later we embarked on our first and last link.
He drove around swanky parts of London, delivering little white packages, while I sat in the passenger’s seat drinking a KA and smoking Mayfair Lights. The car was stuffy and didn’t smell new, contrary to the claim of the little blue tree hanging from the rear-view mirror.
I told him about my dream of studying musical theatre at drama school. He told me about the time he wrote his car off, leaving him with a brain injury. “The other person in the car died” he said nonchalantly, showing me the scar on the back of his head, to relieve any doubt.
After a few more drop offs at some large houses in Primrose Hill, we pulled up outside my house. We kissed, as Pretty Ricky did vocal acrobatics about a girl with “thick lips, thick thighs [and] slim hips”.
“You’d be buff if you put some weight on” he said matter-of-factly, as he pulled away from me.
I got out the car feeling self-conscious, but mostly relieved. I’d made it home alive, and could finally fart.
Instagram is overflowing with “2021 photo dump[s]”. So many shiny, happy people. It’s both lovely and unnerving to see. Where have I been? What the fucking fuck have I achieved?
Luckily for me, social media’s ability to creep into my very being and plant seeds of doubt is not new. For this feeling in particular, I turn to a poem called The Desiderata. There’s one line that instantly puts things into perspective, “If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself”.
For me, 2021 has consisted of challenges and realisations I didn’t see coming. And It’s because of this I’m filled with love and gratitude for my chosen family and community, who at times, have literally held me up.
There’s no denying that life’s complicated, just look at Tom Wambsgans. So when reflecting on the last year, I choose to do so in a way that honours the rough and the smooth. The good, the bad and everything in-between. After all, nothing’s black and white. The grey area’s where it all happens, it’s just not as instagramable.
quincerella 