And I
wanted to pounce on them, suck all of the Irish accent out of ‘em.
For it
is familiar and comfortable.
I've
been eight years here in London's unfamiliar accent... I’ve this obsession for
accents – or national identity more like. For which I am lacking...
Because
growing up in Africa, was like growing up in a foreign land – didn’t know at
the time - but my guts did. Such an oppressive, conservative place - which I
never got, never will - like the rules and that.
But I
found a bit of liberation, escaping to my first full time job – waitressing in
a cafe, 9 hours a day, 6 days a week... and an hour after, doing dishes - since
they hadn't a dishwasher...but a summer breeze comparing my first vomitus chores
in Eire. And when I’m converting the money, I'd say I was making around
£100/month - that's wages from ye olden times - plus tips, which were
shite...feeling a bit mollycoddled now, seeing as the folks only asked the
equivalent of £5/month in rent. Bargain.
Wonder
if they’d have chucked me on my ear if I refused to pay...
And
some extra liberation came from the hairdressers a few doors down. The lads,
all of them gay – a stereotype but no word of a lie – came in for their sandwiches one time -
invited us to a drag show they were putting on in a club up town. Well, by
Jayzuz – conservatives be damned! ‘Twas was the mostest magical unfolding to be
a part to be a part of: Feathers, fishnets, flamboyance – and a fair bit of
glitter. I think I stole their look after that – and County Clare had no idea
what the hell had just swanned in – a plume of feathers and diamanté.
Still,
I’ve no idea why Ireland felt like the missing piece in my puzzle... perhaps
our bond was our history: we, the strays and rejects from polite society. A
history of grafters - pulling themselves up – jumping on any vessel - doing
anything to survive – my survival always being in a more spiritual sense - we
didn’t have lots growing up – but dad busted butt so I wouldn't be hungry – And
it's the survival history I got from my nephew’s Irish dad and the story I get
from every aged Irish person I meet in London...
A bit
like my mother’s family, having feckall in Italy, getting themselves on a boat
to Africa, from Genoa – she, thirteen at the time, hadn’t a word of English.
I’d say that was a shit time at school - And after, she’d work in her father’s
sweet shop – 'kid in a candy store' – all up in the profits, eating shed loads
of sweets... probably why she’s diabetic now...
And
I’m thinking, maybe their history got all tied up in my DNA...the experiences
from my ancestors, a mix of ingredients in my genetic soul...
- My
soul, being what bonds me to some - repelling the one’s I can’t stand the look
of - And my soul, eternally nomadic, yearns for one nationality - green at the
one’s waving their flags and their patriotism...
But at
the same time, I weep for the new kids on the block, coming into their lives...
and I dunno what we've tangled all up in their DNA...
Even
though I’ve never been one for “In m-y day, teachers chucked wooden chalkboard
erasers at my head and look how well I turned out.”
Meanwhile
I'm crying into cornflakes every morning...
...But
sometimes I weep for some young'n's –
These
days allowed to charge their lives to ‘free’ credit - naivety coming to bite
them in the ass down the road when the debt collector's in town – being denied
the privilege of living on bugger-all in a big-hairy-scary-monster of a world.
And I
sob for thirty-year-olds, still living at home with their folks, robbed of
their right to claw their way out of one of the shittiest passages to their
rights – working at the shittiest of jobs –
‘Cause
maybe maturing into their lives without The Fear, their sweets may never taste
quite so sweet...
For
Fear is the hot poker I've kept clenched in my butt cheeks all along for my
survival -
And
it's the poker up my butt, a painful reminder –
that I
might not survive.
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