In the month of Halloween, a month often characterised by spooky and scary things, here is my round-up, as a coach, writer, and human being.
Celebrating the Aunties
I would have loved to share a single picture of these women, but during the days I am referring to, photographs were expensive. A luxury reserved for special occasions only, and it’s unlikely these women would have had the time to gather for a group picture.
So, this week, I am celebrating the aunties, the women from my early childhood who supported us when we needed it. In short, Mum’s friends.
Hermin – pronounced as it is spelt, though her actual name was probably Hermionie.
Sarah – we spent many hours visiting with her and her children.
Gloria – her two sons spent a whole summer with us one year.
Aunt Ivy – our landlady in a time when the signs were out.
Mrs Samuels – my after-school childminder
Carole – a longstanding friend of Mum.
Aunty Peggy – made the cake for my wedding and that of my parents.
Aunty Maureen – looked after me when Mum went into hospital.
My memories are understandably hazy, but we visited their homes in Battersea, South London, and shared birthday parties with their children.
Hermin looked after so many children; she had to instruct us to hide whenever the welfare lady came round. I always thought this was a great game, hiding inside wardrobes, under beds, wherever we could find, even if I didn’t fully understand why.
Aunty Peggy helped Mum find somewhere to live when we might have struggled.
These formidable, doughty, no-nonsense women that Mum somehow gathered around her remind me of the African proverb: ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ This was quite a village, at least while we were in London.
To all the aunties who filled our lives and surrounded us, I thank you, wherever you may be.
Alt text: The image shows a friendship group of Black women gathered in joy.
Reading as an act of resistance
After a lifetime of reading to learn, to study, and to earn, I now feel I have more time to read for joy and pleasure—to read because I can choose to do so. I can pick up a book and spend an afternoon, a night, or a whole day curled up with it.
Alt Text – The picture shows Tammye Huf, the author of A More Perfect Union, and Janice Taylor smiling to the camera at Tammye’s recent talk on her book. Janice is holding a copy of Tammye’s book in her hand.
If truth be told, reading has generally been a bit of a chore, mainly because of how my brain is wired due to my Dyslexia.
But, having decided to read more fiction and poetry, I am being uplifted and inspired by the words of others. Especially those authors who are lamentably underrepresented in the publishing industry as a whole.
And, after reading Tammye Huf’s novel – A More Perfect Union, inspired by her great-great-grandparents, an enslaved Black woman and an Irish immigrant, I see more clearly that reading is an act of resistance. It is a way for us to access and reclaim our power in a manner our ancestors were not permitted. There is a single haunting line in Tammye’s book that speaks directly to this and truly shook me.
Paterson Joseph’s book, The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho, also highlighted this theme for me.
So, now more than ever, I regard reading for joy, ease, pleasure, optimism and strength as an act of resistance and a way to honour and celebrate our ancestors.
What about you?
Alt text: The picture shows Tammye Huf, the author of A More Perfect Union, and Janice Taylor smiling to the camera at Tammye’s recent talk on her book at Jubilee Library, Brighton. Janice is holding a copy of Tammye’s book in her hand.
The joy of Improvisation
‘Improvisation, often shortened to improv, is the activity of making or doing something not planned beforehand, using whatever can be found. The origin of the word itself is in the Latin “improvisus”, which literally means unforeseen.’
Source: Google
Alt text: The image depicts a young girl dancing joyfully on a mosaic floor in front of what appears to be a stone seating area. The girl is dressed in a red/orange T-shirt, blue shorts, and pink trainers.
How many of us, I wonder, actively embrace opportunities to improvise, to go with the flow?
Being asked to think on my feet has always caused me some fear because I often doubt that my brain will respond and come up with something as quickly as I would like. As an introvert, I usually prefer to have the time and space to pause and reflect before replying.
However, now that I have recently discovered Age is a Stage at The Theatre Royal Brighton, I am giving myself permission to explore this whole area of spontaneity, improvisation, and play. Thank you, @LeylaOkhai, for starting this process with your Shoop session back in February.
It is a leap out of my comfort zone, but one I am glad to have made, especially since we were on the stage itself at my very first session. It was magical, and I was surprised at how at home I felt, how uplifting it was to be on an actual stage.
Age is a Stage is an hour and a half of singing, dancing, memory games, mime, acting and improvisation aimed at anyone over the age of fifty. It is a playful and quick-moving session – I especially appreciate how the facilitator, Chris Cresswell, keeps things moving; there is little time to dwell or overthink.
One of my favourite activities is when we stand in a circle, and each person has to sing the first line of a song. The rest of us join in as soon as we recognise it. So far, my contributions have been My Old Man’s a Dustman, Bohemian Rhapsody, and The Wheels on the Bus. Couldn’t help but laugh as the group enthusiastically joined in with my circular motions as we sang The wheels on the bus go round and round.
This is what I have started to value about these sessions: the chance to be spontaneous and see what arises in the moment. I find it liberating and energising.
So, how might you make time for a few rounds of Wheels on the Bus this week? 😊
Remembering and honouring the ancestors
Know from whence you came. If you know from whence you came, there is absolutely no limitations to where you can go.
James Baldwin – 1963 collection of essays, The Fire Next Time.
Alt Text: Black and white photo of the author’s parents on their wedding day, cutting through a three-tier wedding cake.
Thoughts of ancestry have been bubbling away in my head since I attended a retreat earlier this year, organised by @marthacuffy (Retreat2Restore), where it seemed that remembering and honouring our ancestors was a central theme of the day.
To remember that I am thankful and immensely proud to be here with the options and choices I enjoy.
I can open doors, fling windows wide open, and move about freely, which reminds me of the profound follow-up session that @marthacuffy offered after her retreat. To notice the freedoms we have that our ancestors likely didn’t.
To remember that I stand on the wisdom, forbearance, and resistance of my ancestors.
I stand on the determination and hope of my immigrant parents, who came to the UK to build a better life. I am the proud daughter of immigrants, and I am unapologetic about this.
I stand on the hope and optimism my mum almost certainly arrived with – but I also stand on the relief my dad undoubtedly felt when he was finally able to return to Jamaica.
Long may we continue to draw strength and power from our ancestors.
Poetry as an act of resistance
From someone who doesn’t as yet write much in the way of poetry and who is currently rediscovering her love for it, I’d like to quote the poet Joelle Taylor:
To write a poem is an act of resistance, but to then perform it as well is a revolution.
Alt text – Image shows six different people standing or sitting at a microphone, reading, performing their work against a pale blue background.
The above quote struck a chord with me, as I have hosted and co-hosted two Open Mics in the past week, one online and the other in person at Afrori Books in Brighton. At both events, I was blown away by what people shared, in particular, how they used poetry and prose to convey their truths.
So, I would like to thank each person who joined the revolution by sharing their words, stories, and themselves last week. What a privilege it was to witness such a powerful body of work both online and in person. Truth spinning out to those who need to hear it.
I am still taking small steps with my poetry as I listen and learn from the poets and writers who step forward with their words, wielding them like swords or perhaps shields to speak out against hypocrisy, racism, and genocide.
Or others whose words evoked compassion and yearning as they spoke about grief and loss.
It was magical.
So, the more stories and poetry I hear, the more apt Joelle Taylor’s quote seems.
To write a poem is an act of resistance, but to then perform it as well is a revolution.
So, what do you have to say that the world needs to hear?
Until next time