by Manjeet Mann
that made
a cripple
out of me.
It never left.
The growth
may be gone
but the weight –
the weight
of it is
always
there.
I was married at eighteen
to a man twenty years older.
Together we have two daughters.
People wonder why women like
me don’t leave.
Where would I go?
No English, illiterate, no skills.
Where does a woman like that go?
I say I was cursed to have daughters,
not because
I don’t want them
or love them –
it seems
the world doesn’t want them,
or love them.
I want to save them
from the heartache of being
rejected, humiliated,
enslaved, voiceless.
I don’t want them
to have my life.
I want more.
I see their potential and
it excites me and scares me.
How can I teach them
when I know so little myself?
How can I show them the way
when I myself have no map?
I remember
walking to the market
to buy watermelons.
The biggest they’ve got,
my mother would say.
Rupi, my sister, and I would run,
race each other past
the Government High School,
looking at the girls
with blue and white ribbons in their braids
and boys with their
slicked-back oiled hair.
How we wished to be
one of those girls
behind those gates,
learning numbers,
reading books,
writing stories.
It’s a hard life.
You have to accept it,
quietly endure your fate,
don’t resist it.
Don’t think,
don’t feel,
because if you do
you’ll want to change,
redraw the map,
rewrite the story,
and if you start thinking like that
and you’re a girl …
God help you.
When I arrived in this country,
there were classes
I could have taken.
I could have learned to drive,
I could have learned to read and write.
But he couldn’t read and write,
he didn’t want a thinking wife,
a progressive wife,
a better life
for me,
for us.
The day after I arrived,
heavily pregnant,
he took me to the factory to start work.
I wake up at 5 a.m. every morning
Monday to Friday.
A flask of tea and a tiffin box
with last night’s leftovers.
I leave at 6 a.m.
When my working day is done,
I lie on the kitchen settee.
Amber rubs my feet
and writes down my day’s work
as I drift in and out of sleep.
Twelve hours a day,
dyeing jeans
for fancy West End shops,
with other women like me,
who have husbands like mine.
All breathing in the same poison.
I got so sick from the dye,
I remember lying on the living room floor,
emptying my guts.
The doctors said the blood tests
weren’t ‘normal’
and social services came to the house
wanting answers.
Where does your mummy go every day?
they asked Amber.
The shops,
she lied.
She only goes to the shops.
My boss was angry,
official people visited the factory,
and he said I had jeopardized the business.
My husband promised it wouldn’t happen again,
pleaded with them to keep me on.
I have moved to sewing now.
I sew the jeans for the fancy West End shops.
They are in my heart.
My little Amber.
Firecracker.
So sick when born,
I tied an amber
gem on a string
around her tiny wrist.
I prayed
and prayed
and prayed.
The next day
it was like she was
never ill.
Amber,
a healing stone
for a healed child.
Ruby.
So much sadness.
The promise of a son
crushed.
I knew she needed
to grow up strong,
have fire to withstand
the walls built
round her.
The name Ruby seemed fitting.
An inner glow
so she might emit her
own light and
shine.
Too tired to think,
too aching to protest.
I am up before my brain
has a chance to catch up,
before my body has time
to resist.
I roll out the chapattis
until he says
that’s enough.
More often than not
I don’t remember
how I ate,
how I changed,
how I got into bed.
A blur.
Before I know it,
I’m up again.
Filling up my tiffin box
and leaving for work.
This is not living.
This is surviving.
From the kitchen window
I watch The Man
watering his rose bushes.
He looks in my direction.
I duck down under the window,
heart racing.
Dad’s back earlier than usual from the pub.
I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage
to tell him about athletics club,
but on a scale of one to ten
he’s a twelve.
Look at her. Waste of space. Who’d want her?
Ruined my life. I drink because of her. She makes me do it,
he slurs.
Leave her alone.
My voice is weak.
I cower by the back door,
wanting to escape.
Then Mum starts crying.
I can’t take it.
I can’t take the sound.
It makes me want to vomit.
Stop it. Please, Mum. Stop it.
Shhhhhh.
I’m hugging her knees,
crouched on the floor,
angry.
Angry I can’t help.
Angry I hide in corners.
Angry I’m too scared to raise my voice.
Angry I can’t protect her.
Angry I have to protect her.
Angry I believed he’d changed.
From now on,
look at what he does.
Not what he says.
Always
what
he
does.
Ruby made sense of everything.
She made me feel safe.
Once you’ve seen the two people
that are supposed to take care of you
broken and beaten,
something changes inside you.
You don’t feel safe.
You no longer sleep.
You’re no longer in control
of what you feel
or what you think.
Everything ceases
to make sense.
At night,
he screams out for his mother.
We don’t sleep.
At dinner,
he cries into his food.
We don’t eat.
I want to hate him,
but when a grown man
screams out
for a parent
like a lost child,
that’s hard to hate.
I wonder if we ever grow up.
If some things are so painful,
we stay small on the inside.
Crying and screaming
but no one sees.
We just go about our normal business
like we’re OK
and no one would ever know.
Can it be done?
Or are broken adults
too far gone?
Nightmares
engulf
dreams.
I’m buried
under the
rose bushes.
Clawing
Clawing
Clawing
to
get
out.
Each day drags.
Each day the anxiety heightens
as I keep thinking
of every elaborate plan I can
so that I can do athletics.
I spend the week
playing tricks on myself.
Not knowing
means I can still live the fantasy.
The longer I put it off,
the longer the dream stays alive.
Tell them.
Tell them.
Tell them.
I’ve been psyching
myself up
for hours.
Time is running out.
It’s Sunday.
It’s the end of half-term
and the first training session
is next week.
I could lie,
make up something
about a study group.
Or
I could tell the truth.
Always better to tell the truth,
I naively think.
Always better to tell the truth.
I do my
quiet kitchen dance.
Clear up
wash up
clean up
scuttle upstairs.
I sit.
Think.
On a scale of one to ten
he doesn’t seem too bad.
Maybe a three.
Today is the day.
Scale of one to ten
my courage –
eight,
sliding down to a
one
with
each
step
I
take
down
the
stairs.
I ask about tea,
I sit, I stand, I pace.
Something wrong?
I slowly find the words,
stuttering and stumbling out.
I said no!
Why not?
Because I say so.
That’s not a good enough reason!
It’s not right for a girl. You need to start behaving respectfully.
I take a breath.
Change tack.
I’m the most talented girl in school …
You’re too old to be gallivanting about and running round a school field.
Mum, what do you think?
It’s up to your father.
But …
Are there boys at these events?
I don’t know. No. What does it matter?!
People will talk, that’s why. ‘We saw your daughter talking to so-and-so, she was doing this, that and the other.’
I’ll just be running. That’s all.
I’ve said no. Now, show some respect.
Why should I?! It’s stupid! It’s a stupid reason!
I try my best to be calm,
but I’m not very good at it.
I feel helpless and alone.
I run up the stairs,
into the bedroom,
and slam the door.
I want to throw things.
My heart is pounding
out of my chest.
I’m raging
so I’m crying.
I climb into bed,
pull the duvet over my head
and silently scream
into the darkness.
Trying to write my truth.
Trying to solve equations.
Trying to figure out earthquakes.
Trying to study the stages of a revolution.
Trying to forget about athletics.
Trying to forget about my dreams.
Stopped feeling
caring
loving
hating
thinking
speaking
sleeping
liking
smiling
crying
dreaming
believing
wanting
living.
David: That sucks.
I want him to hold me.
Tara: I’m so sorry, Amber.
She rubs my arm.
David keeps his hands in his pockets
and an ocean’s distance between us.
He shares a look with Tara.
I stare at them both.
He sees I’ve seen it.
My jaw tightens.
I should go.
He fist bumps my shoulder and he leaves.
Is he annoyed with me?
Don’t be silly.
I see in her eyes that she knows more
than she’s letting on.
Do you need a hug?
You look like you need a hug.
I’m OK.
She squeezes me tight.
It feels great.
I sink into her shoulder,
wishing it were David’s.
The whole world needs a shake and a hug right now, Amber.
The whole world.
History homework
is proving to be a good
substitute
for running.
Stories of revolts,
freedom fighters,
rebellions and their
rebels light a fire inside me.
Ordinary people
using their voice,
speaking out,
risking everything
to make a change,
gives me wings.
Downstairs
the shouting starts.
A glass breaks.
I stand,
my hand round
the doorknob.
Fear holds me back,
courage pushes
me forward.
I stand in the open doorway.
Another glass breaks
as I make my way
down the stairs.
Stop it,
I say too quietly.
Stop it.
A little louder.
Stop it.
Louder still.
Stop it!!
I scream.
Leave Mum alone!
A deep
strong
fierce
voice
rises
from
my
gut.
It sends
shockwaves
through
my father.
It builds
armour
round
my mother.
My father
steps
away.
He turns
to me.
Don’t ever raise your voice to me again.
I let it go once.
Next time you won’t be so lucky.
I am a hurricane.
Everyth
ing from the
night before
and beyond even that
is being whipped up inside me,
causing chaos,
stirring up every fear,
threatening to release
every secret.
I’m so angry
I can’t see straight.
I can’t see
until Gemma
and I
walk into each other.
We form a circle round her.
You’re a stupid ugly bitch.
No one likes you.
No amount of make-up
can hide how ugly and disgusting you are!
I’m the leader.
And I
spit
in
her
face.
Everyone laughs.
I feel strong.
I feel powerful
as all my fears disappear.
I am
my father’s
daughter.
You have to let things go with Gemma!
I hate her.
She said she was sorry for what she did.
She still walks around like she’s IT.
You spat at her. That’s not cool.
You’re right, it’s not.
But how can you take her side?
I’m not. But you’re so angry. Let’s go to the toilets.
I’ll teach you how to release negative emotions.
Oh my God, Tara, can you stop with this healing crap!
Leave me alone and go cuddle up with David.
What?
I have eyes, Tara. Don’t deny it!
You’re trying to push me out of the group.
We’re your friends, Amber. Why can’t you see that?
Why do you push everyone away?
We were mates.
Then one day we had an argument
over an unfair tackle in netball.
We stopped speaking for two days
and in those two days
she told everyone
my dad was the drunk
who hung out
outside the shopping centre.
She called my mum the bag lady,
a tramp.
She said I was council-house scum.
My dad is the drunk outside the shopping centre.
I might be council-house scum.
However,
my mother IS NOT a tramp.
And that is why she deserves everything she gets.
When I come home
from school,
there is a young woman
sat in the kitchen
with Mum and Dad.
Dad sends me
to my bedroom.
I disobey the order
and sit on the stairs,
shuffling down,