Take your shame and your fear and your anger and throw them in this river. I’ll look after them. I’ll take them with me.
The sky is starting to lighten. The river is dark. It’s time. I need to post this letter.
The water is swirling and rushing under the bridge. I am almost a part of it already.
I’m sorry it was too late for me. Don’t let it be too late for you. Change something. Be brave. Make a difference. Do something good.
Forgive me, Gabby.
What was it we used to say?
See it as practice, so that when you are ready to forgive yourself, you’ll know how to do it.
Jess
“I had recently begun to think about how much progress we’ve made in the area of LGBT rights in the UK in recent years, as opposed to some other parts of the world where being gay is illegal, dangerous and in some cases punishable by death. Then a friend of mine told me that her nephew was distraught because one of his best friends had committed suicide after homophobic bullying. I suddenly realized that being gay is sometimes punishable by death in this country too – and that this was what I wanted to write about. I hope my story will help some young readers to realize that we all need to support each other, to stand up for each other and to do what we can to help bring about a world where no one is ever made to feel so bad about who they are that they can no longer cope with life.” Liz Kessler
DARLING
Amy Leon
Darling,
They will ask of you silence
They will expect of you rage
They will give you no time to make a mistake
They will have no explanation
And every excuse
They will do everything they can
To destroy you
But you
Must. Not. Let. Them.
Darling,
They will tell you about your skin
They will tell you about your bones
They will even tell you about your marrow
But they will never know your name.
Darling,
Give them a good reason
To know your name
You are a miracle
A survivor of yesterday’s bloodshed
A reason to believe in change
Stars and planets collide with the thought of you
Time stops to welcome you
You are made of light.
Darling,
They will fear you because of this
And that is OK
Do not be scared
This world will give you anything
If you fight for it
So fight
Fight with your mind
Fight with your words
Fight with everything you’ve got
They expect nothing of you but surrender
So stun them.
Darling,
Stun them with your intelligence
Shock them with your well of passion and ability to love
Terrify them with your grace and forgiveness
And watch
As they make space for you
At the very table you created.
“‘Darling’ is a letter to the child I was, growing up in Harlem. It took me a long time to believe that I would one day be ‘allowed’ to succeed. It wasn’t something I could strive for, it was something I had to ask permission for. Through writing and performance I have found that I can command whatever space I choose to occupy, so darling please know you can do the same. Let no one compromise your shine.” Amy Leon
STAY HOME
Sita Brahmachari
“You stay home today, isn’t it?” Mum calls to me.
It’s what she’s been asking me to do every day. “Stay home with me, please, Niya. No school just for one day.”
“Yes, Mum! We’ve got your doctor’s appointment. Have you forgotten already?” I ask.
I can hear her mumbling to herself in Urdu about interfering people.
I take the letter that’s been scrunched up in my bag for weeks now and lob it at the bin. Getting Mum to the last parents’ evening was hard enough, but there’s no way she’ll make it this time, not the state she’s in.
She’s not been taking her pills again. She says she doesn’t want to be “all evened out”, which is what I made the mistake of telling her she is when she remembers to take the pills that Dr Chen gives her. She complains the medication makes her feel like she’s watching a reflection of herself floating in a mirror … that doesn’t sound good, but the way she goes downhill when she stops taking her pills isn’t good either.
But I know what she’s thinking – pills can’t stop Dad’s deathday coming round again. Dr Chen says stuff like, “Time eases the pain,” and, for a while, it did seem to be getting better. But now, as the second anniversary of Dad’s death approaches, Mum seems even worse than she was on the first. At least back then she was still so in shock she let people give us some help. Sometimes I wonder how she’s managed to push everyone away. In the space of two years our whole world has shrunk to just me and Mum and the dreaded three-monthly review with Dr Chen. I check the home diary I keep for Mum. 15 November, 2 p.m. with Dr Dread. That’s what I’ve written. I know, it’s not even funny, but it keeps me sane.
Mum’s hands are shaking as she picks up the phone to call my school. I wish I could do it myself, but parents have to call in if you’re going to be off sick – that’s the rule. I hear the attendance officer’s voice in the background and then watch Mum’s shoulders relax and her hands stop shaking.
“Only machine voice,” she whispers to me.
She’s reading from her notepad … the words she’s rehearsed in her best English, which I keep telling her has got really good – not that she believes me.
“Niya Sulimani. Her tutor group?” Mum looks panicked. She forgets things all the time these days.
“Miss Rose,” I whisper.
“Tutor – Miss Rose,” Mum says to the answer machine. “Niya will be absent today, having doctor’s appointment.” She speaks slowly as if she’s afraid that she’s going to stumble over the words.
She sighs with relief as she puts down the phone.
It takes me the whole morning to psych Mum up to actually leave the flat. I always make the appointment with Dr Chen for the afternoon if I can. This is the closest me and Mum get to a family outing these days. She even lets me put a bit of blusher on her cheeks, like she used to when we went out with Dad. Going out together reminds me that we really do exist as mother and daughter outside the walls of this flat.
As soon as we get to the lift I forget all about my family outing fantasy because I can feel Mum’s panic rising, a million sparks ricocheting off the cold white walls. She’s clinging on to me so tight my arm hurts.
As the lift passes floor six I make my wishes like I always do – six is my lucky number. When I was six the world was happy and exciting with this whole new country to explore. When I was six I would hold out both hands and Mum would take one and Dad would take the other as we’d one, two, three … whee! our way up the road to school every day.
Today at floor six I wish for Mum not to have one of her panic attacks and for Dr Chen to be off work so we have to see another doctor. It happened once, so it could happen again. With a stranger it’s easier to pretend that everything’s getting better. Miss Rose, my form tutor and English teacher, did a lesson last week about fear, and we had to write down what we’re really afraid of, no matter how odd it might sound to anyone else. I wrote something obvious about snakes, even though Mum’s the one who was terrified of snakes when we lived in Pakistan, not me. The point is, I could never tell Miss Rose what I’m really afraid of – that someone will try to separate what’s left of my family, Mum and me.
We watch the red lights count down each floor … 5, 4, 3 … and with every number that leads us closer to the ground, Mum gets more and more breathless.
I check that I’ve brought the paper bag
for her to blow into, the way Dr Chen showed me, in case she starts doing that weird hyper– What did Dr Chen call it? Hyper-something breathing thing that makes Mum go all faint and tingly.
As soon as she steps outside she gasps as the icy air enters her lungs. She stops short for a moment as if she’s walked into an invisible iceberg. I take Mum’s hand to remind her to keep moving. She looks down at her feet, taking tiny steps as if the pavement’s a tightrope she’s going to fall off. I notice the wisps of ice-breath we make together on the air as we walk.
When we finally get to the surgery I log us in on the computer and tell Mum to go and sit down. Her breath’s coming out shallow and fast.
We sit in the waiting room for a while. A woman smiles at Mum, but she doesn’t smile back, so I do instead. Then Dr Chen opens her door.
“Mrs Sulimani and Niya,” she calls out, as if this is my appointment too.
There are two chairs next to Dr Chen’s desk. Mum places her coat on the one furthest away and sits down, so that doesn’t leave me with much choice but to sit right next to the doctor. She smiles at me and runs her fingers through her black, shiny bob, then peers at Mum.
“So how are you feeling now, Mrs Sulimani?”
Mum just nods.
“And how are you getting on with the new anti-depressants?” Dr Chen slightly raises her voice, as if that will help Mum understand more.
“Better, better,” Mum lies as she rolls up her sleeve to have her blood pressure taken.
“Hmm, we’ll have to keep an eye on that. Quite high,” the doctor says as she helps Mum roll her sleeve back down. “But maybe it’s just the white coat effect!” Dr Chen smiles.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“As soon as people see a doctor their blood pressure goes up. Explain to your mum,” Dr Chen says. I do and her reaction makes me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Dr Chen asks as she records Mum’s blood pressure in her notes.
“Mum says you’re not wearing a white coat.”
“True! But you understand what I mean, Mrs Sulimani?”
“Understand,” Mum says.
Dr Chen looks up some notes on the screen then casts her eyes back over me before carrying on her questioning. I can tell she’s trying to be subtle. She’s not like that doctor who actually asked me once if I thought my mum was depressed. I mean, how was I supposed to know?
Dr Chen seems to be ticking boxes on some kind of questionnaire.
“So, would you say your depression has eased? Do you feel happier in yourself?” she asks without looking away from the screen. I feel like she’s asking me, too.
“In myself?” Mum repeats. Her guard has gone up.
Dr Chen raises her eyes to me and I translate. She has no idea how much Mum actually does understand, which is just about everything. It’s just that when Dad was alive he always did the talking, especially at official things like doctor’s appointments and parents’ evenings. This is how it would always go. Someone would speak to Dad and he would translate to Mum. Then she would speak to Dad in Urdu and he would translate back into English. I suppose he was kind of her full-time interpreter, now that I think about it. He was her voice. He used to get so annoyed with her – even when we knew she could understand every single thing being said, she still got Dad to translate. Now it’s up to me. I used to think it was because she was shy, but I know now that it’s her way of not really being in the room.
Mum tells me in Urdu to say that she’s feeling much better, coping well, and that the medication is working.
So I do what I’m told and lie.
“And have you found any side effects with the new pills?” Dr Chen is looking to me for an answer.
“Sometimes little forgetful,” Mum mumbles under her breath.
“What kind of things?” Dr Chen asks.
“Just dates and things like that,” I jump in. It’s better to look as if you’re telling the truth.
“That can be a side effect, but then again I have the same problem,” Dr Chen jokes. “Always losing my keys!” I know she’s only trying to make us feel comfortable. “If you can just pop on the scales here, Mrs Sulimani.” Mum sighs and stands up slowly. I swear she always makes out her hip is worse than it actually is to distract Dr Chen from talking about her state of mind. I suppose she thinks her hip is something that can be fixed.
“You’ve managed to keep all that weight off. That’s good. It’ll be less pressure on your sore hip,” says the doctor, tapping her own leg.
“Yes, yes, but still walking is pain here.” Mum points to her side.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on it and see if your mobility gets worse, but I don’t think it’s critical enough yet for an operation. You won’t need that kind of stress at the moment.”
I start to translate, but Mum puts her hand up to stop me.
“No operation. OK. I understand.”
Dr Chen nods as she writes up her notes on Mum, then turns her attention to me.
“Looks like you’ve lost a bit of weight, Niya. Are you eating well?”
This is what I mean about Dr Chen. You have to work hard to fly under her radar.
“The offer of more counselling is always open to both of you.” Dr Chen has pulled her chair up so she’s in touching distance of me, as if she’s really saying this for my benefit. She’s almost whispering now. “Anniversaries can bring up some raw emotions. It’s only been two years…”
“We’re OK,” I assure her.
“That’s good.” Dr Chen wheels her chair back to her desk and goes about the business of printing out a repeat prescription. Mum’s already putting on her coat, readying herself to leave.
“And school still going well?” Dr Chen asks me.
I can’t tell if she’s just making small talk or if the words she’s tapping out on her screen are logging any suspicions she might have that things are not going well.
“All fine, thanks,” I tell her.
Dr Chen hands the prescription to Mum, who folds it neatly in half, places it in her handbag and heads for the door. I follow her then realize I’ve left my gloves on the table and go back for them.
Dr Chen picks them up for me and as she hands them over she whispers, “Are you sure you don’t need me to arrange some help for you both, just temporarily?”
Now Mum’s back in the doorway staring at me and Dr Chen as if we’re in on some conspiracy.
“Got them!” I wave the gloves in the air and hurry out.
I can feel the doctor’s eyes burning into the space between my shoulder blades. Well, whatever she’s written in her notes, at least the appointment is over.
Mum’s always calmer going back up in the lift.
“Lift me up!” she says and I imagine that she’s shrunk to the size of a child with her arms outstretched towards me. One, two, three … whee! Lift me up! Lift me up.
It must be my turn to look glum, because Mum starts playing Dad’s “passing time” game as we climb up, up, up to the fourteenth floor. I used to love the three of us in the lift together. We’d imagine that every floor was a different place we wanted to visit. Floor one – Buckingham Palace, floor two – Edinburgh Castle (that was one of Dad’s favourites, but we never made it there), floor three – Kew Gardens (one of Mum’s that we did manage to get to once)… Mine would change every time, but nowadays the place on our wish list that I always picture on floor six is Hyde Park, because that’s the first place we actually went to. I’ll always remember us laughing together as we ate our way through Mum’s stacked-up tiffin-tin towers stuffed full of paratha, dhal, puri, samosas and every kind of curry. She looked around at other people eating sandwiches and felt sorry for them.
“Mum, why don’t we go to Hyde Park together for a picnic?” I let the thought out.
Her back tenses and she curls into herself again.
“Too cold,” she mutters.
“In the spring, then?” I persist.
She looks at me like she doesn’t tru
st me. “What did Dr Chen say to you?”
“Nothing, Mum! She just asked if we needed help.”
She holds my arm tight. “No help! No interference,” she says in English.
I watch her mouth forming these perfectly pronounced words and pull away from her, more roughly than I intended. The red lights flash on and off: 13, 14. Fourteen floors for fourteen years of my life. What’s beyond fourteen? I don’t even want to think about the future, about what comes next. I give myself a talking to, like I always do when I know I have to toughen up. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t think about stuff like that. Just get through today.” But Mum’s words keep racing through my head. “No help, no interference … no help … no interference…” and suddenly the metal walls are closing in on me.
The doors open and I run out and gulp the air. I think maybe this is how it’s always going to be for us. We’re frozen in time and nothing’s getting better. The only thing we’re getting better at is pretending. I rummage in my bag for my keys. Mum just stands next to me, arms flattened against her sides. I want to shake her as we walk into the hall. Tomorrow will be two whole years since Dad died and it doesn’t feel like time has healed anything.
Mum’s ahead of me when these words burst from my mouth: “I don’t want to translate any more, Mum. You have to start speaking up for yourself.”
She turns to me, her eyes glassy with tears. “Sorry, beta!” she says, walks into her bedroom and closes the door.
The sink’s full of dishes. The washbasket’s overflowing and the floor’s starting to look grime-grey. From our kitchen window I can see over the low rise flats below. Sarah’s block is on the corner. My old best friend, Sarah, seems so far away from me now. A stream of sunlight catches the icy roof of her flat and glints at me. I feel like running down to her and telling her everything, trying to explain why I can’t let her come over any more. Why I’ve got no time to see her after school. Why I’m always avoiding her. But I can’t risk her talking to her parents about me, can’t risk the interference. I see her looking at me some days and I know she really wants to understand why I’ve stopped spending time with her, and I’d so like to tell her that I miss her. But how can I do that without her worrying about me? Instead I fill the mop bucket and make a start on the floor. There are no ugly sisters here keeping me from going to the ball, it’s just poor Mum and her sadness.
Here I Stand Page 5