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Unmasked - 'Grandmother'
July 29, 2020
Unmasked - a creative writing series exploring different aspects of identity.
The concept of identity has fascinated me on a personal and intellectual level for a long time. The rise of individualism and globalisation over recent decades has disrupted and fragmented many long held markers of identity. As we move to different places and are exposed to different cultures, worldviews and possibilities, our identities are perhaps less static and inevitable than in previous generations.
With this comes a certain sense of freedom and the possibility of 're-inventing' ourselves. However, as we shake off old identities like a snake shedding its skin, do we also lose something? Can we really re-invent ourselves? Are the 'old' labels limiting or do they provide a secure, comforting framework? Do external labels alter how we view ourselves? These are some of the questions I have been pondering.
The following series of posts will share some of my creative writing in response to these issues. To begin, I go back to my humble roots and consider the all important question 'what would my Grandmother make of all this?'
Grandmother
My grandmother did not wrestle with self-doubt,
She wrestled with a mangle for 7 hours every Monday.
She did not struggle for the precise words to define herself,
She struggled with buckets of water from the well.
She did not strive to erase societal labels,
She strived to erase dirt from the floor with a scrubbing brush.
She did not wake suddenly at 5am pondering the meaning of life,
She woke routinely at 5am to light the fire and make the porridge.
She was not paralysed with existential angst,
She was too busy fetching and carrying for her paralysed mother-in-law.
She did not cut and paste self-conscious life philosophies,
She cut up chunks of firewood with an axe.
She did not obsessively unpick the threads of her identity,
She wove them seamlessly through the coarsely textured fabric of her days.
Her life was not ethereally shaped like a question mark, forever asking 'who am I?'
Her life formed the solid, satisfying shape of an answer.
She wrestled with a mangle for 7 hours every Monday.
She did not struggle for the precise words to define herself,
She struggled with buckets of water from the well.
She did not strive to erase societal labels,
She strived to erase dirt from the floor with a scrubbing brush.
She did not wake suddenly at 5am pondering the meaning of life,
She woke routinely at 5am to light the fire and make the porridge.
She was not paralysed with existential angst,
She was too busy fetching and carrying for her paralysed mother-in-law.
She did not cut and paste self-conscious life philosophies,
She cut up chunks of firewood with an axe.
She did not obsessively unpick the threads of her identity,
She wove them seamlessly through the coarsely textured fabric of her days.
Her life was not ethereally shaped like a question mark, forever asking 'who am I?'
Her life formed the solid, satisfying shape of an answer.
Beyond the glossy Instagram images lies another side of Chefchaouen
The story of a short but transformative encounter in Fes, Morocco
A semi-humourous account of house hunting in the Capital.
Mixed media portraits of the people of Jerusalem.
World Peace Day exhibition at the Bosnian Embassy with Most Mira.
Poetry exploring my experience of returning to my native Aberdeen
Site-specific performance in Aberdeen's iconic Bon Accord Baths
The power of personal storytelling and its role in my work with Safe Harbour Open Sea.
Some questions and answers about new book 'Mirage'.
Creative writing attempting to capture the feeling of the third lockdown.