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The
Tethered Beast
It
wasn't so much that I objected to being poor. As
a child, monetary wealth was not the overriding
issue. You either had it or you didn't, simple
as that. And what you didn't have, you didn't
miss. In fact, I can vouch for poverty and state
- hand on heart - it moulded me into the person
I am today. My main gripe had nothing to do with
not having money. However, I resented being
forced to live in squalor and having to rely on
five-finger discounts, while my father - God
rest his useless soul - favoured the drink over
his duty as provider and my mother spent most of
her time placating my father than taking care of
her own offspring.
I
always wanted to be different, but being
different went down like a lead brick in
Auchnorock. You tried prancing round, putting on
airs and graces, you were more apt to get a
swift boot up the arse and told to sort yourself
out. There was protestations of, who does she
think she is? And they claimed I inherited my
rebellious streak from my mother's side of the
family. Poor woman got the blame for everything,
including the weather.
As
for material wealth. In all honesty, I'd never
had possessions that were solely mine.
Possessions were something that were loosely
held or arbitrarily gained. Consequently, when I
embarked on that elusive journey into the sacred
realms of secondary education, I had a grim
awakening about the social facts of life;
namely, other folk have their own possessions
and you kept your grubby, wee mitts off. I
learned that lesson very early on, but I was an
awkward apprentice, prone to slacking, and not
averse to the odd memory lapse or slight of
hand.
Even
though I was never what you might consider
particularly bright, I loved school and the
chance to escape the rigours of
institutionalised life. It was a unique
environment, where melodic ditties could be
heard at every available opportunity and adapted
to any form of pastime, from skipping to hand
clapping and ball juggling.
Our wee school's a rerr wee school,
It's made wi' bricks an' plaster,
But the only thing that's wrang wi' it
Is the baldy heided master.
He goes to the pub on Saturday,
He goes to church on Sunday
To pray to the Lord tae gae him strength,
Tae belt the weans on Monday!
Ah, those were the days!
I can handle poverty. I can even cope with
rejection. But the loss of a mother is something
that cannot be remedied. And when that loss is
interspersed with moral turpitude, it compounds
the misery, for a child has not the wisdom or
physical attributes to deal with grief or fend
off unwanted advances. When it comes right down
to it, a child's life is a precarious one,
fraught with ambivalence and a constant yearning
to belong to the social structure we call,
"a family."
The years that followed my mother's death were
filled with confusion and a whole host of
conflicting emotions, compounded by the
knowledge that her death was shroud in mystery.
A brief stint in foster care, where torture and
ritual humiliation were common place, and a
lengthy period in a children's home, only served
to heighten my sense of worthlessness. Sexual
abuse was rife and offered in exchange for extra
privileges or to avoid persecution. You were
regarded as dysfunctional reprobates, who needed
constant supervision and severe correction. You
were the silent majority and the general
consesus amongst those entrusted to care for you
sorry butt, was ignore any grievance you were
brave enough to voice. You were force-fed
religion until you were vomiting on its excess,
regardless of your own religious inclinations.
Colluding with family members was frown upon and
seen as an act of mutiny. Such acts were swiftly
knocked out of you. You were locked in isolation
until you conformed to the ways of
institutionalised existence.
Adolescence beckoned and I embarked on a journey
of discovery; a rebel with many causes. I was on
a mission; a mission that led to the streets of
London.
Despite my past, I consider myself fortunate. I
have had an extraordinary life. Don't get me
wrong, there are certain incidents that I
wouldn't care to repeat. But such experiences
have taught me that adversity girds the heart
and obstacles can be overcome with mental
application. I am a borne optimist and firmly
believe that such trials and tribulations are
set to test us. That which does not kill us, can
only make us stronger. And, by God, ain't that
the truth? |
