Northern, Miner’s Strikes
Protest is in my blood.
Geordie accent,
NHS workers,
the Beatles.
Beaches in winter,
building sandcastles anyway.
Billy Elliot.
I try to force myself to assimilate, speak in Geordie or even brummy, never in my dialect, never in the tongue of my people.
Never show them fear, you were born here.
But,
that doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
They still hate.
Cognitive Dissonance.
A lost cause?
//////
The other side of the world,
A hidden history,
forced to light by the other half of my idetity, not in my name but in my bones.
Women are forced to be small, paint their faces, be revolutionaries.
We are lied to. The endless West vs East.
A constant conflict in my bones.
//////
Generational Trauma.
I am my family’s product, prized possession.
I see myself in my sisters, in their lives.
I am eclectic,
a myriad of thoughts, at the speed of light
travelling,
hopefully as far as they can,
before they burn out.
Like a dying star,
Only for us,
to notice too late.
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