Amy C, Museum Education Professional, WRITER , ACTIVIST, QUEER.

A portfolio and online journal by Amy C, Museum Education Professional. Sharing original poetry, articles, artwork, and reflections on museum education, social justice, and personal values including feminism, LGBT+ rights, anti-racism, and equality. With over three years in learning and engagement roles, I contribute to Birmingham Museums Trust by fostering meaningful, inclusive experiences that celebrate diverse histories. My expertise lies in audience development, team management, and delivering creative programs that inspire a love of learning, particularly in the domains of feminism and the ancient world. At Birmingham Museums Trust, I led the development of impactful events such as the annual 'International Women and Girls in Science Day,' emphasizing collaboration and community engagement. My mission is to create accessible opportunities for learning while empowering teams and contributing to organizational growth.

I can rationalise,

Empathise,

and process,

with the best of them.

Faster,

than I thought I could.

I type until I can sleep,

still there’s neurons firing,

adrenaline pumping, with nowhere to run to.

As if,

someone,

(owner? father? husband? master?)

Left me,

bleeding and broken.

without a charge.

Or a spark.

For years, a lifetime. I am not sure.

My hearts beats out of my chest,

(I finally understand that saying)

and I watch it fall to the floor,

helpless,

still beating,

in the dust,

the dirt,

forgotten.

And one day,

spring? cleaning,

in the web-covered corner,

in the most,

severed, detached, separated, isolated, disconnected, segregated, secluded, removed, quarantined.

room of the house.

This is not purpose.

I do not believe otherwise now.

How could I.

I’ve had the wool,

violently,

ripped, leaving cuts,

from my eyes.

I did not choose this.

You,

dig me out.

Run electricity through my blood vessels,

(it feels like a death sentence, but I’m probably just being dramatic, maybe my period is due, did I forget a chore? an emotion? a crisis to solve? damn.)

But,

I am no Joan of Arc.

No witches of Salem,

No Boudicca,

Cleopatra,

Medea,

that I need to be to survive.

You, watch

(it makes me sick to think about)

(wow, honesty today – will that continue)

(it depends if there’s lightning next week, I say)

(they look puzzled, they write something down, I am frozen, and can’t see, but can THINK it is torture)

And so,

Just for one night,

you watch,

Me, myself, I.

A broken shell. Husks. Bones. Fossils. CORPSE.

Carcass laid out in the sun.

Still,

you eat.

I fumble to life,

It is too bright, I shield my eyes from the glare and climb.

Overwhelmed,

for your amusement,

exhausted,

until you are satisfied.

Is this it?

I scream.

It echoes.

He smiles.

The lights turn off.

Click.

I start to say ‘But-

before I am silenced.


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