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.
Category: Grief
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Honestly, is barely eating, sleeping a ton, getting burnout/overwhelmed easily, Not socialising, Not exercising, Coping? The question hangs in the air. The reality is troubling. The answer is obvious. You ignore it, of course. You want to be better. You are still not sure if you even deserve better. Or, what better is. You are…
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It is quiet in your little corner of the world. And another weekend passes by in a blink. It is always easier to hide. Old feelings resurface, safer to trust no one, nothing. Even if it is, Lonely. You’re afraid you’ll need something stronger soon. The old tricks have ceased to work. Everything’s so loud.…
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Overall Reception: Mixed to Positive The production has been described as a “messy” but “entertainingly messy” raucous new take on Euripides’ Greek tragedy [timeout] (https://www.timeout.com/london/theatre/bacchae-review) , marking the debut of new National Theatre director Indhu Rubasingham. Key Strengths Visual Spectacle: Critics praised it as a visually spectacular production with exciting sound and lighting, glittering, and…
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You’re 15. Sat on an uncomfortable, ugly, blue, plastic chair. In a circle. Facing your peers. You’re all exhausted. It is raining outside. It is November. It’s PSHE. You’re learning about rape. You listen to the definition. You suddenly feel violently nauseous. The room spins. And his face flashes across your eyes. You blink. Rub…
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You have memorised his number plate, Where he parks his car. Just in case, The deep gut-wrenching despair, ever matures into anger. An emotion you have not allowed myself to feel, For fear of it swallowing you whole. Sometimes, You forget a version of you existed, before this, Before his hands. But, was there? Was…
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After today, my lips will be set in a permanent scowl. I will no longer be meek, or compliant. Because, They aren’t. They spew their vitriol with the confidence of a God. State sanctioned hatred. Misplaced, forcibly redirected rage. Whilst, we, like a lamb about to be slaughtered, to the very same corrupt God, Are…
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Is congratulations what you say? When, after, what feels like an eternity. I resent the standards, I was held to. Both spoken, and in whispered conversations, overheard unintentionally. A knife in my chest, which I try to cut out by cutting deeper into my organs, but I can’t find the source of the bleeding, my…
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Worshipping the wrong gods, Not the state sanctioned, Approved, Male, powerful Gods. We are taught, no, Brainwashed to worship at their altar, kneel on glass and bear the curse with no complaints. Worship. (A lie, a fabrication, a tool to snuff you out like a candle at night) So, I bring you, Votives, Gifts, Offerings,…
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Ode on an Urn, on which someone who’s not got any talent at all (if you’re being honest) has painted a planet and a wonky arrow, it points to nothing. The label: ‘On living on Earth, 2025’ It’s their most prized artefact, for some reason. For most of my life the belief: that you had…
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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…
