Sometimes it doesn't work.
March 7th, day 25 of self-isolation due to Corona virus.
I’ve walked in a black mask and gloves to the waste ground across the Clyde from the BAE systems factory.
It’s 7pm and I’m dancing with the river, trying to let go of thesis writing, let go of the self that
wants a good grade.
The river ripples, polluted and beautiful. Stones slide and ooze. I feel the water in resonance with my body and start to move.
Mind chatter; am I dancing good? Am I letting go?
I’ve barely seen anyone in three and a half weeks.
Three neds (a word I should not use) THREE NEDS across on the other bank spot me.
AWRIGHT BIG CHAP!
Doom in my gut.
BETTER GET THAT SWAN AWAY FAE YE.
These three shapes become an instant proxy for every bully who ever dogged my days from primary school onwards (there were many).
Just as quickly I became a proxy for any poof they meet who can nourish their internal sense of belonging to each other. Policing of boundaries is perpetual.
My self boundaries slam shut as my amygdala sparks online.
Now the rationalising.
Coper: They’re on the other side of the river. You’re safe.
Body: Fight flight fight flight fightflight.
Coper: You came here to dance. Keep dancing.
And now my dance is for them, at them, against them and in spite of.
I try to tune into the water again, the stones and sludge beneath me.
To find joy in dancing.
But I am trying to connect with the world, and they are the world now, for me.
I have two audiences, and one is stronger.
The stones and waves recede in the shit brown sunlight of social conditioning.
Here’s yr toxic masculinity friend.
(Excuse the haphazard style of this; my adrenaline is still high and I’m shaking a bit. I want to see what my writing exhibits when I’m shaking; triggered me is a part of my selfhood).
I dance harder, more floridly. I show off.
When I approach the waters edge
DAE IT! JUMP! GWAN!
I ignore-don’t-ignore, dialogue with the water with no reference to them
(Every hair on my body on end).
I start to sing and grunt behind my mask, softly then full pelt to make sure they hear me.
Fuck them.
Laughter.
SHITEBAG!
I start to sing this mantra, only for them: I love you! I love you!
Muffled by the mask, I don’t know if they can make it out.
I dance like a faggot, like a flower. I love you!
Shame. Outrage.
Water swan birdcall cloud stone. I am a part of it.
WANT ME TO COME & MEET YE HALF WAY?
In reference to how he wants to fight me I think.
I shriek and yell incoherently behind my mask.
I pick up my phone and take a photo of them (see above).
Realising this is good shit for my PhD.
My PhD whose validation and attached stipend I depend on for survival.
Adrenaline.
These three young men have catapulted me by the tone of their voice more than the contents of their speech. Glasgow ned speech. Anyone with my upbringing knows it, and the undertones of psychotic aggression. Maybe two rivers would’ve instilled safety.
I am hyper aware of ‘code switching’ right now, and how my writing style is poofy. I grew up in Glasgow and my da’s from the Drum (Drumchapel). Writing like this makes me feel posh and fake. And a poof.
They’ve reminded me I’m an alien, that I’ve never belonged.
Coper: Hold on. Your dad was born in Partick. Your grandad and your ancestors. You have a right to fucking dance here if you want.
Body: danger danger the bad boys fae Govan are onto me.
When I was about seven my best friend pulled a muscle in his shoulder. I offered to massage it and he said GET AWAY FAE ME AH’M NO A POOF LIKE YOU.
Eleven years of dancing the cosmos versus three neds across the Clyde.
I finish dancing and sit on the stone wall, writing up these notes.
They get bored staring at me and pipe down. I’m no fun.
When I walk away I post about it on Facebook immediately, refreshing the page & sucking the belongingjuice from every like and comment.
When I get home I make light of it on Whatsapp to my friend Adriana (fellow PhD student).
She’s sharp and responds deeply and empathetically, realising I’m quite triggered. I am a poor liar.
We have the following exchange. You can see me warming to the possibility of expressing how intense it was once she gives me the all clear, and my insistence on humour to maintain my easy banter with her and calm myself down:
