Love Rains – The Father Wound

I wanted to revisit the story of invisible wounds that are carried with us into adulthood. To look somemore at where Jill’s story ends and how and why Mos Def’s story begins. The reason: Psychological concepts live in us and are always present. Love Rains offers not just insight but also understanding.

Listen while you read if you can!

The Always Support

Jill Scott
Now me non clairvoyant and in love,
Made the coochie easy and the obvious invisible.
The rain was falling,
And I couldn’t see the season changing,
And the vibe slipping off its axis.
Our beautiful melody became wildly staccato. The…rain…was..falling…and…I…could not…see..that…I..was…to…be
Plowed…
And sown and fertilised,
and left to drown in his sunny afternoon,
Cumulus clouds, 84 degrees,

melody.

Chorus x1

Joy and Risk

Wide open, wide, loose like bowels after collard greens.
The mistake was made, love slipped from my lips,
Dripped down my chin and landed in his lap,
And Us became nu.
Now me non clairvoyant and in love
Made me the fool
You were never true
If you didn’t want me, ah, you should
have let me know
All you did was make a mockery of
Something so
Incredible, beautiful
I honestly did love you
So

Chorus x1

Immature
What then? Both hurt, but for two differing reasons. What follows is time healing and recovering from that pain of loss. Until it is met again and perhaps both can learn how to survive the intimacy and complications that romantic love can bring. For some, men can be less emotionally aware, less in tune with body-mind-emotion connections. Men can feel that shame and fear are the same and do not spend time investigating to understand their differences. Until an adulting experience happens. They are met by circumstances that force change. Then they do. Then they can. Then they will. Willingly facing the denial of their first hurts and begin the process of healing.

Cold and Warmth

Throne Making
Mos Def’s piece blew me away when I first heard it. It still does. No poem before or after had ever exalted and re-set the Black woman so perfectly, I wanted to possess and inhabit these words and the intention behind them, to make right the many centuries of wrong hurt blame shame and pain. This too is my shame. In a word I am sorry for the wrongs that I and my ken have brought to you. I want to make peace with you: Queen.

Mos Def:
I stretched my arms towards the sky like blades of tall grass.
The sun beat between my shoulders like carnival drums.
I sat still in hopes that it would help my wings to grow,
So that I could really be fly.
And then she arrived,
Like day break inside a railway tunnel,
Like the new moon, like a diamond in the mines, like high noon to a drunkard, sudden.
She made my heart beat in a now/now time signature.
Her skinny canvas for ultraviolet brushstrokes;
She was the sun’s painting.
She was a deep cognac color;
Her eyes sparkled like lights along the new city.
Her lips pursed as if her breath was too sweet and full for her mouth to hold.
I said, “you are the beautiful, distress of mathematics.”
I said, “For you, I would peel open the clouds like new fruit;
Give you lightning and thunder as a dowry.
I would make the sky shed all of its stars like rain,
I would clasp the constellations across your waist
and I would make the heavens your cape,
And they would be pleased to cover you.
They would be pleased to cover you,
May I please cover you?
Please”

Adoration

Heady
For me there is little in the way that speaks of adoration and reverie to honour or emits love much better than this. The poem can be interpreted as if to say I am sorry – and somehow yet, still more.

That an idyll can be obtained and brought about between Women and Men in this tale. ‘I see you, have loved you, am in love with you. With you, greater than I could ever be without you. And for that, I will share all that I am and more with you.’ That’s what I interpret in Mos Def’s verse.

The story in the remix offers a safe turn around to what is a well-known and pre-destined ending to love: Loss. Defeat. Endings.

As a result of the Kaemotherapy counselling offer, a number of Black women have been accessing my free workshops on 21st century mental health. I’ll write up my findings about the workshops soon.

Supporting Black women and men have become primary targets for my therapeutic support. There is great work to be completed and I am glad to have found a role that leads to overall wellbeing and health for more people.

Resources

Goddesses of the Roundtable Healing The Father Wound
Brené Brown Unlocking Us Podcast Ask Me Anything
Tony Porter T.E.D. Talk A Call To Men

Images
Cover photo by Larry Crayton on Unsplash
1st Inlay photo by Zach Vessels on Unsplash
2nd Inlay photo by Conner Baker on Unsplash
3rd Inlay photo by Chris Benson on Unsplash
4th Inlay photo by Humphrey Muleba on Unsplash


Love Rains – The Mother Wound

It was a warm night in July and I had been tossing and turning for the 2nd night in a row. Another awakening was happening for me. I asked myself what to do with the discomfort of knowing half of the population of people on the planet are valued lesser due to gender? It is a nonsensical, that has bothered me for 40+ years.

Bounce
That night a song rebounded in my mind and I was left with a question. What can I as a spirit, living in a Black male human body support Black women overthrow the yoke of patriarchy? The supporting interview with Kim Evans that offered free counselling via Kaemotherapy is a reminder of the fantastic work already being carried out.

Zoom Overload
Rotimi Akinsete who is involved with Black Men on The Couch shared with me, that a Somali Woman recently offered her community the access to a free session of counselling support and 30-40,000 Black Somali women joined the zoom chat. A welcome surprise that there were that many Women who wanted to access support from the call. There appears to be much work to be done!

Anthems
Love rains is a phenomenal song by Jill Scott on her first studio album ‘Who is Jill Scott?’. The album, a launching of a new songstress-poetess back in 98/99. Who is Jil Scott broke down a small wall for me in relation to an appreciation of Black Feminism. Songs like ‘Getting’ In The Way’, ‘Long Walk’, ‘The Way’ and ‘Love Rain’ became summer anthems for me that year. Most of the songs involved Jill’s interpretations on modern love and experiences on adulting.

Step Over
My wall was small because I had witnessed many of the challenges my mum and sisters were battling against daily. In many instances I was on the same side of the wall – bar 1 – male. Council housed, poor, from a sole parent family, Black, lower class.

Cardboard
The box we found ourselves in appeared too layered to clamber out from. My mother wasn’t one to relent on the hustle. My sisters were all able to dramatically blow out the sides of the box in one way or the other and escape. They all leaving home at 15/16…

Warming Embrace

The telling of Love Rain is a song/story of falling in love, and that love being passion driven and failing/ending. She writes/sings

Listen while you read if you can!

Jill Scott F/ Mos Def
Miscellaneous
Love Rain (remix)

chorus:
Love rain down on me,
on me,
Down on me.
Love rain down on me,
on me,
Down on me,
Love rain down on me,
on me,
Down on me.
Love rain down on me,
on me,
Down on me.

Met him on a Thursday,
Sunny afternoon,
Cumulous clouds,
84 degrees.
He was brown, deep
Said he wanted to talk about my mission, listen to my past lives.
Took me on long walks to places where butterflies rest easy,
Talked about Moses and Mumia, reparations, blue colors, memories of shell-topped Adidas.
He was fresh like summer peaches;
Sweet on my mind like block parties and penny candy.
Us was nice and warm, no jacket, no umbrella, just warm.
At night, we would watch the stars,
And he would physically give me each and every one.
I felt like cayenne pepper, red, hot spicy.
I felt dizzy and so near heaven.
Miles between my thighs,
Better than love, we made delicious.
He me had, and had me he.
He had me tongue tied;
I could hear his rhythm in my thoughts.
I was his sharp, his horn suction.
His boom and his bip,
And he was my love.

Recognise
There may have been these experiences Jill sings about above, a number of years ago. Perhaps even post the CoViD19 pandemic, pre and post lockdown experiences we may have taken long walks after being cooped up for so long. Fallen in love with our environment outside our front doors again. Perhaps met a special someone…

All Set

Chorus x1

The rain was falling and slowly and sweetly and stinging my eyes,
And I couldn’t see that he became my voodoo priest,
And I was his faithful concubine.
Wide open, wide, loose like bowels after collard greens.
The mistake was made, love slipped from my lips,
Dripped down my chin and landed in his lap,
And Us became Nu.
Now me non clairvoyant and in love,
Made the coochie easy and the obvious invisible.
The rain was falling,
And I couldn’t see the season changing,
And the vibe slipping off its axis.
Our beautiful melody became wildly staccato. The…rain…was..falling…and…I…could not…see..that…I..was…to…be
Plowed…
And sown and fertilised,
and left to drown in his sunny afternoon,
Cumulus clouds, 84 degree, melody.

Love Fade Verse
The ending of love and passion heads into something more pedantry, pedestrian, passion free? I wonder what else could be said here? What a woman who has been let down by her love, her world, by the problematic system of patriarchy might say?

Support by
I am to, pay attention. Call out the many micro-aggressions. Listen. Take up less space. Be a witness. Recognise simply it is not about you (man) or me. It is about equanimity and equality of opportunity. The very basis of a fair society.

Wounded
There is a story for both the woman willing to be vulnerable and for the man unwilling to bear countenance of vulnerability, that seems to be a part of the hidden story of this song. The idea that by barely whispering ‘I love you’, has someone who has been hurt by love – run.

Internally.

Looking for safety.

Resources
The Goddesses Roundtable Episode 3 Healing the Mother Wound
Dope Black Women podcasts: Mental Health of Young Black Women And Young Black Girls with Ebinehita Iyere.

Images
Cover photo by Andrae Ricketts on Unsplash
1st Inlay photo by Eye for Ebony on Unsplash
2nd Inlay photo by Sai De Silva on Unsplash

Vicarious Trauma – Jacket

I wrote a few weeks ago about the experience of some people suffering trauma by witnessing harm come to another. Reminding them of their own hurts and past experiences of pain. Writing about Rodney King and then George Floyd has opened the door to an even earlier experience with Stephen and his jacket.

Big or Little T Trauma?
Last week I wrote about the chase by police of me on my bike for reasons unknown. This week I wanted to discuss a first trauma. Yes there were others. The event was momentous as I had not been treated like this by anyone. I was about 7. It was summer. My friend ‘T’ and I were taking it in turns to ride my bike around the estate. The bike a black and yellow Cinzia, was my most treasured Christmas present! The bike was a sort of hybrid BMX.

Looking up.

Summer
It was another hot summer 1979/1980. We kids were not up to much. Playing around the blocks of flats, killing ants, making and firing peg guns at each other and at pigeons. Harassing each other for rides on each others bikes. Playing knock down Ginger. Asking about who’s going to the shop? Because those half penny cola bottle sweets were so tangy and sweet. Tangmere used to have it all. Something unknown to my 7 year old awarness made all of the shops shut and never re-open.

Intimidate
T had somehow met Stephen and been impolitely requested to give him a go of my bike. I believe Stephen had chased T and pulled him off the bike! Stephen was an older kid, maybe 10 or 11. He carried himself with some swagger. I can remember him (Stephen) pulling wheelies and doing long skids along the pavement. Treating (trashing) my bike in a disrespectful and in a way I found unapologetic in manner. Like the bike was his! I was angered by this. T may have told me what had just happened to him. I became livid I can remember. A thought I had was, this could be a case for the Red Hand Gang! But they weren’t around so, I could make this situation better all by myself.

Propulsion
I ran at Stephen and shouted give me my bike back! He ignored me and sailed past. I gave chase. Screaming. Shouting. Wanting. My bike back! We met at Martlesham or Croydon one of those housing blocks on the estate. Stephen had sneered a warning to others who were gathered earlier: “if anyone touches my jacket. You’re dead.” He, Stephen, serious, warned. Me oblivious and not hearing, ignored.

Martlesham and Croydon were 5, 6 or 7 stories high with garden units at their lowest housing level. Both blocks had little to no outdoor space higher up the blocks, unless you counted the landings. All of the housing blocks had double height under building car parks. Our show down (mine and Stephen’s) was to take place in one of the car parks – later. The estate had many outdoor green park spaces dotted throughout the collection of buildings at ground level.

Air Time on bike

Engagement
I think I shoved him in the back, or on the shoulder. Committing the mortal foul of touching his jacket. He had warned all who had cared to listen. But I shoved and he went ballistic. I believe that I started running before my bike hit the ground. Before Stephen started swearing. Before Stephen repeated he would hurt me after he managed to catch me. My feet took me away. At great speed. Fear is a phenomenally great accelerator. 

Distance
I ran. He chased. Back then aged 7. I was Nike. Fleet of foot. Good at bulldog, the running tag game. The 60m dash. The 100m sprint. But distance races I had not spent my time running. Now Stephen was quick too, and run as I might I could not lose him. He relentlessly gained on me. Swearing. I thought I could make it home, but his gallop closed down that line of escape. I turned away from racing home to Tangmere 119. To dodging between parked cars. Feeling that if I could use the cars to hide me I could evade capture.

Scared
I ran for my life. Petrified. I feared that Stephen would finish me. He had said just that! This was happening and whilst in disbelief, I ran. Who threatens who about a Jacket? A jacket! Possession and custody of things I understood on some level. I put my body in harms way to get my bike back. This need felt justified. Right. Believable. Stephen’s need seemed trivial, petty. Unjustified. Stephen wanted to hurt me because he viewed his jacket as sovereign. I had mistakenly entered sacred space. Spoilt thread by touch and so here we were. Lion and gazelle in a death defying race. I feared for my life and ran away to protect it.

Relief
He caught me under Martlesham and punched me a number of times. Head. Neck. Body shots. I wish I could tell you I took them all like a man and didn’t give him the satisfaction of witnessing a tear fall. I believe I cried from one side of the estate to the other. I cried up all the stairs to the top floor of Tangmere and when I got to my door which thankfully was opened by my mum. I went in and told her what had happened. She incensed. The bike left and forgotten where it lay. T later returned the bike.

Night Fades

Many – One
Lost in my mayhem of thoughts and sorrow. I was not out for revenge. I wanted the pain and the sense of defeat at being outrun to pass. The reason – I was fast and rarely beaten in a running battle! There was the curious case of Darren. I wanted not to remember the embarrassment of losing a fight to an older boy. I vaguely remember T trying to defend me either running beside as a distractor or getting in the way of Stephen. Stephen had singled me out to exact his vengeance. And so found – was punished.

Prey
The lion had found his prey and was set to claim his spoils. Remembering this painful memory does a number of things. I get to remember and release the pain that has been embedded in me for almost 40 years. There is also the courage to look at past hurts and witness the learning. I recognise that my experience of the chase trauma bears little resemblance to George Floyd’s murder or Rodney King’s assault. What I am doing is reclaiming my experience of terror. Providing an understanding of an unjust event and by doing so, allowing myself to relieve the experience of a trauma witnessed vicariously. It’s narrative therapy.

If
My want in writing this series is that you the reader come away with an understanding of the term Vicarious Trauma that is personally enhanced. That the resources below support compassion and a commitment to live within an anti-racist frame, and that you comment below on these thoughts.

Resources
Trevor Noah Explains the Domino Effect
Code Switch The Return of Race Science
Unlocking Us with Brené Brown Shame and Accountability
This American Life The Reprieve
Going Home song
How Can We Win Kimberly Jones

Images
Cover photo by Chromatograph on Unsplash City Skyline
1st Inlay photo by Joseph Chan on Unsplash Looking Up Block
2nd Inlay photo by Jean Carlo Emer on Unsplash BMX rider
3rd Inlay photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash Night estate

Vicarious Trauma – Police Chase

Last weeks post Vicarious Trauma – Revisited, invited me to remember a suppressed memory. The memory was filed in a box that is seldom reached for. There aren’t many files in this box. It’s in a room that is locked shut. Big thick padlocks and chain.

Labelled: Confusion and Pain Lie here.

1st Job
I remember an evening shift at McDonalds. Full of the usual fare. Me in the back room. Working my 7.5. Supporting the close down. Collapsing the boxes, re stocking shelves, getting changed and leaving Cathedral Square – Peterborough to make my 4 mile cycle ride home. Mum was alive then, 90/91. We all still live in New Werrington. I have either had a full week at College and am on a late shift mid week or am on an evening shift on a Saturday night. No main dramas. Some late night revellers asking for extra chips or a free burger.

Crime
The ride home was uneventful until the rain came. I am midway home. I have no lights on my bike. I am cycling reasonably fast. Traffic on the roads – light – mostly heading in to the city centre. I have crossed the dual carriageway over the footbridge leaving Dogsthorpe into Paston ridings. I am thinking of how the nights events were funny and silly. I have a hamburger hum about me. The grease fat seems to cloak me even though I didn’t fry food that night.

Police Cruiser

Sighted
I round the last bend before the slight downward hill from Gunthorpe into Werrington. I pass a police cruiser lazily heading away from Werrington. Reaching the footpath that takes me to the water linkway and on to my home, I chance a glance behind me and notice the police car ominously turn and head in my direction.

I don’t stop to think. It is cold. It is wet out. I want to be home. The police car picks up pace and blue lights begin swooping. The police car mounts the curb awkwardly and speeds across the grassy verge. I note the headlamps sweep in my direction. If I can just pedal hard I can make the distance to the bollards before they can catch me.

I don’t want to speak with anyone, especially to these officers. Not then or ever.

Chase
The police car revs and I sense them close the distance between me and them, in a short space of time. They drive over long grass. Not using the footpath. Attempting to short cut. I am not stopping. Neither are they!

If I can just get to the wooden posts infront of the bridge before they ram me off the bike I’ll be free. The car skids to a halt infront of the bollards. I sail through. I imagine I hear one of the officer’s curse. I am away. I have made it!

My trusty bike has aided my escape.

Reflex
I am elated and bewildered. They could not be chasing me to tell me about lights on my bike. What if I had fallen? What then?
What if they had caught me?
What then?

I had no reason to stop.
The police had no good reason to chase.
But chase they did.
And flee I went.
Away.

Much like a dog after it’s chew toy, ball, stick thing. Thrown aloft. Thrown far and fast. Dog’s chase out of instinct.

It is possible the police chased me for much the same reason. Sighting a Black boy on a bike at a time when most young people were heading in to the city centre not away from it. The picture to them may have appeared wrong, strange, suspicious? There may well have been cause to chase and make enquiries.

From the moment they turned, the chase was on!

And this race, I was not under the circumstances – about to lose!

The Ever Growing

Two, One
The panic. The fear and confusion were unlike much else I had met before. There was the Stephen chase: aged 7. I’ll come to that experience later. The exhilaration of getting away this time was amazing.

I had been fortunate. Unlike so many others, sisters, brothers both here and there…

Vicariously
Watching films like ‘Just Mercy’, ‘Fruitvale Station’, ‘Do The Right Thing’ ‘If ‘Beale Steet Could Talk’ all have Black Men in unjustly familiar situations. These films appear to be in the abstract, distant, objective.

Not for me! As an empath, I am sensitized to feel each blow, every hate filled undignified look as though I suffered it. With these films I am often incensed and saddened. Their characters depict men pitted against circumstances beyond their control. That potentially either lead to their deaths or serving unjustified sentences.

Mark Duggan, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland – happen to bring the trauma of death and unlawful killing viscerally primed.

Leaving me
Looking for
Explanation, spinning,
Attempting to
Find balance.
Remaining askew.

Until…

George Floyd

Resources
I Can’t Breathe Again 2020 Poem
Black People Die in Police Custody
The Joys of Motherhood Poem
The UK is Not Innocent
Assumptions About White Privilege
Obioma Ugoala speaks about Anti Racism

Images
Cover photo by Fred Kearney on Unsplash
1st Inlay photo by Ashley Harkness on Unsplash
2nd Inlay photo by LOGAN WEAVER on Unsplash

Vicarious Trauma – Revisited

A few weeks ago I wrote a short piece in relation to an experience with Vicarious Trauma and gave a personal account of an experience relating to George Floyd’s killing and the Rodney King attack.

Make Plain
What was not explained was what vicarious trauma is. I will do here.

The experience for me then in 1996 was to see a man who I recognised as myself being beaten by 4 police officers. The reason for the attack appeared unjustified, unreasonable and extreme.

I saw myself as Rodney King. Being mistreated, handled in unlawful and in a grossly cruel way. The incident brought to my mind feelings of panic, feelings of loss and abandonment, sorrow, anger, bewilderment, confusion. Ideas that the world is unfair and dangerous. These earlier impressions have left me vigilant, aware, cautious.

Vicarious
As a counsellor/Psychotherapist/Coach/Supervisor the role is to support those who are interested in accessing guidance. Often clients bring painful experiences. At times their traumatic experiences maraud around the space we share, as if re-awakened like a Genie from a lamp.

‘Vicarious trauma is the emotional residue of exposure that counselors have from working with people as they are hearing their trauma stories and become witnesses to the pain, fear, and terror that trauma survivors have endured’

Hurt: 1000 Arrows

For many people the experience of knowing a negative event intimately as a person who has had that experience happen to them, or witnessed a negative event happen to another could leave that person suffering from vicarious trauma.

Circular
Any further events that resemble or are a reminder could result in the witness becoming triggered/affected by what they have been reminded of.

My link is George Floyd – Rodney King – my being chased by the police aged 17 – me being chased by Stephen on my estate aged 7.
The panic/fear response is still with me.

This is…

Resources
American Counseling Association – Vicarious Trauma
Criminal Knock and Announce Episode 143
The Stoop – Black on Air
The Infinite Monkey Cage – The Human Brain

Images
Cover Photo by Martin Reisch on Unsplash
Inlay photo by Franck V. on Unsplash