Living under an enforced shadow or layer of consciousness that is not yours is exhausting. This layer or shadow is detrimental to those who are unaware of it’s effects. It can quite literally steal one’s mind away in mid sentence.
It’s like a ‘neurological sickness’ brought on by an ideaology that took hundreds of years to be ingrained in the psyche. Perfected by generations of liers, it lives on still today…
Like a virus it infects the ignorant.
For all the generations of writers and artists who lost their voice to the shadows; you are the threads that weave the tapestry covering the hole in my soul.
Today I was listening to Maya Angelou being interviewed in the psychiatrist’s chair on Radio 4xtra. It seemed almost coincidental that I should write about identity and then for me to listen to her talk about her experience of identity.
That no matter how positive you felt behind your own front door as soon as you crossed the threshold, almost always you could be crushed. But that there is a protective cloak against, the disparaging looks of disgust and hate directed at her because of the colour of her skin.
She spoke of the collective paranoia of a people not seen. Of being represented as the perpetual N***er in American classics while becoming ‘herself’ and feeling much more at home with Dickens and Tolstoy.
For me, I took refuge in Greek and Norse Mythology. At the age of 10yrs old I can clearly remember sitting on my Grandmother’s veranda in Jamaica and devouring Homer’s Odyssey. Then, I had been allowed one year’s reprieve from second guessing how people were precieving me.
I was creating my own soft places to fall in my mind’s eye. In preparation for living in the shadow.