To Create a Badass – #augustbreak
When I was younger, I suffered at the hands of bullies. They were pretty merciless and surprisingly coordinated in their verbal and sometimes physical assaults on me. They’d swoop in like Special Ops all dressed in their bottle green gingham school dresses and jumpers – miniature soldiers.
They asked me questions about my hair: “why is it so curly and wet? What’s that stuff on it? Spit? Hahaha spit head!” (explaining a Jheri curl to a group of jeering seven year olds is like trying to explain common sense to the Far Right.
They asked me questions about my skin: “why are you brown? Are you made of poo?”
They asked me questions about my heritage: “Africa!!! Did you ride around on tigers and have food brought to you by Oxfam?”
They asked me about my family (“Are you poor?”) and my food (“haha, why are you eating rice for lunch? Crazy!”) and my name (“What kind of name is that?”) and when they ran out of the usual fodder, they just made fun of my lips and my nose, how quiet I was, why I seemed to prefer to read a book than pelt about the playground chasing Neil, the flame-haired Adonis a few years above us, and anything else about me that was slightly different.
Being a child and not being able to fully grasp why exactly I was a target, I found myself in tears on numerous occasions, clutching at the skirts of my Mum and, once home, pleading with her to explain to me just why my hair was wet, why my skin was brown, why Dad couldn’t be here right now (he had to work on the mainland for a few months until he got a contract on the island where we lived) and what kind of name was mine?
My Mum sat me down and wrapped her arms around me and she taught me one of my most valuable life lessons: that people, all people are made up of different parts; that some people may have brown skin and dark eyes and others may have blonde hair and blue eyes; that some people had names like Jane and Alex and Chloe while others had names like Ayo and Nkechi and Ezeh. She explained that some people were made up of good things like joy and kindness and friendship while others had darker parts to them. And you, darling she said, might not be able to choose what parts make up your outside, but you have the chance to make sure that your inside is made up of all the good things. One cup love, two cups happiness, three, courage. It’s up to you.”
I love her for that.
Today, I’m made of stronger stuff than I was when I was seven. I’ve made sure of that and I’ve added a few things.
To make this particular breed of badass, you will need the following:
Mix these ingredients together adding liberal amounts of affection and kindness. You may see a penchant for books and shoes developing as you stir but trust, this is completely normal and even adds to the general brilliance.
Ensure you transport your badass mixture to different countries and varying cities, immersing it in a variety of cultures and class systems. Keep close to your heart for a quarter of a century and some change and once done, sprinkle with awesome and dust with giant hair.
Your result should be a muddled but sweet badass with a heart of gold and a tongue of fire.
Repeat as necessary.
All these years down the line, I still remember Mum’s words and have clung to them like a lifeline during the times when life batters against me like a brutal hailstorm. I remember through my anger and pain that I have the option to be forgiving and to be benevolent and to offer grins instead of frowns; to be the badass with the gooey centre that my parents always wanted me to be.
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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The Scintilla Project
Clearly, the recipe works because you are most certainly a badass. It all starts with one cup love, doesn’t it?
I do not know how you were able to write about such a harsh topic so tenderly. There is some real magic to that.
Also, I thought this might make you laugh: Elijah’s 10-year-old sister has been watching a lot of bad American television (I promise I will park my European I-grew-up-without-watching-TV high horse in a second). Her mother has been having stomach issues lately, so she hasn’t been able to drink coffee or consume dairy. This morning, the mum announced at the breakfast table that she was able to finish a quarter of a cup of coffee. The ten-year-old responded: “Mum, you are a real badass.” We are all still recovering from that.
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Oh no! I’ve had my recipe wrong all these years, now my bad ass is going to turn into a candy ass.
No, I refuse to allow that to happen.
Is it too late to salvage it into a nice “Warrior Monk” stew?
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What a beautiful piece of writing. Absolutely beautiful.
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a) this is lovely as usual.
b) i really adore how you’re taking on this challenge – you’re taking what might be normal photos and spinning them into something completely different. it’s super creative, and i love it.
c) i want to hear so much more about your life and how you grew up. your history sounds fascinating.
<3
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Bullies are cowards. (Most) mums are legends. What does not kill you only makes you stronger – glib but true. You are amazing, incredible, talented, intelligent and incredibly beautiful woman! Great job on this…. xxx
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What a wonderful recipe. I’m going to make sure to pass it along to my girls. Your mother is a very wise woman and clearly, so’s this daughter of hers.
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I dunno what I can add to this. This is wonderfully written but far more importantly, well learned and lived. We should all have a mum as wise and loving as yours.
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I love your mum for that, too. And I adore you!
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Your mom is a gem. Truly and so are you. I love what she told you. I hate, HATE that people said such rotten things to you because I don’t understand it. I don’t. I never will and it angers me that such idiocy exists. I’m grateful you are who you are and everything that makes you who you are. HUGS to you and thank you for sharing your recipe because this one is indeed one of a kind and we are all the better for it!
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Oh, your darling mother. Have any of your siblings gifted her with grandchildren yet? I love the thought of a new generation at her knee.
And children can be such little monsters. I wish there were a way for children to understand the way to ask questions and reach out without being hurtful or arrogant… because I think if they had, they would have had such an asset in your friendship, even before you had fully baked into badassery.
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