A Strange Kind of Belonging
It all began with a Facebook post. An innocuous post requesting stories from my former classmates and their recollections of their memories of their time at school. However, when my eyes scanned the comments, a silent tear pricked my cheek. My eyes scanned the comments and soon I discovered that the majority of my classmates had collective stories, which they shared in common. I was once again on the outside looking in with eyes of a stranger. My story was different.
The question I am now pondering over — could I for the first time in my life be seeking some form of belonging, something which has so far been sketchy in my life. Perhaps, level 5 restrictions is bringing up a sense of alones, the type I have never experienced. Just maybe, the separation between me and my family is unearthing a feeling that I am standing uneasily on shifting sands causing me to feel insecure. .
While I do have good memories from my time at school, I do not share those similar experiences which ultimately consolidated my classmates collective bonding Their memories of getting dressed up for school discos are not mine. I had only acquaintances at school, I chatted to different friends in each class. My two close friends went to another school, I had met them several years earlier at a local dance school and for some reason we became firm friends and it was them I shared all my hopes, dreams and fears with.
Moreover, by the age of thirteen I had a determined quietness about me and knew I was leaving. I made the decision to withdraw from the place I mischievously but lovingly called Spam Valley.
Upon reflection, I believe that because I spent considerable time in Dunoon, it played a factor in me not sharing similiar memories to my schoolmates. It would be incorrect to say Dunoon was a quiet sleepy town although it is situated in Argyll. At that time there were multitudes of Americans who were part of the Polaris Nuclear Naval Base stationed there. In addition to those who were in the navy, there were the mass of auxiliary personnel like hairdressers, dentists and kindergarten staff. It has to be said that the American base brought a different social symphony to a small town. It was indeed a Scottish town but greatly indented with an American cultural fusion and it was a symphony which appealed to me.
PJs could hardly be described in a similar vein as one of Glasgow’s dance venues such as The Apollo or Tiffanys, it was really a small dance floor squeezed into a pub but it was a haven for music. Many of the Black Americans made it their haunt. Music boomed and blasted the rafters, sounds of the NY streets, roots reggae and ska.
In my school, we were all white and middle class and all of the same religion well except me that it. I was Catholic in a predominantly protestant school but that is a story for another time. However, in Dunoon, I met different types of people from all backgrounds with alternative ways of looking at life and I loved meeting people who had different upbringings and lifestyles, such as Saffron.
Saffron was indeed a colourful character and she had a two bed-roomed apartment just off Tom-a-Mhoid Road. She was a staunch card carrying member of CND and she came over from the States in order to highlight the immorality and lunacy of nuclear weapons. Her brother had been in ‘Nam’ and had returned ‘home’ a totally different person. She claimed that she didn’t want anyone to go through what she and her family went through with her brother Jake. When one stepped into the apartment one would be met with furnishings in shades of indigos and pinks; cushions scattered the wooden floor, a blanket in rainbow shades sprawled over the chubby sofa and candles and votives in assorted colours were arranged strategically around the house. Moreover, Saffron was the first divorced person I had ever met, up until that moment divorce in my world was restricted to film stars. It was the first time I heard anyone coin the word solo for single.
It was in Saffron’s apartment that I met Jeremiah. He was lying outstretched on the sofa and his ghetto blaster was unusually silent. Saffron loved the sound of nothingness and she wouldn’t let anyone disturb the peace vibes in her apartment. Saffron was a soft spoken fifty something and very much an able spokesperson for CND. She had long silver hair, wore cheesecloth tops and flowing skirts. She read Rohr, Nouwen, Greer and loved the artwork of Kahlo.
Jeremiah was a lean gangly man from Liverpool. When Jeremiah spoke every word had its own melody and I loved how he used to say ‘man’ no matter who he was speaking to. Jeremiah was a Rastafarian. He claimed that he had made the decision to embrace his ancestral heritage which had been stripped away from him and his family. He smoked ganja and to him it was very much a spiritual experience and was always quoting scripture verses. Jeremiah was bright with a great sense of humour and he had a depth to him that I found interesting.
“You don’t listen to the music man. You feel it.” His rich velvet accent impacted upon me, besides I always felt the music. I was delighted to have met someone who like to burst spontaneously into dance. Rhythm was always there in my bones and I began to wonder whether I was born in the wrong place.
Jeremiah felt somewhat alienated from society and sensed that he just could not fit in. His parents were from Jamaica but he was born and raised in Toxteth in Liverpool. He did not see himself as British or English. In many ways I could identify with Jeremiah and that disturbed me because I pondered how could someone born in Glasgow feel so alienated like Jeremiah. At this point I have to state that Jeremiah suffered extensive discrimination, which I never experienced on a personal level. Thus, I am not saying my alienation is comparable to his discrimination but merely highlighting the alienation of that sense of unbelonging.
Upon reflection, I believe that the influences of peace activists like Saffron and Jeremiah shaped me in addition to the large community of Americans residing in Dunoon. This probably caused the rift between me and the small town I grew up in. A piece of my heart still holds dear the times spent together planning vigils in Saffron’s home. The cherished memories of sitting on the floor and listening to the stories from peace activists who were in the Raging Grannies. Catholic Workers Movement and Women in Black enriched me and shaped my frame of reference.. Their stories found a place in my heart and stayed there and we became kindred. . Thus my friends were a wandering tribe, often for a season and definitely not fixed to one place. It is with regret that I have to write that I jave lost touch with my two best friends when I left and moved to London. I suppose I got caught up with the London soundscape while both remained at home.
I may well be facing the shadow side of the archetypal free-spirit. That sense of being a blow-in often hits when I look at my current local Facebook page and I don’t recognise people in a photo but so many people I know do and then a lengthy conversation ensues. Time has weaved community camaraderie. e.
As I write I am recalling my two friends who I shared many good memories and scrapes with. I have discovered that both of them are still living in the town, and I would love to meet up with them. It has been over forty years since I last saw them but I am not sure whether it is a wise thing to do. Perhaps I ought to leave them and their memories etched in my heart. Forty years is a considerable length of time and no doubt we have changed. All three of us will have different life experiences and it has to be said that some times friendships can be but for a season.
For now I am stuck in that formless space of not going back and the not yet place. However, I do know that my season in West Cork is coming to closure, pastures new await.
To be continued… … … …
Please note — names have been changed for confidentiality reasons
