Rough Crossings
My heart is broken, bleeding and cut into pieces. I have been through the entire grief cycle today.
My dad passed away in July 2021. When I was 14 he gave me a book, Rough Crossings by Simon Schama, a famous historian. It was on the history of slavery and Sierra Leone. I found that book again in my parents house the day he passed away. I was so glad, it was a part of him…until today, when I found out my mum had chucked it away.
Dad told me Sierra Leone was named by the Portuguese from the words Sierra (mountain) and Leone (Lion) they heard thunder from the coast and thought it was lions in the mountains. I attempted several times to read the book,
Dad bought me the book in 2005 upon release, with its original cover. It was evocative, a picture of a slave boy with iron ring around his neck. I can still see it. Just the pictures made me uncomfortable about the white, middle class hell my parents had just moved me to. You already are the only black girl in your class and you are walking around with a book with a black boy your age with a metal chain around his neck. An actual slave in a curriculum where we weren’t taught it. It was a challenging read and at one point I had to get a dictionary out to read the preface. But hey, I learnt what the word “Diametrically” means.
Dad used to sign books, simply with the name and the date of purchase. Funny how that signing of the book is in fact a piece of your soul that you are leaving into eternity. That book is still there somewhere… with his writing. But he isn’t.
He gave me that book when we both had our health, we’d just moved to Hedge end and over the years we’d had several conversations around that book. It was just as much a part of what made “home” as wallpaper and carpet. When you move so often, it is those things that make home, home. Each conversation ending with me promising to read it.
I have wept bitterly for many hours for my loss. Something as small as a habit of signing books meant I always felt safe in the knowledge that I have access to my father’s signature, his writing is a piece of him and it reflects what he was thinking at the time, even if it was something as simple as “let me write my name and the date in this book so my 14 year old can’t lose the book in school” I wanted it to transport me back to the place and time that was simpler. What was he thinking about that day? What made him happy that day? What did he think of the book?
People grieve in different ways and I grieve with all my 5 senses.
I have a picture of dad in from my iphone of him turning his head towards me to smile for the picture, him in motion. It means so much to me. That’s sight. It reminds me he’s not just a static painting, but a dynamic man. It still upsets me, because he’ll never move again. Never smile at me.
I have his hat. I sniff it sometimes to get the smell of him. Scent.
I also have a hoodie I procured from his wardrobe when it got cold on a visit shortly after his death, that’s touch.
I have a video recording of him on his last birthday, where I can hear his voice. Sound.
There is a particular restaurant I went to when I took him (and mum) to “Smith’s day out” when I told him how much I appreciated his sacrifice. I went there again on father’s day weekend to remember him and the good times. Taste.
It hurts so much because it is one of the few books my dad and I had a conversation about, I have several memories attached to that book. And other books. There are so many books that are a part of the story of my father and I. Starting with fairy tales, then:
“Pocket book of knowledge” when I was about 6. I read that book until I could recite it.
Then there was “how my body works” A series of books, each on a different part of the body, I imagine a 1980’s forefather of “horrible bodies” teaching science in a kid-friendly way.
Then there were “kings and queens of England” because I love history
“The complete works of Shakespeare.” because dad is way smarter than me. He wanted me to read the real Shakespeare, not just watch adaptations.
Dad took me at midnight for the midnight opening of Waterstones Southampton for the last Harry Potter book.
Dad let me read Darren Shan. A series about Vampires when I was in late primary school year 5 and 6. I remember when he took me to WHSmith, I was so excited that he was going to buy me a book, he bought me 3. Tunnels of blood, Vampire Mountain, and Trials of death. I read those books so fast it was as if someone was paying me to hoover them up.
Dad wanted me to read books by African writers like “Half of a Yellow Sun” and “The devil that danced on the Water” and “Things fall apart” I actually saved the book “Scramble for Africa” from his study after his death because I thought mum would throw that book away but keep mine safe because it was mine. It was with my things. But no. She threw it away, and I’m devastated.
All these books I believed were never in danger whilst my father lived… but my father is not living. So I have nothing. It’s like being robbed twice.
My mum hates clutter, dad loves it. I’m sentimental. I got that and my love of both books and reading (I believe they are 2 different things) from him. As a result, she could never understand why that book means so much to me. It was part of the love story of a father and his daughter. I was his beloved, he didn’t give books to just anyone. It was him passing down the history of our culture to me. In fact, other than teaching me traditional hunting songs, it is the only occasion I can remember him teaching me my culture in a way I could understand. Simon Schama was and is a famous historian and the fact that he deigned to write about our tiny country was such a big deal. I should have read the book.
Dad being dad he bought 2. Which is the source of the problem. Because he bought 2 my mum threw away my copy, which was the original hardback, a big, clunky thing. instead she kept the paperback.
Despite the fact that the hardback was part of the family, it was always near dad on his book shelf. Hence why its part of what makes home, home to me. Book shelves change, houses change, but it was always close to him in proximity. Out of hundreds of books, he kept it close to him. It meant something to him. He signed it. He didn’t sign the paperback. My mum however, is built different. She didn’t notice it. That book has been through 3 houses, yet it was always close to him in his study. I meanwhile watched my father like a hawk, there was so much to watch, his mood, his health, (especially in the latter years) his struggle. So whenever he had those moments of peace in his study, I watched to see what made him happy, and clearly that book, made him happy. I guess that is what upsets me. We’ve thrown away something that makes him happy.
Call it sad, but I am not ready to get rid of my father’s things. I like walking into his wardrobe, seeing his shirts and jackets ironed neatly, ready to be worn. I like seeing his organ ready to be played. Seeing his books ready to be read. Its as if he could walk in from his garden again, hat on his head, with a smile on his face and a joke ready to be told. I want to think that his spirit is still in that house and he can still recognise it as his home. That he is pleased that he is not forgotten, erased from the house he departed this life in. It is the only place on earth that was definitively his. He’d put his stamp on it. Landscaped the garden, filled the house with “Jatty Jatty” (Creole for Junk) and that is what made 28 Smith street my parents home. Whilst I recognise my mother feels differently, I would have cared less if I was allowed to keep that one book. To take away the “Jatty jatty,” means its no longer my father’s house. It means I can’t picture him on the sofa giving me a hug, and soon I will forget all sorts of things. What if I forget what side of his face his dimple was on (right, same as me) or how tall he was in relation to me? What if I forget his voice? What if I forget him dancing with me at my Auntie Sylvia’s 50th? That was just before the pandemic and our last dance. These are the thoughts that terrify me. As a result I am an absolutist and I absolutely cannot have any change to that house. His spirit absolutely must remember this was his home.
I’m not even angry at my mother. She behaved to type. Its like being angry at a baby for waking you up in the middle of the night. You can be, but it isn’t going to get you anywhere. I’d separated the book from other things, it was with my things away from the shelf, I’d also made it clear on several occasions that it was my book and I was coming back for it because it was so big/heavy. But my mother doesn’t think like that. My mother has a history of throwing away things that mean something to me.
When I was a small child I wrote a poem about my grandfather. It was entitled “When I look at fire” I loved it so much I typed it the family computer… One day I came home from school, and it was gone. She’d sent it to her little sister in Freetown. No warning.
She chucked a jumper my godmother gave me when I was 3. I was 10 and could still fit into it. (It was a big jumper when I was 3)
She chucked my childhood toys away and gave it to “Sierra Leone” (Honest to God the reason I have so much resentment for Sierra Leone is that there’s always a cause my parents want to give my parents always start with sacrificing my stuff first) My dad gave me a small pink pig the day I was born, it survived the first purge, but when I was 19 she chucked it along with the only toy my ex-husband had ever bought me. A toy Simba from Disneyland Paris. Yet I am the problem child for making toy lions for my children yet unborn, if I had been allowed to keep my childhood toys in storage (its not like an 19 year old was playing with them (but my 10-12 year old self was) (I’m the daughter of a mother who played with dolls until her teens) I was a very young adolescent. As a result I have 2 lions called Leopald Michael Smith and Leonidas Gabriel Smith. They will then be joined by brothers, Leofric, Leonado, Leofwin and Leor. I just need time to sew them… I will have a whole pride for my children to play with. Something I made with love when I was younger because I didn’t have anything to pass down. My parents went to Wales about 10 years ago, they went to a slate mine. My mum brought back a small piece of slate, that said “I love you, love mum” that she’d scratched onto the slate. I used to hold that piece of slate during lockdown as it was a reminder of my mum’s handwriting and a happier time. I will give that slate to my children. All I wanted is something similar for my father. Something with his handwriting from a happier time.
Another reason that dumping the book hurt. That book was my father’s legacy to his grandchildren. It was meant to teach them their history. I plan to buy the book in its original cover, so they can see how powerful the image is. I want them to understand their proud heritage. As I plan to have multiple children, one will be given the paperback copy my mum saved and the other child will be given the original cover. It means so much to me, reading the books my father read, and having my children reading it too. Absorbing that knowledge and linking them to a man they’ll never meet. “What did grandad Beale think of this paragraph?” They will ask, “I wish I could ask dad about this, “ I will think. But we will have something of him that we can interact with. It makes him more real. My children will have evidence their grandfather is into history through his books. Without the books how will they know how much he loved to read? Its one thing to say he loved books, but to see his collection you could essentially feel how much he loved books. Without his shirts how will they know how tall and broad he is? Without his shoes how will they know how much he loved them? How will they know how much he loved God? I can’t be the gatekeeper of all that history, all the nuance of a whole human being. Especially someone as magnificent as my father. God rest him. The only thing I can say is I thank him for giving me the world of books, which has been a source of constant joy, comfort and challenge. The tears I shed are because I know now I can’t share any of those feelings with him going forward.
In short, I’m a daddy’s girl without her daddy. And now I’m without his books too.
That’s a rough crossing into this bold new world without my father in it.
Grace and Courage.
Annetta Mother Smith.