super sweet, nice, sad.
Had a microcosm experience today. A man I’m speaking to asked me yesterday what I’d do if money wasn’t an object, to make myself the best at it and then make money off it.
I replied (not actually joking) “how do I make money out of me spending my money on other people’s kids?”
It wasn’t a joke because I’m currently the majority of the way through a crotchet blanket…for a friends baby, my cousin’s daughter turns 1 tomorrow and I’m sending money for her. I’ve also got a secret project on my heart to give to the daughters of people who helped my dad when he was dying. Its one for the “saving for” list and depending on how the job situation goes over the next few months I’m aiming to give it to them by the 1 year anniversary of my dad’s funeral, if I can’t do the 1 year anniversary of his death.
The second I finished sending that message to the man yesterday, I came across my neighbour, (loosely translated as another black woman in the village, (we all know each other)) she was on a walk to tire out her daughter, who turned 2 today. I was amazed how big the child had gotten, I’ve seen her only twice before, around the time my dad was dying. She is lovely, and very cute, Zara is her name. I was so happy to see her. I said I’d drop by her house and drop a card today, which I did.
I decided against burning in the fires of Karmic hell for buying a 2 year old a glitter-based birthday present from the local newsagent and instead decided to give her a little money to buy a toy or something and let baby and mum decide.
I then went to the cash machine to take out £20 for a gift. I pondered about this, I was giving £20 cash to a child who I'd met thrice, I have seen her mum more often, but I’d met the little girl thrice. Then I remembered my standard for “giving money to a child” doesn’t actually include meeting them. Here are some recent examples.
1. My friend in the USA has a 2 year old, Rosemary, every birthday and Christmas I send money. Sent her money when she was born too. Never met her. Haven’t seen her mum since 2014.
2. My cousin who’s daughter turns 1 tomorrow, I have already spent £40 on and I have never met her. The last time I saw her mum we were both 18 and didn’t get along, (we get along way better now) I’m giving her £25 for her birthday. That child lives in Sierra Leone.
3. I gave Christmas presents and easter presents to my parents neighbours children, why? Because their father stepped up to the plate and sang at dad’s graveside. Never met the children but they are my parents adoptive grandchildren so to speak.
4. I’ve met my “auntie Judy’s” kids twice, whilst my dad was dying and then shortly afterwards. I’ve given Daisy (the eldest) £50 on one occasion (she gave an extremely brave speech on alopecia and I was proud of her), spent £25 on hair products for her all before I’d met her. Then I got her £25 for Christmas and £10 for easter because she’s allergic to nuts so couldn’t have easter eggs. For her younger siblings I gave them easter eggs and Christmas money and I was specifically told not to do birthdays.
5. My friend Julia, who I haven’t seen since 2019 at best I am spending £30 on my share of a mobile, have made a crotchet blanket and matching outfit worth £60 (I enjoy crotchet so its not really a hardship)
6. I’m currently late on giving my actual blood nephew £30 to spend on his 12th birthday, last time I met him he was 7 months old.
7. I gave £25 each in Christmas presents to another set of children whose parents helped my dad when he was dying. The parents provided a west African porridge which at the end of his life was all he would eat because it was familiar. They extended my dad’s lifespan definitely, its them that I’m saving £200 to send them on a very special family time out which is unique to the interests of the eldest daughter but would be fun for all the family.
8. Made a crotchet wardrobe for another baby of a black woman in my village when she was born (worth £50.) I also bought a £60 fruit basket and flowers from M&S for the parents to celebrate the birth. I’d met the mum the week before my dad passed away. I have met the little girl 4 times in 6 months.
So, giving £20 in a card to a child that I have met 3 times seems wholly reasonable in that context, right?
Why do I do this?
Children make me happy, they’re innocent and interesting. They deserve to be protected and cherished simply for existing. But there’s more to it than that.
1. I was blessed with incredible godmothers. God eternally rest and bless the souls of my Auntie Theresa Richards and my Auntie Claudia John. They showed me the way the truth and the light. They blessed me with such happy experiences I treasure the memories to this day. Please read the post “Examples of Grace and Courage” for more information. I plan to pass it on.
2. I do it to heal my inner child. In my #growingupblack post you will come to see that for me, “growing up black” meant growing up hard. Growing up poor. Growing up scared.
Point 1 of the “growing up black” post was on the meme about “using up your fun once a week card” as I said in that post, when I was growing up, it was fun once a term not once a week. I vividly remember my friend Boryana’s 16th birthday. It was a special event, the first sweet sixteen (Boryana had been held back a year because she is Bulgarian, so we were all 14-15) another friend (Jessica) then invited me to another social event outside of school with a 2 week period of that party (which was mid February, to this day I know Boryana’s birthday is February 16th so ingrained was the trauma on my mind) If you knew how I was sweating, having to ask my parents for socialising twice within a month, you would think I had a glandular problem. Because Boryana’s birthday was ice skating then shopping. The friend then wanted to go shopping “just because” that counted as 3 social occasions, I was honestly going to self destruct.
White people, god rest them, have no idea the need to inform and prep your parents months in advance for social occasions. If you wish to socialise, you sure as hell better have told your parents 3 months in advance, then 10 weeks, then 2 months in advance, then 6 weeks, then 1 month in advance then the fortnight before and everyday on the countdown. They will honest to God claim ignorance of knowledge the event and use that as an excuse to say no. You better have some sort of confirmation from your friends parents that it is okay and it is a legit event. (Question, where did my parents think I was going with NO MONEY???) Parents, then exchange numbers to ensure that their offspring are watched throughout the event and a report on behaviour can be obtained. If you think I am joking, I am not. And remember, my parents were on the “cool” end of the scale. My friend Julia (white) her parents wrote my mum a letter to ask permission to spend a weekend with her when I’d moved down to Southampton. It was done months in advance and that gave my parents confidence to let me go. I’d never had a sleepover before. I still remember where my mum was when she received the letter and then called up Julia’s mum to discuss terms further. this was the level of preparedness that African parents demand.
One thing both my elder brother and I had in common growing up, despite growing up in different continents was #growingupblack. He got it worse though. When “big people” are talking, find a way of making yourself scarce. When you come home from school or work, your parents lock the door after you and no one leaves the house until its time to go to school/work the next day. I can’t tell you how serious that was. You really have to run out of something important to justify going out, especially in winter. Saturday is for food shopping, Sunday church. Otherwise, you have no business leaving your house. Going to other people’s houses was a rarity. However, because we lived on Old Kent Road people would pop into our house on their way from Peckham to buy meat and fish.
My parents eventually relented for me to go to Boryana’s party AND Jessica’s shopping trip but you can bet your fine ass that I didn’t ask for any more social events for the rest of the academic year. I needed to re-start in September so as not to take the piss. #growingupblack
I have often spoken about my deeply insecure childhood. Lack of financial security. Deep lack of emotional security. It was not fine for me to be me. I needed to be “the minister’s daughter” at all times and in all places and my own home was not a refuge. I wore a mask. A “persona” which is the root for the word personality which is Greek for “a mask actors wear on stage.” I wore a mask, so I wasn’t safe, which meant that that guided my thoughts and actions for the rest of my life to date. I always seek safety. I seek marriage for the safety that brings me and my children. My job is in one of the safest industries there is. My hobbies of building things, baking, sewing and crotchet. All home comforts. All making the home more soft, more safe. I like having money because I need to be able to protect myself (to this day) from the follies of my parents. I like having money because I didn’t grow up with it. I didn’t have that safety, and when I needed it most, it was ripped from me in the form of moving to Southampton. So, I was even more isolated, even more unsafe.
And the people who helped me self-actualise were my aunties, my fun aunties Claudia and Theresa so I try so hard and so often everywhere I can to replicate their kindness. To replicate their care because I don’t know who may need it more than I know.
Which brings me onto today. So, Zara’s 2nd birthday. You’d think that when a beautiful little girl turns two there would be bells ringing. No. I knocked on her mum’s door (never been to her house) and I found little Zara there. In the same clothes I saw her in yesterday, no pretty dress, no tiara, no house filled to the brim with cards and presents. I thought I was only adding to the pile. Honey, I was the WHOLE PILE. I was the only person who had come to celebrate the little girl’s birthday.*
*For you to understand the sadness of this point, I need to re-iterate my relationship towards Zara and her mum. I am no one. (I am special to God and my mum) The only reason I know who the mum is, is because she is black and we say hi to each other on the street. In the town we live in there are about 5 black adults, they all have kids except me. The last time I saw her mum before yesterday was in the winter. Its summer now. So, who I am is a random woman on the street who stopped to have a conversation with her the day before her daughter’s birthday. I have no access or right to be at such a prestigious event, a life event. I was meant to be dropping a card. But it is important to note that this was an interaction ordained by God. I’d spent yesterday walking around and I’d already done 18,000 steps. I decided it was still nice out and I should go for my fourth and final walk for the day. It was late, so late that my mum called me halfway through the walk and told me, the 30 year old to go home before it got dark .#growingupblack. That’s when I saw Zara and her mum.
Back to the story of her birthday. So, I went into the house when asked inside on her birthday and proceeded to make a fuss over her. I shouldn’t need to say she deserves it, she’s 2 for heaven’s sake. I felt the emotional neglect from “society”. This girl goes to pre-school, where were her friends? Where were the cards and presents from aunties, uncles, family friends and playmates. It hurt me, I’m sure they’ll “do it later” but its her birthday TODAY. There should have been a cards and presents and cake and toys TODAY. Right now. Waiting for her on the morning of her birthday for when she woke up. Her mum said she’d take her daughter for ice cream later. I’m sure she will, but that isn’t the point. Everything I believed was so standard for a child to have on their 2nd birthday was completely devoid. I felt it so hard. You’d think that she wasn’t God’s creation the way it was just a regular-ass day for her. Yes, I know she’s not going to remember it, does that matter? Does someone need to remember something for you to be kind to them? For you to buy a card for their birthday? For you to show affection and love and care? Not just for the girl but for the mum, people should crowd round in support. A beautiful girl turned 2 today and her mum and I are the only witnesses (so far, I pray). It was sad as hell. I really hope that Zara has a beautiful birthday when her mum finishes work.
That’s why I believe its my purpose to add and spread joy to these children, because they are all me, with unmet needs to self-actualise that are valid and important. That is my purpose, it is natural to me. I give because I wasn’t given enough. I want others to have an elevated lifestyle so they don’t suffer from low self-esteem. I want them to be happy where I was miserable. Basically, I don’t want those who I love to feel the way I did growing up.
That explains Rome (paying for my parents to go when dad got cancer the first-time round) the Caribbean cruise (ditto but the occasion was dad’s 70th birthday) the money I give my parents, paying for my mum’s flower subscription and my dad’s Economist subscription, the days out, theatre trips, afternoon teas and sneaking my dad £10-£20 whenever I had it. I am a provider. I provide. Why? Because I wasn’t provided for adequately. Some people require love to be in buckets, some people require love to be in oceans. I’m an ocean girl born to bucket parents. That doesn’t mean my parents didn’t and don’t love me as best as they could/can. It just means that I needed something they weren’t able to give me. They are pioneers, adventurers and leaders. I needed something different, more stable. Doesn’t invalidate the love and care and the experiences they did give me, it just wasn’t necessarily me. Sometimes that was deliberate objectification like when my dad became a Methodist Minister, and I became “the Minister’s daughter”. Sometimes life was too hard and they were too busy to see me, really see me.
But I want to make sure the children around me feel seen and heard.
Today is Zara’s birthday, she is 2 years old. It is the 15th of June 2022. That is the most important fact you needed to learn from this blog post.
She is super nice, sweet, and sad.
Grace and Courage.
Annetta Mother Smith.