“So where do I begin?”
“Which story should I tell?”
“How much of it do you want me to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
As I write these words to prepare for the sound of my call, that rush of emotion, that force, purging and urging me of and towards my conviction, I am acutely aware that I am not asking myself anything.
Instead I am asking the little man sitting on my shoulder.
He is my mother.
My eternal gatekeeper of shameful stories.
He edits, brushes up, shushes down, gentrifies, polishes my voice, makes my words edible.
He avoids shame and guilt at all costs.
The truth does not matter, all that counts is what it looks like and it must look, must be good.
I admit that I do not feel good writing this superficially; only to meet his deep silence.
And that makes me feel worse.
“So where do I begin?” - I don’t.
“Which story should I tell?” - Not one.
“How much of it do you want me to say?” - None of it.
“What do you want me to say?” - Nothing.
I remember the moment I noticed this little figure firmly affixed to my consciousness.
With a little self-therapy I traced his origins.
I was about 6, maybe 7.
My teacher announced to the class that I had failed writing and composition.
It was my first and only failure at primary school.
The assignment was to write about a trip to the Sulphur Springs in Saint Lucia.
We had all gone to Soufriere, listened to the tour guides, taken in the smell of sulphur, the grandeur and power of volcanic activity beneath our very feet, been treated to a horrifying story about Gabriel, a man who had fallen into one of the holes and was badly burned, but miraculously was still alive.
The trip took the whole day and was meant to serve as inspiration for phenomenal writing.
Instead all I came up with was a story about food.
My mother had packed a big bag of snacks, just for me.
I did not have to share with anybody.
Chocolates, cake, apples, grapes, cookies, sandwiches, soup, Ribena, yogurt and so much more.
Every time we stopped, I ate.
It was all so good - salt and sugar rushes all day long, with no adult to supervise how much of what I ate.
The freedom made me enjoy the food so much more.
The food left a lasting impression on my tongue and I found permission to savour every detail.
By the time we got to the attraction; a large beige hole we could smell from a mile away, I was only anticipating my next ham sandwich.
I remember that exam, writing about the stops, thinking about how everything tasted and tasting it all over as I wrote about my gleeful memories.
I did discuss the sulphur springs and I tried to explain that the smell had interrupted my oral ballet with the chocolate I just ate.
But clearly it was not enough and it was not the point as the teacher explained loudly to the class.
I was so ashamed.
That year I placed second instead of first.
My mother admonished me and I think I wrote another essay at home to describe everything as I was asked to.
After that I wrote exactly what was required, using the same words my teacher had taught and the same phrases from the text books, ignoring my senses.
I shushed myself, placed my own creativity in a cage and responded with shame when I had inclinations to write about how anything tasted.
Even after reading Chocolat, and experiencing the freedom of writing with all of one’s self, I kept myself chained to the linear fence, following the trends.
Years later as I remembered a quiche I had devoured years earlier I heard Kanye West talking about synthesia.
At that moment, everything clicked.
I did some research.
The reason that colour had a taste and that taste was more than just an experience of flavour.
Every morsel was a story.
I finally understood that my palette was literal and metaphorical and why I described certain things in ways many people could not understand.
I gave some French phrases the meaning it tasted like… le petit dejeuner was not breakfast, it sounded/tasted like a small biscuit.
Peanut butter is a person who is short and fat.
A red couch is an easily annoyed lady always tripping over things.
Sunset tastes like slightly burned, buttery coffee.
The taste of chocolate makes me think of warmth and candles.
My mind does not work like that of other people.
I am not normal.
There.
The little man on my shoulder was fiercely silent for weeks.
I was ashamed but determined to undermine him.
I began to write what I felt rather than what sounded normal.
Et Voila! - A sweet red wine
Kaleidoscope - a litany of thoughts/yellow
Pink - Confusion/bubble gum
Starburst - Blue marbles and marmalade
The little gremlin stayed with me and soon I recognised that I was part of the problem.
Why am I still asking Jiminy Cricket for permission?
Herein is my secret story.
I do not want to drop that part of the story.
Who will I be without the inner critic?
Bio :
Penelope Pascal is a writer and passionate foodie who loves reading legal cases and riding horses on the beach.
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