Mustard grey with sweetness in her hands
by Anna Atsu
"Ba wo ni?"
"Mo wa!" - I repeat, not to forget. That’s the greeting I hope I can learn before I use it today. I was told how to greet a person in Yoruba last week. I am taking it back, unrehearsed enough with the hope I can repeat it towards the end of the day.
It is a cold, grey March day.
“The air was clammy cold, and for all the tightly closed windows, it penetrated the interior.”
Someone wearing nappies needed Ibuprofen to fall asleep. To give myself courage for the whole day at the school where I can’t be late to any musical ring, I need to be organised. I don’t think. I follow.
I am following my mundane morning routine, quickly picking up the "attire" for the day. I don’t search; I quickly pick up what’s available first to my hand. Mustard silk top. What to go with? Grey, of course. Quick pick. Well-tailored, masculine-style trousers, the kind I would wear to a book premiere or with a meeting with an author. The jewelry from the previous day remains unchanged, quick coffee, breakfast without much appetite, quick combing of hair.
“I need a man in me” - I say to myself, “organized, untried by night crying and waking up several times, changing several nappies...
“There are moments in life when you just have to be honest with yourself and be able to tell yourself that you have hit rock bottom. Everyone has some rock bottom in life that they have to land on. It's inevitable. The question is how long will he lie there, how long will it be before he realises it's time to go up.”
"Magda" by Magda Gesller
This grey morning I wore mustard, and I had some mustard to go with breakfast - I need sweet nothings to whisper to me as much as I need grey hard reality to grab me by my shoulders.
“Muffled in a greatcoat to his ears, bent almost double in his seat in a faint endeavour to gain shelter from his shoulders, while the dispirited horses plodded sullenly to his command, too broken by the wind and the rain to feel the whip that now and again cracked above their heads, while it swung between the numb fingers of the driver.”
It doesn’t matter I don’t look as good in yellowish like my sputum still lingering in my throat. Airports and hospitals require a strong immune system. I try to fortify mine but I “catch” generously. This time only caught it in my throat.
Stop travelling because each time you come back with a bug? No…
Stop writing? I will when all my love will be stolen from me and all the hope will be dead. I hope it will be later than sooner and since I don’t suicide love or hope, it will last at least till tomorrow. When will I be gone? I don’t know, but I am sure that it will be connected to dead love and dead hope.
Not to wear colours that make you even more pale? No, I wear black regardless its connotation with darkness, so I will wear mustard to make me closer to the death state - pale as the dead body. Finally, it doesn’t matter what you wear if you cover it underneath a grey sweater, which always keeps you warm. It does not matter if others like it because you wear it for yourself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t look brilliant. Why would you like to look brilliant? Why would you like to blend in? No one is watching. You are not on a film set…
“Life is not a movie set - no one will give you time to learn a role, give you suggestions, stop the action, rewind the tape, and order a double.”
Who makes the best mustards and all the vinaigrettes? Of course, the author of these words. Funny enough, she is terrible in the adverts and if you don’t believe ask someone who shot some with her. She can’t learn the text and mutters instead of speaking clearly. She does brilliantly in her program because she doesn’t need to play anyone. She screams, dances, walks out, and throws things. And believe me, not to make a drama, simply she is passionate about what she does.
And mustard, vinaigrettes and mayonnaise… I buy delicious ready ones. I haven’t learned how to make them but I adore seeing how she does them. Magda’s memoir is lying on my bed. She gives perfect recipes for golden pancakes too; she was training all the competitors as a Masterchef juror. I don’t follow the recipes, I always twist them. Anyway, I always go for the same one, first on a google search.
I like Magda, not only in her fiery “Kitchen Revolutions” but primarily in her life. Her memoir was a surprise, to say the least. She is a businesswoman, not only a TV star but a restaurateur with many years of experience. She is the owner of several catering establishments in Poland. She also owns White Goose, the best Polish restaurant in East London.
But she is also a lively artist, a designer, a flower lover, and above all a passionate lover. She is not afraid to point out mistakes out loud and has no intention of keeping her mouth shut. She talks about love openly too.
On the occasion of her 70th birthday, Magda Gessler doesn’t need to confess that she had many admirers throughout her life. Everyone knows that. Well, I know because I have read her entire memoir.
“There were always a few guys around me who were head over heels in love. They went out like wolves into the forest and tried to get me. This made my sense of femininity surge. It changed my attitude towards life and gave me the feeling that men do not rule me, but I rule myself. I couldn't imagine, and still can't imagine, being dependent on a man. I was the one who chose and decided what I wanted“.
Today I know what I want to wear, eat and drink and who I want to hang out with. I go out each time, seeming to be “lost,” but I am not.
I don’t depend, and I know what I want as much as I know what I don’t wish for.
Am I arrogant?
No.
“I hope you will make mistakes. If you’re making mistakes, it means you’re out, doing something. And the mistakes in themselves can be useful.”
Neil Gaiman
Oh, this is not my memoir… Those sentences and quotes might go there, but for now, I have only written the first chapter. I am in Year One, you see, still at the very beginning of it. I started the second chapter, but I am not sure if the first one is finished yet. Time will show. Who knows, maybe one day the entire book will get published.
For now, let me continue my story.
I get to the car.
“The leather seats felt damp to the hands, and there must have been a small crack in the roof, because now and again little drips of rain fell softly through, smudging the leather and leaving a dark-blue stain like a splodge of ink”.
I hear: “The shirt worn by Colin Firth when he crossed fields dripping wet after a swim in the lake during the BBC adaptation of Pride And Prejudice has sold for £20,000 at a charity auction in London.”
“I wouldn’t mind twenty thousand copper coins falling softly on my head,” - I think to myself, with my usual irony, thinking about the travels I would be normally planning this time of the year. I do not ponder on them, as it is not the time yet. Besides, I made a precise plan for this spring, that I am going to stick to. The plan is partially concrete, and partially vague, which gives me enough room to boost it with emerging creativity that comes a day at a time. If I don’t know what I will do tomorrow, it is because tomorrow didn’t come yet and I am still in today.
For now, I feel the cold going to all extremities of my body.
“It was a cold grey (…). The weather had changed overnight when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it. The wind came in gusts, at times shaking the coach as it travelled round the bend of the road, and in the exposed places on the high ground it blew with such force that the whole body of the coach trembled and swayed, rocking between the high wheels like a drunken man.”
I put on a grey sweater. Not to cover the mustard. No, this time I've not spilt anything on me. I feel rather like I smutched mustard all over everyone else like a drunken man. Tough night.
My sweater is not knitted. I can't knit. Crocheted? It could be, but that was many years ago. Today I am not the same person I was years ago. Today I smile more and don't look down when someone passes me.
“I used to be shy at school but Ugly Girl was never shy. I used to walk with my eyes lowered, hoping nobody would see me if I didn’t see them, but Ugly Girl never lowered her eyes.
I used to hope nobody would bump into me, but now other people keep clear of Ugly Girl, not wanting Ugly Girl to bump into them. Ugly Girl striding through the universe!
But now even Ugly Girl (…) wanted to shrink away in shyness.”
Joyce Carol Oates, Big mouth & ugly girl. Know who your friends are?
The sweater is supposed to keep me warm. I'm very cold today. I don't know if I will end up in some very cold place, considering that each of my lessons will have its place in various "extremities".
The screen at the reception will ask me today, as they all do these days if I am happy with my picture. I could stand there forever if I was waiting for my picture to be good enough. I ignore the question. I don’t need to be thinking about such trivial issues the same way as I don’t need to be bothered to be ignored, it is the part of the picture.
At the reception, two comforting ladies wearing identical tops of brown, black, white themes. They shop together - online… Before I will get a chance to speak to my “guardian” lady, with whom we will hug for a long time in front of everyone, I get on the steps. I am almost on the top when I hear the first music. Nice. According to the plan. I settle in my place of work and I begin.
I think of Adele. I watched that video yesterday when she was talking about who inspired her. Of course, an English teacher. Touching. A friend asked me later who it was for me. “I was raised by a whole village. I consider myself a tribe lady”, I answer. I mention one. She mentions one. It is soothing, both old ladies. Today I am teaching English throughout the day. Thank you. No need to calculate, or strangle my mind, only soothing music on my tired eyes.
Greetings, nice people.
A student asks one of them why she wasn’t in. “I was in the hospital; my father had a heart attack,” she answers.
“I will pray for both of you,” answers the boy.
Another lady passes. She carries the same laptop as mine. She ignores me, entirely. I am not perplexed. I am used to being invisible. I would probably make a good shoplifter as no one would pay attention to me.
But I don’t need to be one. Instead, I am here to inspire, to tell my story to those who are willing to listen, listen about what makes us perplexed but not defiant of mistakes, so others see that having a human face is not splendid and that you don’t need to be anyone special to want to make a difference. Today, I am making a difference in those Y11 students who teach me as much as I teach them. I motivate them, they motivate me. They make errors and mistakes, I make them too.
That student asks me again about T1. How would I know? I visited the IT man who kindly set up my laptop because I cannot use a touchpad. I need my mouse. Of course, I will drop my mouse at least once, and the batteries will fall out. My students will pick them up, and all will be back to normal. Normal, unpredicted, unrehearsed, uncertain. I will go to the IT man again today, and he will not register my finger to be able to buy drinks or dinners. He is not a god too, he has limits, and constrictions put on him by higher forces, but he navigates with good intentions, I can see that from his kind face. I will use his help as far as it will bring me. Besides, I like going there. Another IT guy was talking there last time about a book he enjoyed. Later about the kids. I am not sure why I forget my passwords at another school. Probably for the same reason. The IT guy needs to talk about issues he has with his daughter after his divorce and how she is too shy to buy her sanitary towels and sends him…
I won’t count on dinners at this school. I will bring my packed lunch and eat it standing. Why would I be surprised that such a good school doesn’t have a staff room? They usually have one, but this one doesn’t, and that’s OK. Rules always have exceptions, and I always make room for exceptions.
My Nigerian student is a lovely diabetic Nigerian girl. I got a toilet pass for her. I know she needs to go more often, she falls asleep during lunchtime, and I know that her fingers and toes will get colder than mine. Still, we will end up in a beautiful conservatory where she will get colder than I will. You can’t expect special treatment.
“It takes uncommon strength to live with these things. But I have seen that strength over and over again. When I fall into the life of someone grappling, I have to mirror their strength, and sometimes surpass it, because I am less prepared.
(…)
Her mind is a dark place. Even before I open my eyes, I know this. Her mind is a uniquiet one, words and thought and impulses constantly crashing into each other. My own thoughts try to assert themselves within this noise. The body responds by breaking into a sweat”.
David Levithan, Every day
“The few passengers huddled together for warmth, exclaiming in unison when the coach sank into a heavier rut than usual, and one old fellow, who had kept up a constant complaint ever since he had joined the coach (…), rose from his seat in fury; and, fumbling with the window-sash, let the window down with a crash, bringing a shower of rain upon himself and his fellow-passengers. He thrust his head out and shouted up to the driver, cursing him in a high petulant voice for a rogue and a murderer; that they would all be dead before they reached Bodmin if he persisted in driving at breakneck speed.
Whether the driver heard him or not was uncertain: it seemed more likely that the stream of reproaches was carried away in the wind, for the old fellow, after waiting a moment, put up the window again, having thoroughly chilled the interior of the coach, and, settling himself once more in his corner, wrapped his blanket about his knees and muttered in his beard.
His nearest neighbour, a jovial, red-faced woman in a blue cloak, sighed heavily, in sympathy, and, with a wink to anyone who might be looking and a jerk of her head towards the old man, she remarked for at least the twentieth time that it was the dirtiest night she ever remembered, and she had known some; that it was proper old weather and no mistaking it for summer this time; and, burrowing into the depths of a large basket, she brought out a great hunk of cake and plunged into it with strong white teeth.”
Mary Yellan sat in the opposite corner, where the trickle of rain oozed through the crack in the roof. Sometimes a cold drip of moisture fell upon her shoulder, which she brushed away with impatient fingers.
She sat with her chin cupped in her hands, her eyes fixed on the window splashed with mud and rain, hoping with a sort of desperate interest that some ray of light would break the heavy blanket of sky, and but a momentary trace of that lost blue heaven that had mantled Helford yesterday shine for an instant as a forerunner of fortune.”
Daphne du Maurier, Jamaica Inn
Ps: You have guessed correctly, I might switch entirely to books meant to be for children and young people. They talk to me more than all the adult talks, packed with overthinking, judging, romances, jealousy, violence, stress, multitasking, analysing, caring for effect and self-image.
ENJOY TODAY AND PLEASE DON’T FIXATE ON ONE BOOK ONLY!