CONCRETE HOMELAND
THE BALLAD OF A YOUNG GIRL FROM THE SOUTHERLY- MIDDLING LANDS

(From F&F #34 July 2000)

The basis of this magazine has always been 'traditional' storytelling and it will probably continue to be so; but I've always tried to include the other aspects as well - like personal stories. Here is an 'autobiography' that draws its style from the tradition via Kipling's 'Just So' Stories...

Once again I tell you: there was a Woman, neither old nor young, who came from The Comfortable, Concrete, Southerly-Middling Lands, born into a time following the ravages and loneliness of war when Parents sprang up everywhere and loins were fruitful again. These new Parents were trying to give everything they had never had, and so began pouring syrup down the throats of their Young. Their Young were many, and were taught in large groups and some-where along the line one family in this Southerly-Middling land forgot, in their avant-garde fight for equality, to notice the needs of their Middle Female Offspring, as they put their efforts to liberate along masculine lines. This regime worked well for the First and Last Born, both bonny Males. They also decided to draw up no boundaries between themselves and others to give their children no Cultural, Religious, Class or Racial Identity. They had idealistic motives; but the consequences were dire. Their Daughter was in fact a cherry, a rose, but they dare not tell Her so in case She use it against Herself or others - they wanted total self-effacement; and they got it. They wanted absolute servitude and allowed no praise. They punished martyrdom and they got it, unremittingly. As long as She was everything to everybody they patted Her on Her proverbial head: so much so that it was only when She felt the pats that She knew She existed.

Now it came to pass, after seven times seven years, in Her pursuit of that special love that passeth all understanding and hath no ties, She became trapped in a cave that appeared to have no exits, nor a way back from whence She had come. She felt trapped and paralysed like a fly in a web, a fox in a hunt, a cornered rabbit or a child quick/slow molested in a fast moving train. Actually there was a way out, indistinct in the distance, but She could not see it or did not think She could possibly get there without trampling on all the others huddled in the way. She wandered about shooing them all out so that She could think straight. She wondered whether to hurl the ruthless creatures from Her breast. She was afraid She might feel their absence, as She felt the absence of her womb, and was afraid She'd discover She did not exist without them - not even as a shadow. She knew the key was in knowing Who She Was and Why She Was There, and being pleased to be just exactly that. She had brilliant skills as a Soother, Pacifier and a Predictor of Needs. She required someone with these skills now to soothe, pacify and predict her needs but when She asked Everyone they became very busy and they looked through, and past, Her, and She realised that She had vanished into thin air. Every time the spell She 'knew' worked: if She laughed and was happy and sensible and brave They swarmed around her like a queen bee. She was looking for the spell to keep them there when She was sad. She was sad a great deal now because She had just learnt that She should matter and Her needs had to be met, when suddenly some Contrary Magician pulled the rug sharply from under Her and ran off laughing - He took Her career, He broke Her back, but cruellest of all He took The Sweet Honey of Life. She thought She'd get it back when He wasn't looking.

..... Like Baboushka She searches to this day. She has boats to put to sea, bridges; burnt once too often and now past repair, and an anger to fuel eternity. She has two baskets; one to collect her Losses in, and the other to distribute Compassion from.

She lives in a time called Peace when wars are ravaged elsewhere, and where guilt consumes and people vomit up the syrup of their childhood; where the young are less and the old many, where fairness and justice are just words not reality.

Once again I tell you: The Woman was neither old nor young. Her story continues to be spun.

by Sally Brown At the end of the C20th and the beginning of the C21st

Close this window to return to STORIES