Brittany and Lilliana
“This is one part of the artwork titled ‘Host’ that Brittany and I are continuing to work on as the Corona Virus continues to impact our lives. The audio component was directly influenced by some of Brittany’s poems in development entitled ‘This Is War’ and ‘When He Asks’ which were conceptualised and drafted throughout our collaborative efforts. Alongside the ambient audio work created, Brittany and I thought that it would be good for you to see some of the progress that we have been making for the broader piece titled ‘Host’, which ivolves us mailing letters and pictures to each other. Brittany and I will continue to create these and deepen our dialogue with one another as Corona continues to cause us to feel isolated.”
When he asks
When he asks,
I’ll tell him-
About the days when time stood still
and smiles from strangers
were obscured by masks,
leaving only their fear visible.
About the plastic hands he remembers.
The flashes of blue, green, white --
and the cold, sticky feeling of gloved fingertips.
About the hole in his baby book,
When his cousins disappeared,
When his friends were nowhere to be found.
When playdates and screen time became synonymous,
And he forgot that the arms of the people he loved
were warmer than the glass screen of an iPhone.
When he asks,
I’ll remind him-
About terms like social distancing,
Describing the way the meters between us began to feel like miles.
About the aching in our fingertips to touch one another,
Just to breach those bubbles of isolation.
About the weeks his great-grandmother spent with only the sprit of her husband to keep her company.
Engulfed in a loneliness she already knew too well.
About the months his grandparents spent trapped in India
alone in a way their culture had never prepared them for.
Missing him while wondering,
if he remembered a time he could crawl onto their laps.
When he asks,
I’ll explain to him-
Terms like ‘flattening the curve’,
STILL feeling confused.
My head STILL spinning as I try to recount arguments made by multitudes of sources
ALL contradicting each other,
Rhymes, rules and reasonings,
that twist onto themselves
as the powers that be speak in infinite circles.
And we all left wondering
what we’re doing right
what we’re doing wrong
and when it happened that kindness needed a reason.
He will ask me,
his eyes glinting same way mine once did
as I asked my mother about her wars,
How she did it.
How she lived it.
How she made it.
And I will think of the tiny white pills that I still take every day,
The ones that break the chains in my mind
only briefly.
I will think about when the loneliness started, and I know it began long before lockdown.
Long before rules kept our doors firmly closed to the outside world,
I was hiding and hoping it couldn’t see me.
I will remember the quiet days.
The days he crawled into my lap to to drag my eyes from my phone.
When his huge toothy grin filled me with guilt instead of happiness
and fingers itched to write,
I will remember the days tears rolled down my face for no reason.
My exasperated groans as I scrubbed the walls and made yet another snack.
I will think of the super mothers.
Sensory play.
Autumn leaf crowns.
Hiking,
Reading.
I will compare them to our days filled with
Bob the Train.
Dave and Ava.
Kids TV.
And I will ache.
Because I have been aching, his whole life.
But.
I will also remember his smile. Ear to ear, always a new tooth.
I will remember every funny word he made up.
I will remember dancing.
Bathes with our clothes on.
Murals on our walls daddy didn’t approve of.
Long walks to unspecified locations.
His tiny fingers poking tears in confusion.
Open mouth kisses
And bites on the nose.
I will remember The way he loved me, no matter how little I deserved it.
And that it took a global pandemic for me to realise,
We’ll be okay.
So when he asks me
how I did it,
I’ll tell him,
“With you”.
This is our war
This is our war…
or so they say.
Since the Second World War that shattered the world,
They say this is the hardest challenge we have ever faced.
But…
It’s almost as if we
Have forgotten the challenges that changed us.
Shaped us.
Broke us.
Wars that slip through the cracks.
Wars that only briefly show up in newspapers,
Wars that only fill our news feeds for as long as we are interested.
Silent wars.
Wars fought by brown people with the skin of the very first nation
Or the people come from placed ravaged by conflicts that have lasted generations.
Wars fought by people with tongues that weave foreign words with so many meanings, their poetry is philosophy.
Wars fought by the people that “were asking for it” and wear clothes that are too tight in too many places.
Who stayed for fear and for love. Who walked at night. Who drank drinks handed to them by strangers or dared to drink at all.
Who…forgot to lock the door.
Wars fought by people who were too innocent, too vulnerable, too loving and too happy.
Too young to fight back.
Wars fought by people overcome by addiction. Longing. Damage. Anger. Trauma. Illness.
Wars fought by people who can’t count their successes in money and so, are found wanting.
Wars fought by people who once fought for us and whose stories are the prologues of our own.
Wars fought by the people who came here looking for homes and found anger, bars and threats.
Silent Wars.
Wars with numbers we collate but never attempt to reduce.
Wars that that we cannot solve by community isolation so instead, we isolate the people fighting.
Wars ignored and forgotten.
Silent wars.
But they say,
THIS. THIS is our war.
We use angry words,
filled with hatred.
We punch and kick against perceived injustice.
Instead of simply
Being still.
And letting the knowledge of the world we move too fast to absorb,
Finally sink in.
Finally see.
The silent wars.