Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
On my seventh birthday my parents bought me a plastic doctors set, bandages and
equipment all neatly packaged in a little blue box. I knew it was important from the look my
parents were giving me. I’ve seen the same expression many times since then, when they
want to convince me of something being what I want or need for my goals. Mouths smiling
widely combined with their eyes desperately searching for a spark of interest in a way that
frightened me. Nonetheless I didn’t want them to leave me as they so often had to work and
I began to get distressed for after a few moments they began to mumble and shift around in
an inpatient manner.
Mums eyes had crept over to her phone across the room and Dad seemed to be closely
inspecting a spot on the wall whilst shifting around on his chair. I‘d grown aware of the signs
indicating people getting up to leave by then but I also knew that mummy and daddy didn’t
like a fussy little girl. I learnt not to make a scene when they weren’t giving me attention for
worry that I would quickly be handed over to nanny to calm down.
I held up the plastic stethoscope in the same way I had seen on TV programmes Clara the
nanny watched, I wasn’t tall enough to reach my father’s heart so settling on his knee I
pretended to listen intently in order to make him stay.
“Hmmm” I had begun “It seems daddy that you have Arrhythmia, very nasty so get some
rest.” Although I’m sure I had said some twisted version of the condition name my dad had
laughed for at least a minute and a sparkle rarely seen had come to his eye before he
hurried away to his office. To mention my dad, John, is a heart surgeon. I spent many
afternoons hiding in his cupboard whilst he made phone calls and this is where I learnt the
word. I would sneak in armed with a flashlight and notebook, in my illegible handwriting and
seven year old spelling I would make notes of new words, interesting words that my father
mentioned on the phone. My sacred book would then be hidden under my toys along with
my green one for words mummy said on the phone and mulled over on days that I didn’t see
either of them. Somehow I thought the words could capture them, squiggles on a page are
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
still and unmoving but maybe I could catch the past, if I just looked at them long enough I
would surely understand something about what they meant and the people that said them.
The rest of my childhood followed in a similar fashion, although I ditched the notebooks the
constant fascination of picking up and doing things to make my mum and dad pleased
continued. At age eight I began ballet; wearing my feet out for a sport I had little interest in
for the sake of being the winner, getting the trophies to make them proud. When I won my
first prize we went out for dinner and they celebrated my success, I lay on my mother’s lap
and listened to the busy restaurant with my eyes closed treasuring that moment of warmth.
After that I practised even more, asking for private studio time at age nine and practising the
same point move until my foot was so sore it wouldn’t move and I could barely stand. By the
time I got my third award I got nothing but a friendly pat on the shoulder from dad and a well
done darling text message from mum. At nine I moved on to drama, at eleven I added
singing lessons then at twelve badminton although that was too late to be really good. Now
at seventeen I do them all, after school and weekends along with four A levels of maths,
chemistry, biology, and drama thrown in to show universities that I am capable of more than
just the strictly academic. I’m what you call an ‘all-rounder.’ All of this sounds very exciting
and sometimes it is but not usually to me.
“Scarlett?” I hear my mum shout, she’s pacing up and down the bottom hallway. “Scarlett,
are you in?” She says in a quick way.
“Upstairs” I reply. Now I hear the ruffle of footsteps make their way up and she appears in
my door. It seems like she is about to leave for work, a black dress, white blazer and shiny
shoes match her pinned up hair and mauve lipstick. Her name is Caroline, strictly not carol
because she thinks it sounds trashy. I don’t know why because she grew up being called
Carol but we don’t see much of her family since we moved into our new house.
“I made you this” she ventured as she handed me a green concoction in a glass, the thick
gloop almost spills to the edge as I place it on my desk.
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
“Thankyou” I smile and then there’s a pause, we never actually have much to talk about.
“Nice dress, very lawyer” I say to break the silence. Caroline pats it down and for a moment
she smiles and reaches out to touch my hair but before she makes it there, a button seems
to be pressed and she snaps it back and abruptly leaves me with my juice telling me to do
my homework.
“Remember that Dazelows are achievers. A lot is balancing on these grades” She adds
standing in my doorway. I’ve actually already finished but I pull out some extra credit and
I’m starting that when my phone buzzes from across the room.
‘1 new message, from Zoë at 18:56’ it reads
“Hey, McDonald’s at 7:30?” I don’t see what harm meeting up for an hour will do so I text
back.
“See you then :)” I send before opening my closet and pulling on a floral skirt, top and leather
jacket! I know it’s only McDonald’s but I put some wedge heels on so I don’t feel inadequate
next to Zoë who never fails to be impeccably dressed. I think about straightening my hair but
I probably don’t have time so I leave it in waves. I feel good.
The walk to Nott’s town centre isn’t far from the park so I walk rather than taking the bus.
The June air is warm and echoes of children’s squeals surround me as they leave the many
playgrounds and side streets on their way home. A little girl with blonde hair like mine is
walking ahead, chirping happily to her mother and running her tiny little fingertips along the
trees: I imagine they are my fingers, the rough green or the smooth shiny leaves scraping
against me absentmindedly. The ease of her conversation flows as the ocean does, one
topic rising and falling then seamlessly moving to the next. For I while I walk behind them,
even in the wrong direction as a bittersweet feeling consumes and wills me to follow. I stop
when I feel a tear running down my own face, I don’t know exactly what it meant, I just wish
my own parents talked to me like that. How I ache to live in a world of waves rather than one
of rigid boxes.
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
The couple had vanished in front of me when I finally looked around, a dark alley that I don’t
recognise. The sweet smell of the flowers and trees has evaporated and replacing it is the
stench of dirty walls, stray beer bottles and an overpowering cold breeze. Its 7:10 now and I
have no idea where I am. A couple of figures emerge from behind a garden wall, Are they
children? I can’t work it out but they grow taller as they walk toward me. Not children, more
like men, maybe twenty or a little older. A feeling of uncertainty creeps up over me and turns
into fear, I can’t shake the expression “deer in front of headlights” from my mind.
My phone makes a loud ringing noise that causes me to jump and the soothing chatter of
Zoë’s voice works as an anti-dote to my panic.
“So sorry, going to be late” she says in an over the top way. That’s no surprise, she’s always
late. “See you ten minutes later scar, seriously the bus times were lying”
“Okay” I reply then she cuts off the phone saying the bus has arrived. The figures were no
longer shadows anymore and the two stood a metre away from me.
“Do you know how to get back into town?” I say with a smile to stop them staring at me.
“Pretty girl” the man with dark hair says.
“Finest range” the other agrees in a joking manner. I laugh along to but the feeling has come
back and now every instinct in my body is shouting to run.
“Town? That way?” I say waving an arm left,
“Didn’t you hear the compliment love; we said you look very pretty.”
“Thankyou” I whispered but now I could barely breathe and began walking fast to another
exit. Faster and faster didn’t seem enough because I could feel the hot drunken breathe on
my neck and then a hand pull at my skirt. Then another pair of hands appeared but not on
me, a different boy and a group of girl had entered the street and a smacking sound filled the
air as the boy punched the dark haired man with all his might.
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
“Scum” he says under his breath as both the drunken men run hooting down another alley.
I’m on the floor now and smoothing my skirt, my hands begin to shake and when a girl with
blue hair asks me whether I’m going to be alright I explode into sobs as she pulls me into her
vanilla scented arms.
They walk me to McDonald’s, I count and there are nine of them, two boys and seven girls.
They sit with me as well whilst I wait for Zoë and I ask them whether they are in a club or just
friends. It turns out that they are both, they were friends that set up a group. It’s all about
spoken poetry but not like the kind you hear in English, no 18th century prose or 14th century
love poems. This stuff is real they tell me, it matters and it’s about things that we all
experience. They are performing at the Nottingham playhouse soon they say, it’s a message
that needs to be heard.
“Like that man” one of the girls says “like all the bad things that happen”
I don’t understand so I ask to read one, but they insist they can only be spoken. It’s all part of
it apparently, I think about how nice it is that they are all part of it. They offer to show me and
I of course accept. The poem was about crime, about injustice. The rhymes weren’t smooth
and some didn’t even flow but as one girl called Katie sung the words I fell into them. Each
syllable was meaningful and hard, each with a point, each with an objective that made me
feel meaningful long after she finished.
“I need to be part of this” I said quite by accident. They all smiled and joked about me being
easy to please but the thing was that I’m not. I’ve slaved at my hobbies for years and never
felt like this. Slaved is the right word, emptily participating for a purpose, for my purpose to
be a doctor, to get a good CV. Never for a real purpose though, not for change or revolution,
I would never make a stand.
Not until now.
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
I saw them again next Thursday, Clara had given me her number in case anything happened
on the way home then later text me that Thursday was their rehearsal day. I missed ballet for
it; I sat in this tiny front room as they practised each poem. The one I heard the other day
and so many others. All made me feel things matter.
I skipped ballet five more times, it’s not something the old me would have done. That’s what
I’m calling it now, the old me. There’s a pre poetry me and a post poetry me, I like this girl a
lot more. When I got home that night after I met them I felt such rage. I’d never let myself
feel that, pre me always had to be perfect and suppressed but now I could not be held down.
I tore my skirt off and threw it in the wash, it felt unclean just like me. Flash backs of those
grimy hands entered my head as the word ‘pretty’ wrapped it’s hands around my neck and
squeezed hard.
‘Pretty.’ ‘Pretty!’ Who needs to be pretty, my goodness the word turned dirty. I looked in the
mirror and this ‘pretty’ girl looked back. I hated her, I hated the girl who laughed when those
men tried to touch her, I hated the girl who felt so good leaving the house that night but most
of all I hated the fact that I had to hate her because it wasn’t her that caused any of what
happened.
Then I began to write, like they did. I wrote a poem, a smash poem. Violently scribbling down
words and crying as I did so.
When I finished I labelled it- pretty by Scarlett Dazelow.
‘Pretty, they say as I win my first prize
Pretty they say through judgemental eyes
A bit too pretty teacher says as I wear my best skirt
You better change quickly before you get hurt
Not pretty enough friends says as we walk in a bar
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
Pulling up my dress so boys buy a drink to get far
Pretty got a hand where she didn’t want it at all
But my skirt he said, was looking for a compliment he’s sure
Well am I pretty when I wear clothes the ‘right length’
Please do tell me how it determines my strength
For pretty never got me more than being looked through
Do explain why my clothing has anything to do with you!
I’m tired of this world where pretty defines what I’m asking for
What about my brain, my kindness…there is so much more’
It’s been five weeks since I wrote that.
Mum storms into my room now, the phone in one hand and an exceptionally angry look
plastered onto her face. She doesn’t look as put together as she normally does and it almost
shocks me.
“Ballet!” she shouts “Ballet! What kind of mother do you think I am? I will not stand for this,
you running around doing God knows what and wasting all the money your father and I
spent on your lessons. What kind of behaviour do you think this is?”
“Mum, please I just. I was going to tell you, there’s this thing, poetry kind of” I try to explain
but she interrupts before I manage to continue.
“Do you know how this looks? You are a Dazelow and you need to behave like one. You
think Oxford or Cambridge want to hear your excuses?”
“I really don’t think they will look at my ballet absences” I mutter and now my mum can’t
seem to hold any part of herself together. She slides down onto the floor and for a second
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Elizabeth O’Riordan ‘A Discovery Of Ownership’
just sits with her head in her hands very still. I begin to wonder whether she is going to be
alright, I don’t know much about what a breakdown looks like but this would convince me.
“Mum” I try. A hole has built in my stomach and I too am finding it difficult to stand up so I
slide down just as she did. I take a very deep breath and make my choice. “I’m trying
something new now, for me”
“This was all for you scar, the lessons, the everything. We just want you to be successful like
your father and I” Mum said moving her hands slightly “Think about your dreams scar,
remember how excited you were when you got the doctors kit. This is your dream, you need
extracurricular”
I do think about the doctor’s kit, the pretence I had to put on in order to look excited, I’ve
always tried to keep that day out my mind. I have continued pretending that was what I
wanted all my life and it’s never been an issue. A problem never arose because I never
found anything I wanted more until now. I look at my mother’s body leaned against my
wardrobe door and somehow this women who I always viewed as having everything seemed
so very small and without. She doesn’t understand what I do and she might never
understand why I have to do this but that can’t stop me.
“No” I say, the word feels foreign in my mouth but I like its taste. “I’m finally going to start
following my dreams”
She doesn’t respond or even move.
“My” I whisper again “mine, my, me.” They too sound surprisingly unfamiliar, have I really
never done anything for myself before? I step over Caroline because I’m done with her
tonight and I just had the most wonderful idea. So wonderful that my head begins to spin and
now my legs are feeling strange in the good way. I’m going to read my poem at the group’s
show and it will belong completely to me, it’s going to be all mine.
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