My wife is many things. Bratty. A big messer. Adores cars. Liverpool football club. Watching Brazilian lesbian YouTube web series. Listening to all kinds of music. She's also so clever, a meticulous planner, gentle, affectionate, sensitive and sweet. She makes me think through and question everything I say. No aspersions, there must be research behind my statements and exaggerations. There never is, I'm the worst. She has a fire in her belly, a fierce temper. Comes up with incredible creative road rage insults. Zooming around town in our tiny, crap car. We had to buy it because of my driving inexperience. Trade in her gorgeous BMW. She spends hours gazing at nice cars, dreaming of a day when I wont be a decrepit novice. She has weird reactions to all kinds of foods. Sometimes her nose gets so itchy in a restaurant that she has to squeak and shiver through an entire meal. Her tiny nose going bright red as she itches it, her mouth turning into a little 'o'. She can't eat jalapenos, but she loves them. Hates drinking water. She loves being in the nature, befriending the flora and the fauna, or just watching them. We once watched a goat on the edge of a waterfall for a minimum of 45 minutes. It did not move. Nor did we. She loves holding dogs and babies, waving at them, smiling at them, sticking her tongue out. Kids love her too, always playing peekaboo with her in shops. She's in her element in the warmth, in our garden, bbq on, music loud, in the nip. In fact, she loves being warm so much, that she's had sun stroke, twice, since I've known her. Suspected sun stroke yesterday even! My guess is it's that cocktail of no water and lots of sun. But I'm not a doctor.
One of the first things that impressed me about her was her exuberant, confident Irish-ness. She's brave, fearless. She has a miniature paddy hat she wears every Paddy's day. It's on a little hairband. I started realising our 'thing' might be 'some thing' when she was wearing it. An Ireland flag wrapped around her shoulders. Roaring Irish tunes in the smoking area of Eamon Dorans on Paddy's day. She knows the words to many Irish pub songs. She teaches me old Irish phrases I should know. She's a proud Finglas woman. (It took some convincing to get her to move to the south of Dublin with me). And any time she goes out, someone will ask where she's from. "Finglas", she responds. They'll inevitably follow up asking where she's "really" from. They then, without fail, will either ask to touch her hair, or just touch it, like they own it. Sometimes they'll grab at her hair without even speaking to her. Walking past, putting their grubby hands in.
I mean, clearly I'm a big fan of hers. Her biggest fan in fact. She's fiercely private, I've written about her loads in the past and hidden most of it. Some has slipped through because I'm terrible. A shameless, embarrassing sharer of all my boring life. She's not boring at all. Since lockdown, I've been given a carte blanche. (As you may have noticed from my many descriptions of her "erotic dances" as I try to have an online meeting). As the wife of a woman of colour, I am compelled to come to her defence through my lame words. I don't have physical strength, I'm not good at confrontation, I don't even know if I'm actually good at words, really. I just find peace in this writing thing. It helps me make sense of things. And I want you to know how much I have learned by living my life every day with her. The very best person. I don't want to speak for her. So, my observations are all from my own experience of being with her. Of loving her, of slowly beginning to understand this fierce temper. Watching her. Watching this rage that boils inside of her.
This rage. Everyone's shock and disappointment in the last days is nothing new to her. She's been exposed to living in a predominantly white Ireland her whole life. All her family and friends are white. No brown people to relate to. My own Mom asked her if she liked playing basketball the first time she met her. Woke friends grabbed at her new braids and looked at me, asking if I liked it, as if she wasn't there, seeking my approval. I've heard of people being aggressive towards her. There's been so many incidents she's briefly mentioned to me where I wasn't there. Where no one has stood up for her. No one has interjected. She always tries to defend others. Stand up for people. But in that situation, she feels silence, even from friends, even from me. She sucks these incidents into that fireball of rage in her stomach. I try to soothe it, but I'm speechless. I feel shame, disappointment, injustice and so much anger for her. I'm embarrassed at my own privilege. My own failings. Not realising how wrong something is until she explains it to me. My lack of immediately standing up for her. Instead opting for having quiet words after incidents occur. Not recognising things until she has pointed them out. It's not enough. I want to be braver. I'm ashamed. I want her to know how cherished she is. How she's so much more than her gorgeous brown skin, than her stunningly beautiful hair.
How has this not all ended? This injustice. It's so overdue. We've marched for queers, for women, and still the whole system we live in is unjust. We are still making judgements about people. Preventing them from basic rights, KILLING THEM, based on the tone of their skin. How? It's so wrong.
She's been quiet the last few days. Watching her phone. Going off into 'La La Land', as I call it. Her eyes glaze over and she's not with me anymore, she's somewhere else. Rather than rage, it's been sorrow and exhaustion I've observed in her. How this is happening, yet again. No change, no sense of the injustice lifting.
On Monday we went the the protest in support of Black Lives Matter. It occurred as a result of George Floyd's murder. And the many other unjust murders of black people that keep coming and won't stop. That have no consequences.
If you've been following my ramblings on this blog, you'll know how frightened I've been of the korona. I've tried to avoid shops if I can. I've found elaborate ways to avoid meeting people. I've cleaned my hands so much that they're in ribbons, skin melting off them.
This was a gathering of thousands of people, and at this quarantine time too. So, I was scared.
As we walked to town her stride was faster than usual, and she's a fast walker on a regular day. I lumbered after her, trying to keep up. The heat scorching down on us, my ridiculous sun hat constantly flopping off my head with the wind. My skin ready to scorch itself. I sensed a nervous anticipation in her, but the silence remained.
We arrived at O'Connell St to hundreds of people. Most wearing masks. Because there were so many people gathered it was difficult to maintain a distance, so we hung back. Once the march began we hurried to the front, met a dear friend, and did our very best to be conscious of the space around us. Lots of people were very excited to see their friends again. Very excited to show their support, bouncing through the crowds. Innocently forgetting the restrictions. As we rounded Kildare Street, we held hands and stretched our other hands out to the other side. My stupid sun hat now working as a border between my little family of 2 and other people. "This is my dance space, this is your dance space" I loudly declared to no one. People were trying, though. Wife, the natural planner, had already thought of a spot where we could safely distance. Safely show our solidarity once we reached the US embassy. We were a good distance from the thousands of people as they flooded in.
She was quiet again watching them. As more and more people kept coming. She kept shifting me back a bit, protecting me. She always does protect me. Because she's brave. And we found a spot. And we held each other. And we knelt. And we put our fists in the air. And she shouted his name. George Floyd. It's difficult for her to express herself at the best of times, to tame the rage for enough time to form words. She's spoken to me a little about it. About how tired she is. About how this is nothing new. But it was emotional being there. A flurry of texts from friends trying to find us. Sending her messages of support. Of these gangs of people finally coming together. Risking being around thousands of people to finally stand against this injustice. I wish I was brave like her.
We all need to be braver. We need to speak up when we see or hear something racist. When your uncle says something racist, when your friend or your ma or your da, or some dope in the pub. Call them out. This is solidarity. This is what Wife tells me is needed in Ireland. I'm really going to try. I hope you do too. Share, SPEAK UP, stop being afraid of talking about it, of internet people being critical of your lack of knowledge, of real people reacting badly to you pointing out that they've said something racist. Of redundant conversations over which form of activism is most appropriate. We all have gaps in our knowledge, it's ok to be wrong, to not know something. Start learning. Start listening. Start reading. Start sharing. Start talking about it. Start standing up for people. If you notice something, say it. What's not ok is staying quiet, being afraid to learn more. We all need to be kinder, to learn how to make a better world. It's time to protect all the precious human beings on the planet. Because we are so much more and much better than this. We need to be brave, like Wife. I want to be brave.
x
