#16 - Outsider Blues
Hello hello,
What a week, eh? Unsurprisingly sh*tty weather, unsurprisingly sh*tter debates, unsurprisingly sh*ttiest Max Landis and my neighbour playing what sounds like a wedding playlist on repeat above me. I'd be lying if I said that any of this resulted in the most productive return to work, but the joy I'm taking in writing and imagining persists, which is a treat. I'm currently writing a sci-fi TV series and the world-building in particular gets me scribbling. (P.S. There's a great book that touches on world building called Wonderbook by Jeff Vandermeer that was recommended to me by, among others, one Chris Chibnall and is recommended to you by me, this guy).
Anyway, the joy I've found here made me recall that I spent a fair whack of my childhood building worlds: Houses in The Sims, layouts for board games and my favourite of all, maps. Maps that I would crinkle, marinate in tea and then burn the edges off of to make it look old. Maps full of whirlpools and jungles and secret coves and deadly creatures, attempts to make the world feel big and exotic when my own felt small and familiar. (One day I'll tell you about my night-long Flight Simulator stints from when I wanted to be a pilot)
Thinking about my childhood, as well as lamenting my lax morning routine, made me think of my paternal grandad, my Dada, who would get up every day, do some meditation/yoga and then go downstairs for a savoury breakfast and sweet, milky chai before heading to the office. I would often join him for the meditation/yoga part and we'd sit there in matching thin cotton shirts, breathing in and out as one, pulling sleepy muscles awake. This was one of my favourite things and yet attempts to reclaim this part of my life in adulthood have always made me queasy. Yoga, in particular, feels alien to me. All the usual complaints are sort of in my head - that it's commoditised, westernised, overlionised - but to be honest, I don't really mind too much if people enjoy and find genuine meaning in stuff that's derived from my heritage, as long as that engagement is honest and humble. I guess I'll just never get back what I'm looking for: Sitting on that floor, my hyperactive young mind calm for a few moments, with my now-dead grandfather beside me. Anything else would probably always feel a little forced. Guess I'll stick with the Headspace app getting me half-way there.
This feeling was heightened on Monday night after I went to the press night of the Bush Theatre's revival of Caryl Phillips' Strange Fruit. It's a difficult, bruising play about love, escape, historical narratives and the long-tail of hatred, all handled with dignity and precision in this production, but it's the interrogation of the diasporic no-man's land that really stayed with me. A quotation from The Guardian's review sums it up nicely:
What a week, eh? Unsurprisingly sh*tty weather, unsurprisingly sh*tter debates, unsurprisingly sh*ttiest Max Landis and my neighbour playing what sounds like a wedding playlist on repeat above me. I'd be lying if I said that any of this resulted in the most productive return to work, but the joy I'm taking in writing and imagining persists, which is a treat. I'm currently writing a sci-fi TV series and the world-building in particular gets me scribbling. (P.S. There's a great book that touches on world building called Wonderbook by Jeff Vandermeer that was recommended to me by, among others, one Chris Chibnall and is recommended to you by me, this guy).
Anyway, the joy I've found here made me recall that I spent a fair whack of my childhood building worlds: Houses in The Sims, layouts for board games and my favourite of all, maps. Maps that I would crinkle, marinate in tea and then burn the edges off of to make it look old. Maps full of whirlpools and jungles and secret coves and deadly creatures, attempts to make the world feel big and exotic when my own felt small and familiar. (One day I'll tell you about my night-long Flight Simulator stints from when I wanted to be a pilot)
Thinking about my childhood, as well as lamenting my lax morning routine, made me think of my paternal grandad, my Dada, who would get up every day, do some meditation/yoga and then go downstairs for a savoury breakfast and sweet, milky chai before heading to the office. I would often join him for the meditation/yoga part and we'd sit there in matching thin cotton shirts, breathing in and out as one, pulling sleepy muscles awake. This was one of my favourite things and yet attempts to reclaim this part of my life in adulthood have always made me queasy. Yoga, in particular, feels alien to me. All the usual complaints are sort of in my head - that it's commoditised, westernised, overlionised - but to be honest, I don't really mind too much if people enjoy and find genuine meaning in stuff that's derived from my heritage, as long as that engagement is honest and humble. I guess I'll just never get back what I'm looking for: Sitting on that floor, my hyperactive young mind calm for a few moments, with my now-dead grandfather beside me. Anything else would probably always feel a little forced. Guess I'll stick with the Headspace app getting me half-way there.
This feeling was heightened on Monday night after I went to the press night of the Bush Theatre's revival of Caryl Phillips' Strange Fruit. It's a difficult, bruising play about love, escape, historical narratives and the long-tail of hatred, all handled with dignity and precision in this production, but it's the interrogation of the diasporic no-man's land that really stayed with me. A quotation from The Guardian's review sums it up nicely:
Yep. Interrogative enough of one's life to destabilise joy where you are and cognisant enough of the world beyond to know there's no real going "back" cause you're not really wanted there. What does one do with these Outsider Blues?We begin to grasp Phillips’ point: that the family’s past is not only shrouded in secrets and lies but that they symbolise a generation cut off from its roots while feeling like strangers in an inhospitable land.
If you're me, you get into a testy discussion about passports and the EU on Twitter that you, obviously, immediately regret. But it was teed up by that play and powered by feelings I kept suppressed in the aftermath of the EU referendum. I have two distinct memories of the days after: One was people, many of whom had hitherto not been too fussed about their European heritage, announcing that they would be applying for second passports in order to keep as many benefits of being part of the EU as they could including working, travelling and moving to whichever EU country they liked. The other was the uptick in racial aggression, particularly against people of colour. The reason this is so vivid for me is that for the first time I saw people who had never complained about racism, people who would in fact chide you for doing so, including close family members like my aforementioned grandfather suddenly finding casual abuse everywhere. The last conscious experience my grandad had of a hospital, not long after the vote, involved a man in the bed next to him asking for sunglasses and headphones so that he didn't have to have my Dada in his existence.
I said nothing about how these two experiences intermingled and sat with me at the time because I understood the passport business was mostly well-intentioned and, hey, anyone having any joy in this joyless times is a win and people will of course do what they must to keep as much freedom as they can grasp. For some, it was even a belated reclamation of a part of themselves they'd let atrophy. I hope that what I've written above about my grandad shows that I understand that instinct. The complexities of our identities should not be denied or derided and exploring that doesn't imply a lack of active solidarity with others.
But.
As someone both increasingly cut off from the roots and with imminently fewer freedoms than they used to have here, it does remind you that your conditions are not entirely shared and that the majority of the work of dealing with the worst of what this country has and might become will likely fall on you, partly because you will be the target and partly just because there is nowhere else for you to (easily) go. That's not limited to this situation, of course, and it's mainly just the way of things. I'm not sure if this counts as cynical but I believe, in the end, we are inherently tribal people for better or worse and our tribes are always smaller than we think they are.
Sorry. Can I end on an upbeat note?
I'm off to the Eastern Eye ACTA Awards tonight and I'm deliriously excited. Not for the awards themselves (though being recognised by one of your communities, especially when you hope your work represents them, is always a joy). I'm just excited to be in that room with those people. I know it's a bit old hat to say it, but when I first dreamed of being in the arts it was made clear to me by all sides that in order to pursue an artistic life, you had to immerse yourself in whiteness. It's not true, it never was true, but I just never saw the productions or people in the world to dissuade me of that notion so the fact that I get to spend this evening with a whole bunch of my favourite brown folk goes some way to making up for all those wilderness years.
One final burst of joy: It was Jodie Whittaker's birthday earlier this week and in honour of that, here's an anecdote from her last one. We were in Spain shooting Demons of the Punjab at the time so they threw a celebration out there. At the party I was sat quietly in the corner, trying to take in Chris' advice to enjoy this moment. Everything had moved so fast in the lead up to shooting, nothing quite felt real. I must've looked like I was having the worst time because Jodie came over and chatted to me for like five minutes. Didn't tell me to smile, or to cheer up or anything. Just chatted. And then went off to enjoy herself like it was nothing. I think you want whoever takes over the role of the Doctor to, in themselves, reflect the Doctor's best qualities. Jodie is that and more. Happy birthday, boss.

(Photo Credit: Mandip Gill, who looks distinctly unhappy here)
If you're new to Patelograms and like what you've read, you can subscribe by clicking here.If you're an old hand, thanks as ever for taking the time.
Don't miss what's next. Subscribe to patelograms: