I dream I meet British Investigative journalist Stacey Dooley and I am jealous, of course I’m jealous as I didn’t have the courage or knowledge on how to peruse a career in writing. Stacey achieved some attention before being selected for Strictly Come Dancing or Dancing with the Stars if you’re American. Again, pangs of jealousy, having given up my dancing career in my teens and flatly refusing take up ballroom dancing as it was on a Sunday morning and I already spent the majority of my free time in a Russian dowager’s basement! I regret it now of course but it was political. Where was I going as a black ballerina? I am also short and I ‘break the line’ drawing attention to myself. That’s what they used to say. Black girls stand out when you should blend in. Why does it matter when we all were incredible dancers? And that’s the theme of the dream I think as I meet Stacey, with her lithe body and beautiful flame coloured hair, clearly breaking the line. She wears soft brown character shoes which I notice immediately as they now have a line of flesh coloured shoes for ethnic minorities, but still, I unpack a pink pair of pointe shoes from my bag.
I flex and point my toes. My feet hurt, dry bones cracking as I rotate my ankles. I look up at Stacey who is now by the barre and wonder what happen to me, realising the whole thing was my choice, I decided to leave, I wanted to know what life was life outside the basement; I changed the course of my own life.
The class is tough but the muscle memory kicks back in and soon I am back on my toes. I forget Stacey is in the room and fouetté. A feat of dancing genius and marvel. Take that. I am strong. I am precise. I can be perfect.
I stretch out my legs before packing up my things and walk to Fetter Lane? or where the publishing houses are in EC1. Colin Firth is there and is my love interest but there is some weird triangle happening with his Secretary so I go into the garden and water my cabbages. I look around the garden and there are several bushes of climbing roses between lots of large cabbages dotted around, some green and some delicately coloured ornamental cabbages. Each one surrounded by a rosette of large crinkly green leaves. The cabbages smiling faces stand out amongst the rose bushes without competition or rivalry. The cabbage is not merely for decoration or scent. It is nutritious, healthy and has many uses.
Assessing the stems I know I cannot easily break off the ornamental cabbages as the stem is too thick, so turn towards the kitchen to get my secateurs, thinking about a vase full of beautiful ornamental cabbages when it strikes me that I have forgotten about the roses! I shrug it off, who cares about roses when you can have a vase of beautiful cabbages? As I cut the flowers and fill my vase I am struck by their individual perfection, the precision of each leaf as they overlap, revealing the delicious centre, and marvel at how delicate yet strong they are. I stop and look towards the back door and realise I am no longer jealous of Stacey Dooley; she the rose and I, an ornamental cabbage.
I tried to grow ornamental cabbages from seeds last year but started too late. I’ll get them in the ground around august so they can establish before the autumn. Stacey represents time for some reason, it’s the flame hair, the brown shoe, the adult dancing. Roses are the joy of summer, youth, beautiful young dancing girls, who I no longer am. The green cabbage is health, strong like my Russian teacher, my grandmothers, and the ornamentals reminding me of my own offerings to the world.
Fem Feelings 