Wading through a sea of white

Monday 21^st February, 1981

Gilbert Hall,

Islington,

N1 9PQ,

London,

England

The recently varnished mahogany oak doors were the only thing stopping me from rushing inside, breathless and buzzing with nervous, thrilled energy. But, for some reason, their looming presence seemed to still my frost kissed limbs on the threshold. My hot breath misted in front of me, in little puffs and clouds, bringing to mind a regretless chain smoker. Soft murmurings drifted through the doors of the undoubtedly warm house. I could already feel my stiff fingers soaking up all that glorious heat.

But for a second, I just stopped and let my pride and satisfaction wash away my depthless desire to go inside and escape the biting cold. I had done it, finally. Through blood, sweat and tears, through too many nights of just sitting, shivering in my threadbare pyjamas on the unyielding wooden floor. Sitting, watching frost creep onto the window panes, watching the paint peeling off the once olive green walls. Sitting, debating whether I should give up on my dreams or experience one more day of hell. Debating whether my dreams were worth this torture, or how quickly I would get over them. I was so close to giving up too. I was a millimetre from my tipping point.

Before I my brain started overthinking every small decision I made, I pushed open the doors without knocking. They swung open seamlessly, well oiled and blatantly screaming 'rich, rich, rich!' I almost sighed in disappointment, because clearly my ramshackle doors would be the only ones that had an audible creak in this crowd. I followed the soft speech, like a hound on a scent, until I reach the right room. Taking a deep breath, hoping it would calm my jittery nerves like in the movies, I strode in trying to paint a confident, amiable woman as her writing suggests. Plastering a smile onto my somehow sweaty face, I looked around, silently checking off everyone's names as I went along. Jerry Spanners. Margaret Brown. Mark James. Luka Bass. Brenda Robbins. Mat Wilkins. Empty chair. Somewhere not riddled with nervous energy in my brain, I snorted. A circle of chairs, how ironicly 'book club-ish'. They all looked up at the exact same time, cutting Brenda off mid-flow. The same sort of startled expression blinked across their faces before being wiped off effortlessly, as if my presence was an unwanted surprise.

Everyone was sitting down with a patterned teacup and saucer in hand, throwing tentative smiles and subdued 'hello's' in my direction. When no one offered a drink or that I should take a seat, I carefully walked towards the free chair, hoping beyond belief I didn't seem rude or out of my place. Nobody objected as I sat, sandwiched between Mat and Luka. Out of the corner of my eye, I ignored the mischievous segment of my brain trying to fruitlessly bate my paranoia, whispering that Mat had tried to naturally shuffle away from me a few inches. The stretched silence started to descend like a blanket, and trying desperately to crush the awkwardness before it could take root, I started gushing about anything and everything.

"Firstly, I would just like to say how honored I was to be finally invited to the inspiring books of the decade discussion and that I have read all of your books front to back and absolutely loved them. Miss Brown, I adored your main characters and all their attributes, and Jerry, oh that plot twist nearly ripped apart my heart...!"

Lies, lies, lies. I had never read, nor heard of a single one of their books. Hours before, stressing and bewildered, I had combed through the outdated home computer for every scrap I could find about them. Time for such luxuries as reading seemed to always elude me, laughing and spitting in my face just a few metres ahead. Still, no matter how hard I try, every centimetre closer to relaxation pushes me twice the amount back. You would think that success would bring some sort of reprieve from constant fatigue and work. Apparently not when you are me.

After the initial greetings, the conversation was stilted and faltering, not nearly as fluid as the snapshot I heard before I had entered. After a dull 10 minute conversation about how each of them picked their titles, I decided to boldly ask their opinions on my book considering nobody had coughed any up so far.

"It was lovely."

"Yes, nice storyline..."

"Great read, captivating, really."

My face fell, eyes dimming. There it was – the give away. It was crystal clear, none of them had read my book. It is a far cry from a lovely fairytale – and if they had read it, they would had winced with the foolishness of the mistake instantly. Had they not even had time to merely look it up, as I had taken the effort to do? Not even one. Really? With all the time they had, not one of them had tried to read the first few sentences? Maybe it is just not their genre. Stop being paranoid, you don't know that for certain. It's not set in stone, maybe they just haven't got round to it, writing is a full-time...

'Miss Parkinson, I'm sorry but we are going to have to ask you to leave, we're just not comfortable and you say you were invite...' The rest of Jerry's sentence - clearly elected as the pack leader - was blocked out by steel shutters slamming down inside my mind, protecting me from any more poisonous words. Too late. The damage was done. Because that was what they were, a pack of wolves. Baring pearly white teeth sharpened to tear through skin and bone, haunches tensed, ready to spring. I was only just too stupid, drunk on happiness, to not see them circling.

Despite the blockade, I could still sense their attentions fixed rigidly on my features, still taste the lingering tension. Letting my body go into autopilot, I barely acknowledged standing up stiffly and striding out of the room.

Finally it had come. The punchline. The reason to the awkwardness. The hostile coldness. Once again, a color had dictated my future, rather than my achievements and had ruined everything. Once again I was an outsider because my skin color was not bleached or pale. Once again, I was not as great as them, all I was to them, a piece of trash. All the world thought of me. Now, back out again in the viscous cold where I had started, I am trying so hard to not let their words brand into my mind, to be able to sway my emotions. No longer am I dizzy with nerves and excitement. Now I am angry, can feel it ebbing off my taut body into the night sky. But my anger hasn't consumed my mind yet. Neither has the cold. Controlling my mind are two simple words. Two words that mean nothing apart, but together pack a punch that I can still feel in my gut. All I can hear is two words bouncing around on the inside of my skull, taunting with each vibration through my body. Black trash. Black trash.

Black trash.

Black trash

black trash

bla...