As Black as Hers was White
An antique table, a pair of slightly worn shoes and an intricate gold picture frame. Twenty pounds, three pounds or fifty pence. The corner of the shop was deserted meaning nobody noticed me slipping the photograph out of its beautiful protective casing.
The woman in the faded picture intrigued me and, once removed from the frame, the life that was preserved in there gripped me. I wanted to be dragged back in time to discover more. The picture was black and white with no indication of any colour or tone whatsoever. The dress must have been grey or another muted colour but the woman was bright, tall and beautiful. She stood strong yet looked slightly uneasy in front of the camera. Her posture was stiff and her eyes appeared firm and strict, judgemental yet polite. As if she’d let you get away with something wicked and go on to become the person who triggered your guilt. I imagine if someone wronged her it would be these eyes that would linger in their mind and see that dark clouds of sorrow occasionally floated through an otherwise sunny mind.
Was she a mother, sister, wife, daughter? Had those who had dared to look into these eyes felt love or hatred? Which memories was the woman keen to hold on to? What did she want to look back on as her hair greyed and her skin creased? As I flipped the photograph over in my hands I came across a dark, heavy pencil mark as if someone was irritated or hurrying to write her name.
Flora.
Was Flora from the past as stoic and vaguely intimidating as she appeared or was she adored and respected by those she knew? The name itself sounded beautiful and elegant, perhaps her beautiful side would forgive a wicked act. Perhaps the eyes would soften and the tall figure would embrace you in forgiveness. Perhaps, as you felt the warmth of her skin, she would attempt to cure you of the slowly growing ache of guilt by assuring you that mistakes would be forgiven, sorrow is temporary and nothing is good or bad, black or white. Her forgiveness would be based on the existence of murky grey areas. Areas that you may find yourself in through no fault of your own.
Maybe my fabricated memories of Flora were right. More probably they were wrong. How much could I really assume from a photograph? Who is to say there was a shred of truth in my fantasies or the comforting nature I had projected onto this stranger. But there is also the grey area, who is to say I am wrong?
K. Finlay
After reading A Friend of My Youth I focused on the quotation “My Flora would be as black as hers was white” because I was interested in a different perception of Flora. Both stories deal with memories of people and the difference between being in the moment and retrospect. I think this is interesting because in our lives judgement of people isn’t black or white and I wanted to write something that explored that idea.
History Lingers
History tarnishes the brass of the pot
weathers the page of the book.
The tales of torture – black with red, white with gold
on choppy seas
sailing towards profit and land
where products mean more than the people.
No matter if your hands are raw so long as our sugar is sweet.
No matter if your family are strangers so long as my pipe lights.
The middle passage
but did it pass?
Eight weeks of ship ploughing through water
whilst driving captives out of their minds
or out of their shackles and over
over into a cold dark depth still preferred.
History builds these cities of secret shameful bricks
cemented with callous disregard for lives of others
crammed into holds, sold or traded
their freedom for our greed.
The pot polished, the book rebound
buildings demolished yet history remains
lingering as we learn
history haunts us up to this moment and beyond.
K. Finlay
This poem was inspired by the objects in the exhibition at Pathfoot. Particularly the brass peck and the book about Mary Prince. I was surprised to find out about Scotland’s links with slavery and its role in the development of the country. This poem is about the links to slavery that we can still find in everyday life.
