Cedar is Claudia Monteith
Writing
GLIMPSE
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An Anthology Of Black British Speculative Fiction
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Publisher - Peepal Tree
‘Embracing speculative fiction is a revolutionary act.’ - Leone Ross
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'Glimpse’ is the first anthology of Black British Speculative Fiction to be published. New themes are explored in Afrofuturism, horror, magic, fantasy and all forms of the other-worldly, written from the Black and British perspective. I’m so proud to have my story – ‘Devoted’ – among this exciting collection.
‘Devoted’ - is a tale about a doomed relationship between a man with an obsession with ‘Homes and Gardens’ magazine, and a feral female, fresh from the woods…
Writing about a character that is blessed with none of the usual human boundaries and restrictions is very liberating, and an interesting way to look at the impact of socialisation and colonialism, how we internalise and how we project.
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At the book launch in January, 2023, with (from left to right) Leone Ross, Patience Agbabi, Melissa Jackson-Wagner, Aisha Phoenix, Myself, Judith Bryan and Patricia Cumper.
THE RETELLING
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A Mother/Daughter Memoir
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Looking to Publish...
In 2004, I packed an old fashioned tape-recorder and a stack of blank tapes in my case, and went to visit my mother, who was living in Berlin at the time. My mission was to interview her and record the stories of her life.
I didn’t have a clear idea of what I was undertaking. All I knew for certain was that I wanted the many stories she had told and retold me growing up, peppering my own much quieter and mundane experience with their dramatic and traumatic details.
Dedicated to my mother - Ingeborg Else Monteith
‘As a child, it seemed to me that at any given moment something could happen, even something quite mundane, to ignite in her all that had happened before. And she would tell it, uncensored, the details of her past instantly blurring my present. No matter how long-ago, it was never far away.’
In her own inimitable style, my mother recalls growing up as a latch-key child in Nazi Germany, with a working mother and an absent father. Bold and street-wise but powerless in the face of the extreme events happening around her, she witnessed the disappearance of Jewish neighbours and friends, followed by the terrors of the 2nd World War.
I didn’t set out to write a book. That would have felt too monumental an undertaking. But over time, what started as just a collection of stories about my mother’s life, grew to encompass much more. I found myself reflecting on the complexities of our relationship – my mother’s rash and out-spoken nature so often at odds with my more ponderous one – and how her story came to be a place of reconciliation. I reflected on how her history had impacted and informed my own. I reflected on my experience growing up during the 60's and 70's in London with a German mother and a Jamaican father, and the strategies that I developed. Over time, it became clear that one thing could not be separated from the other. I needed to write about it all.
THE LITERARY ARCHAEOLOGY PROJECT
Published by Bristol University
In 2016, I was one of seven writers of Caribbean heritage, brought together at Bristol University with two archaeological scientists, who shared data recovered from the bones of a slave plantation burial site in Barbados.
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The writers had been commissioned by the University’s Arts Faculty to write original performance pieces in response to the scientist’s findings.
Small shards of bone were passed around the group, bones that belonged to people who had been through the unthinkable. The scientists were able to ascertain specific and extraordinary information from their analysis of these bones, such as whether an individual was born into slavery or born free in Africa, as well as estimating the age they were taken. They could provide information about the kind of work an individual did by the wear and tear of joints. They talked about diet, possible cause of death, age of death, even habits, such as teeth markings that suggested an individual smoked a pipe.
As fascinating as these details were, it was the kind of information that tells you something and nothing at the same time. It gave very little away about the actual experiences of the people whose bones we had in our hands. It was up to us, the writers, to attempt to fill this gap.
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I must admit that when I first heard about the project I was initially reluctant to get involved. I had to ask myself if I was ready to face this most harrowing of subjects. I knew that if I got involved it would not be half-hearted because that is not how I do things. Then I recognised that part of me had been waiting for the opportunity to look at this, but the subject had always been too vast and overwhelming to know how to even begin. This project, with its specifics to focus on, its clear set boundaries and the support of the group, made it possible, and for that I am very grateful.
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I wrote a piece called ‘Uncovering’.
It is about a young woman known only as ‘individual N56’.
The piece consists of a series of eight interlocking monologues.
Below is one, called ‘A Sister’.
A Sister
There is a girl that looks to me like a sister. She could so easily be from Home. But she was born here, grew here, and although, each day, we fight alongside each other to stay human, her fight has a different tone to mine. She is of now and this place. She holds no history. She told me that she could not remember her mother and I looked away from her eyes, because I could not bear to ever forget mine.
She thinks I am proud and that is why I so often choose to be alone. But it is not a choice, I am alone. My people are not here and I can’t help but look for them over the shoulders of those that are in front of me. But this girl, she finds reasons to stay by me, to offer me a smile when I can offer none back. And when we lie together in the dark she reaches for my hand and whispers – tell me of where you came from.
And then I cry. I have so little left to tell but I share these fragments with her and, because she cannot remember her mother, I whisper to her the prayer my mother gave me. It is the only thing I have left that is whole. Then she cries too. I have come to the conclusion that she is my sister after all.
She asks – what do you hold on to? But I cannot answer.
Everyone needs to hold on to something – she insists. I know she is thinking of her liberty, it is all she thinks of and plans for. But my mouth is covered. I am too ashamed to tell her that I am waiting for death. I am ashamed because my mother told me I was a strong and clever girl, and to wait for death is neither of these things.
Torso. Newton plantation slave cemetery, Barbados.
The finished pieces were performed at the Georgian House in Bristol in 2016. They are published on the Bristol University website.​http://www.bristol.ac.uk/arts/research/literary-archaeology/
RE-COLLECTING
A Selection of Short-Shorts based on the early memories of friends and strangers.
Self-printed, published and performed as part of the Easton Arts Trail, 2013
Short-shorts, also known as flash fiction, are stories that are usually less than a page in length, often just a paragraph, and so serve well as a dramatic moment of focus. In a similar way, our memories hardly ever seem to contain all the puzzle pieces. We recall two or three of the most interesting bits from the centre of the image, while the connecting parts – the more boring background pieces that would give it context – are forgotten.
Early memories are particularly emotive. We remember the extraordinary times, the times when we were dazzled or shaken. The times we made fundamental decisions about how life was for us.
For several months I approached friends, family, neighbours and people at the bus stop, and asked them to share an early childhood memory with me. It surprised me how ready and willing most people, even total strangers, were to share intimate details about themselves when given the invitation. Every memory I heard was a gift, a precious snapshot.
This project is in gratitude to all those who shared.
The transition from told memory to story is an interesting one, and made me think about how our memories evolve and alter over time, how we forget or omit some parts and embellish and exaggerate others. How what we tell is adjusted by the one who hears it.
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This collection of short-shorts was accompanied by a collection of textile art pieces, unrelated accept they were also about altered memories. Each piece was made from something that had a previous life and history – a child’s glove, a corner of patchwork, a shirt collar, a crocheted blanket. As in the stories, I worked close-up, focusing on the detail, cutting and embellished the pieces, creating something new that still resonated with it’s original state.
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Below are a few of my favourites.
The Chicken House
The chicken house was meant to have chickens but never did. Instead it joins she and me in our garden. She is my twin and the garden is our wilderness. And every day we get to say, ‘Let’s go to The Chicken House!’ And then we go.
We crawl through the little door and set up home. We drag all-sorts from the house. We fold blankets, make beds. We invite favourite toys for tea. We go out shopping for leaves and pine cones for supper. We share them out on plastic plates.
She wants to wee in the back corner. She tells me she’s going to do it and I don’t say no. The wee hits the wooden floor splashing her ankles. The dark trail snakes towards me and all our special things and I begin to panic, but the it circles back on itself, settles by the side wall. The smell overpowers the scent of wood and old dust. I go out and wait, and when she joins me she is quiet and frowning. I look at her and she looks at me. We have the same face. But I would never wee in the Chicken House.
(From Rachel/England/1979)
Miss Mill
The nurse is called Miss Mill. It rhymes with hill because she is big and can’t be moved and never smiles. The children live on the top of the hill, and from the porch they can see the bright unnatural spark of her blue uniform coming up through the foliage in their direction. Their play grows silent. From here she is small like you finger, but it’s just a matter of time.
(From Janet/Jamaica/1973)
Kittens
He told her that kittens can take a long time, so it would be best to go and play. Now it is over. Six tiny dead bodies lie in a cardboard box. The frail sunken mother sleeps in the back of the wardrobe.
He comes downstairs, wondering how to say it, and stops when he sees her, sitting with her back to him, unaware, framed in the sunshine of the garden step. She is deep in her play, chatting to her stuffed blue rabbit that she sends hopping around her feet. She stretches, holding it out so it can reach the grass at the bottom of the step. Her voice as light as a bird. ‘Yum, yum, yum. Yum, yum, yum.’
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(From Carla/ England/ 1971)
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The River Will Pass
There’s no river in the valley in summer. Autumn brings the rain. Now the river flows before them, deep and choppy. There’s no question of turning back. Mother carries the baby, so he must carry himself with only a hand to hold.
It feels wrong to walk in the river in his shoes, even more wrong that Mother says nothing to stop him. His heart beats fast and he hesitates a moment with just his toes touching the river’s edge. But the water is eager to break the rules. It creeps inside his shoes, seeps cold between his toes. Mother pulls him by the hand and he relents. The water travels quickly up his trouser legs.
As they go deeper the current gets faster, pushing against them, their feet unstable on unseen rocks. “We’re going to be fine,” Mother says. “Come on, be brave,” she says. “One step at a time.” The other side seems to come no nearer, but the water climbs. And his tears drip into the river, making it deeper still.
The hills surround the valley, looking down from every angle, patiently watching the little island of people swaying in the middle of the river. The island will pass. The river will pass. The hills will stay.​
(From Christine/Iran/1970)
Kerb
Mary says that Dad is outside so I follow her to see. Mum doesn’t come. She doesn’t move from the sink.
He’s lying in the kerb in his nice checked jacket. His arm is stretched out above his head. His hand is almost touching the wheel of a parked car. His eyes are shut. He isn’t moving. He looks asleep, but to go to sleep in the kerb is silly; the kerb is where dogs poo.
I look up at Mary. Mary shrugs. I think of the cowboys on telly when they get shot.
Mum comes out. She picks me up and takes me back indoors. She looks cross so I know he isn’t dead. If he was dead she would cry.
(From Barry/England/1965)