I was asked by the lovely people at second-store.com to write a Galentine’s Day Letter to a person who had inspired me to become the woman I am today – here it is:
The last time I saw you I sat and stroked your hand: fragile, grooved with veins and age. You didn’t know me anymore. Lost in the mist. But I knew you – my grandmother who sent airletters, gave awful presents and couldn’t cook. You loved stories, a gift you passed down the generations. Because of this my childhood was enchanted, where magic and wonderment still existed – and I grew up knowing I could become anything I imagined myself to be. When the walls of my childhood came crumbling down, it was your daughter – and my imagination – which kept me safe.
What’s strange is that when I think I of you, which is surprisingly often given how little I actually knew you, I think of the you I didn’t know; long before the mist, before even me. Your grandmother was in the Black Sash, my mother would tell me. A woman’s organisation which campaigned against the erosion of human rights in South Africa. You couldn’t hold public meetings, so you would protest against apartheid individually. Black sash draped around you mourning the death of democracy. I’d read about this later, how though you were largely protected by your racial privilege – you were still vilified by many. Once you stood silently protesting in Cape Town when a man spat at you, and then a passing woman came and wiped your face. Women can change the world as much as men.
You used to say “Do the next good thing”, mum would tell me. I wonder what you’d make of our world now, you who have seen the devastation that is borne from polarisation. In Northern Ireland we’ve had no government for two years and people still fight for rights: a raped woman cannot have an abortion the way women in the rest of the UK can, same sex couples here are the only ones on these islands who can’t get married. As Brexit looms we hurtle towards more division, more barriers – the threat of eradicating the important work of so many for so long… and I feel helpless.
You taught my mother and she taught me the ability to think beyond ourselves, to see “others” as people and to imagine a better world. I got involved in politics to be part of the solution, not the problem – and as I try to hold onto my hope, I think with gratitude and pride of you and all the women who came before us, making it that much easier to do the next good thing. And how our job now is to do the same for those who will follow us.
Kate Nicholl 