You are a Nasty Poisonous Troll

My legacy?

In just over four weeks I will be headed back to Philadelphia after 26 years of basing myself in Scotland. Part of that involves offloading a lot of personal and household items that are too much a hassle to bring over the ocean. It’s A LOT of stuff.

Doing a wee sidewalk sale on Saturday, stop by for a bargain!

One time or recurring donations can be made via BuyMeACoffee

I put the flyer above on my Facebook page and an individual (whom I shall keep anonymous because why give him/her more attention) has posted the following on my page. It contains all the kryptonite words one has come to expect from people who are not really interested in ‘creating community’ or 'getting along’. Baseless accusations that manifest a barrier to further interrogation.

It’s not the first (and probably won’t be the last) of accusations of ‘hate’ levelled at me since I started to speak out about the increasingly anti-child programming going on in schools and culture. Unfortunately these kinds of things do create a psychological response in the wider public of recoil. Rather than say ‘is this true’? People just turn away.

I am reminded of our Covid lockdown measures. In December 2020 my son and I were on a train seated by ourselves for the one stop (five minutes) into city centre for Christmas errands. I had (to my credit) managed to shield him from most of the madness around this time and he was, at seven, quite a happy wee dude. We were maskless (I had gone through the bureaucracy of getting exemptions though in fact - as now is generally accepted - the masks were useless anyway). A grey haired man of about sixty leant over the aisle and menacingly jabbed his finger in my face, ‘where are your masks’ he demanded?

I tried to deflect, considering my son. ‘Oh hello, Merry Christmas’! I replied

‘Where are your masks’ he intoned again growling and bracing his shoulders as if prepared for violence.

No one in the crowded car dared to look in our direction. Their heads burrowed into their phones, looking (masked and faceless) out the window.

I got up to go to the train door as we were a minute from the station and to escape his threats. He followed.

“It’s none of your business” I iterated.

Like a dog with a bone he could not release, he continued to verbally berate me loudly so that everyone could hear whilst physically backing me into the corner of the train carriage with my son, J, behind. ‘Please stop’ my seven year old pleaded.

The man did not stop spitting a tirade of abuse. And no one on that train said a word. At this point my son was sobbing. ‘Please leave her alone’! he begged. The man did not. Nor did anyone come to our aid.

‘How dare you! How dare you all!’ I shouted at the train passengers, as I shielded my son.

The doors opened thankfully and we got out. Shaken as the passengers silently hustled off, heads down, avoiding our gaze.

This is the madness, the mania that humans can manifest. We all wonder how we would respond in such a situation, thinking that we would stand up. But too often the madness of crowds permeates the limbs making many impotent to do the right thing. In matters of the culture war, this inactivity is even easier but the stakes are perhaps greater.

Does anyone ask ‘is this true’?

My critic cites my ‘Christian beliefs’ that are so problematic and ‘hateful’ like… the body is good, lying is bad, don’t define people along myopic identity lines and we shouldn’t sexualise children. Aren’t these widely held moral beliefs? Does the fact that Christianity *also* holds them now makes them irrelevant? Does this have the same effect of directing the gaze away from the attack?

Also let’s just pause for a moment to consider that this individual is suggesting that I ‘identified’ as a Christmas tree. The Tree:

It’s called dressing up. I assumed (I guess wrongly) that people understood I didn’t actually *think* I was a Christmas tree. My bad. To be clear: I never thought myself an actual Christmas tree. Ok? It was actually the Christmas season and I donned a Christmas Tree COSTUME because it made people smile. And then I raised some monies for the local schools (four of them) to do fun stuff. (for three years) So fun begets fun. That was the beginning and end of it really.

You see, for over 20 years I found many creative ways to ‘stage’ creative performances in the public. And this built, for a time, much notoriety… and laughter. Picture this: a person caught in their headspace with the worries of the world catching sight of the above, and their shoulders dropping and their face opening like the sun. Following by… dancing. I did this in the thousands. Easily. Sometimes as part of projects, but mostly out of my own initiative. Yet my dancing shenanigans here in Glasgow - which have lasted over two decades will ultimately be forgotten. They already are.

My work was widely covered in all the major broadsheets, I was on the BBC, STV and even American day time television. Google my name now and you will be hard pressed to find any info on what I have done beyond the past couple of years of my own site and writing. And comments like the one above.

In Pollokshields, which centred much of my work and activity (as it’s where I live), there is no remnant beyond the residents who witnessed me at the time. Instead - if you google Pollokshields - you only hear about the mythology of the Kenmure Street ‘event’ which now has become one of the poster children for refugee week.

On that May day in 2021 two dudes were caught out for not paying their council tax. Both had arrived from India some years before on a work visa. One got an additional marriage visa. When the work visa ran out and the marriage fell apart (let’s just say he was not a ‘good’ husband) they failed in their duties as adults and didn’t get new ones. (jobs and/or wives) The only reason they were caught out is because they didn’t pay their council tax. They are not heroes. And it’s a massive disservice to those who are seeking protection due to leaving areas of war or unrest to create that association. And a massive disservice to the many thousands of migrants who came legally, did the necessary work and have mindfully contributed as UK citizens. As I understand it, one guy has returned to India where he was under no threat to begin with.

There was a kind of reverse racism that occurred on that day because people saw their brown skin and assumed they were innocent. As it turns out they weren’t murderers but they could have been. It begs belief really. It infantilises these men as if they are not capable of doing the right thing.

But what annoys me most about this orchestrated story (that has become the dominant narrative of Pollokshields) is that it completely negates the many hundreds of others that exist. It shores up division in its lies. Firstly that these men were in any way noble. Secondly that this was a ‘Pollokshields’ protest. It was not. A small cohort of activist locals were involved (continue to be involved and benefit from the story) and the rest were pulled in from across Glasgow never to be seen again. And it pulls more like-minded people in who are more interested in the virtue of identity declarations and the world ‘out there’ then in the (perhaps mundane) aspects of taking care of life here in all it’s complexity, challenges and surprise.

Maybe this is how history works. I consider this fresco I saw in the Basilica of San Zeno in Italy recently….

Hundreds of years old, the fresco has been ‘annotated’ over the years with graffiti from the monks in situ. Historians say these notations help provide valuable reference points about that particular moment in time. And yet I cannot help but think - whilst fascinating - it will only be one strand of a quilt of existence. As we can see already what remains of the past is blurred and much is forgotten.

Does it matter? I think the stories we tell each other do matter. I think they reinforce our grounding which is vital for growth. And I cannot help but feel sad that my wee story is forgotten. Not so much for my own ego but because it was fun for lots of people and these days we seem to have forgotten that.

That said I am hopeful. In so much as those scribes scratched a moment onto the medieval frescoes leading to hundreds of years of curiosity, perhaps all the good human stories also hold resonance.

At my goodbye supper with my colleagues at the

Scottish Union for Education

over the weekend I remarked that I felt compelled to say something ‘profound’. And perhaps it’s just that. We need profundity in our life. The Latin origin of the word ‘profound’ is ‘pro’ (before) ‘the bottom’ (fundus). When I think of the term ‘profound’ it is not just a word, but a sense, an intuition of something before that despite not seeing it - holds me. It is the air, the ground beneath the foundations, the space between you and me. It is no surprise as my foundations have been wobbling these past few years I am returning to my roots. I do not have any regrets of my time in Scotland. I did what I view was needed. And even if it is ‘forgotten’ it is not lost. And for that and for others who pursue truth, beauty, goodness and fun I am thankful.

With my colleagues from SUE over the weekend.

Please do stop by Pollokshields tomorrow if you are around BUY MY STUFF (moving is expensive, not to mention…transporting cats).

***I also am auctioning a very limited edition print from my 2019 project ‘Four Corners’****

AUCTION RUNS FROM 21 JUNE-11 JULY. Starting bid at £10!

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