Banana Boy.

Banana Boy (Edited Version)

Ssad tales or success stories? Here they’re two sides of the same view. Our childhoods aren’t a choice, but how we carry it is. Being a Barnardo’s boy, an accident of empire. I grew up as a lonely kid, surrounded by children in a giant echoing house. But I and my Barnardo brothers and sisters made our own myths. We climbed trees. We were all affected.

.

I could tell you a sad tale,

I could tell you a success story.

Both are true in every detail,

each with tears and glory.

The sad tale doesn’t end differently,

the success one starts the same

because it’s the way a story is told

that changes the result of the game.

.

In one tale, I’m lonely and frightened

Mother, a distant unknown.

Her unbearable burdens were lightened

by my absence

from her and her new man’s home.

But on the other side of the glass

I’m free, running loose and wild

no guilt to prick at a conscience

barely formed in an unwanted child.

.

In one story, I have no attachments.

I’m no one’s priority.

In the other, I’m one of a band of kids

each as insouciant as me.

We played, we learned, we grew together:

some leaving, some returning, some new.

We betrayed, we laughed with, we screwed each other

sometimes deceiving, sometimes blood-brother true.

.

Yes, there were times of anguish

but they only lasted ten years or so.

There were times a weapon I’d brandish

to cut through the charade on show.

A child in a world of children

there were dangers, thrills, and fun.

OK, the adults were watching,

but when it came down to telling,

they could only listen to one.

Most times we kids made our own world

of princesses and brave super-men

who could leap from the limbs of the conker tree

straight into a hospital bed.

.

The home was massive — a magnificent mansion,

an heirloom bequeathed by a benefactor.

Did he ever imagine kids, echoing

through room after room

their tears, their prayers, their laughter?

Each child a private battler,

against odds fixed and stacked

fighting like a drunken, blind boxer,

confused ‘tween defence and attack.

The myriad of passing counterfeit mothers

all cared for a second or so.

Then disappeared to resume their real lives,

while we stared, too proud to show

the longing in our unasked questions,

the silence where names once burned.

Another one gone – we called it victory,

but did it sting every time it occurred?

Nah! That’s the beauty of our childhood

we could shape the world as we pleased.

Who needs family anyway?

We had each other

and the conker trees.

.

If this story feels like a sad one,

I’ve not explained as well as I could

how my childhood gave me freedom

to think, to feel without “should.”

I learned to watch, to see beyond what I saw,

to read the lives of children,

their emotions open and raw.

I was witness to wounds torn open

some will never have healed,

brothers and sisters, lost and lonely,

unsure when to fight or yield.

I truly believe each wound I concealed

made me stronger inside.

I’ll tell you, when I can,

if I’m now a strong man

or just an overgrown child.

I was lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Though the only Black face in the whole of the valley,

like an errant raisin in a bowl of rice

raising my head,

alone,

I looked good in a current of white.

.

And so, a story to finish

from those days so long ago.

A rumour had spread around my school

about a boy I thought I should know.

So when I got back to Barnardo’s,

I said to a mother, whose name I forget:

“I’ve heard there’s a Black boy in our class

but I haven’t seen the bugger yet!

.

.

Original version below.

I could tell you a sad tale, I could tell you a success story. Both true. Both mine. Two sides of the same view. Childhood wasn’t a choice—but how I carry it is.

I could tell you a sad tale,
I could tell you a success story.
Both true in every detail,
each with tears and glory.
The sad tale doesn’t end differently,
the success one starts from the same view
because, it’s the way a story is told
that casts its different shades and hue.

In one tale, I’m lonely and frightened,
Mother, a distant unknown;
her unbearable burdens are lightened by my absence
from her and her new man’s home.
On the other side of the looking glass
I’m free, running loose and wild,
no guilt to prick at a conscience
barely formed in an unwanted child.

In one story I have no attachments
and I’m no-one’s priority.
In the other there are kids all around
each as insouciant as me.
We played and we learned and we grew together,
some leaving some returning, some new.
We betrayed and spurned and screwed each other,
sometimes deceiving, other times ‘blood brother’ true.

Yes, there were times of anguish
but they only lasted ten years or so.
There were times when a weapon I’d brandish
to cut out of the charade on show.
A child in a world of children
there were dangers, thrills and fun,
OK, the adults were watching
but at any time – they can only listen to one.
Meanwhile we others made our own world
of princesses and brave super-men
who could fly from the boughs of the conker tree –
straight into a hospital bed!

The home was massive; a magnificent mansion, and heirloom,
bequeathed by a benefactor.
I wonder if he ever imagined kids wreathed in room after room
their tears, their prayers, their laughter?
Each child, a private battler
against odds fixed and stacked,
fighting like a drunken, blind boxer
confused ‘tween defence and attack.

The myriad of passing counterfeit mothers
all cared for a second or so.
Then disappeared back to their real lives
as we wondered; and watched them go.

staring, too proud to show

the longing in our unasked questions,

the silence where their names once warmed.

We called it victory.

But it stung and oh, how we yearned.

Then rejoiced at another victory
another Mummy repelled;
I guess some of us wondered
why the real one was withheld.
Nah!! That’s the beauty of childhood
we could shape the world as we pleased
who needs family anyway?
We had each other – and the conker trees.

If this story feels like a sad one
I’ve not explained as well as I could
how my childhood gave me freedom
to think, to feel without “should”.
I learned to watch – see beyond what I saw,
make bold interpretations of young lives vivid and raw.
I was witness to wounds tore open, some will never have healed;
brothers and sisters forsaken and lonely, unsure when to fight or yield.

I truly believe – each wound I concealed
made me tougher inside.
I’ll tell you, when I can, if I’m now a strong man
or merely an overgrown child.
I was lucky, lucky lucky…
Though the only black face in the whole of the valley,
like an errant raisin in a bowl of rice;
raising my head, alone, I looked good in a current of white.
Though for many such loneliness feels like doom,
to me it was more a classroom
where I learned to fire my imagination,
shed dross and find life’s golden bloom.

And so, a story to finish
from those days so long ago.
A rumour had spread around my school
about a boy I thought I should know.
So when I got back to Barnardo’s
I said to a mother, whose name I forget,
“I’ve heard there’s a black boy in our class
but I haven’t seen the bugger yet!”

I was a Barnardo’s boy, an accident of empire, a lonely little superhero in a giant echoing house. But I and my mates made myths. We climbed trees. we survived. This is my story. Told both ways. Sad tale. Success tale. Same view.