Friday, March 29

A moment that changed me: I watched my mother dance in nipple tassles on TV – and my heart swelled with pride | Spoken-word


There’s probably a German word for it. Some 30-character term to capture the sensation of sitting down in front of the television and learning, along with 10 million primetime viewers, that your mother can twirl nipple tassels in opposite directions. But whether a word for it exists or not, watching my mother audition as part of a burlesque troupe on the ninth series of Britain’s Got Talent, I felt it – this mix of surprise, heart-swelling pride and an involuntary flinch that caused my buttocks to clench with the force of an angrily slammed door. I felt something else too: the thud of a penny finally dropping.

I have long been used to the sight of my mother performing. Whether it was in panto or amateur plays, the sight of her de ella in an outrageous outfit barreling across a stage is so familiar to me that it is hard to picture her out of costume. Even off stage, there has always been an air of showbiz about her. She brings something special to any room she enters, as if every light is straining to illuminate her. As a teenager I would marvel at this quality, watching as she sat around with her friends de ella, the focus of attention, telling captivating tales that began with a readying “OK…” and built to explosions of laughter that cracked the ceiling.

But while this sort of thing was happening downstairs, the person who most fascinated me was upstairs, lying on his bed and smoking Marlboros louchely as he listened to Iron Maiden. My elder brother, Robert. He rode a motorbike, drank huge volumes of beer and welcomed a revolving cast of girlfriends into his bedroom. Hoping that by emulation I might become like him, I began to ape his dress and musical tastes of him.

Also Read  The National Rifle Association flexes its muscle in Texas

“You’re like a mini-Robert,” people would tell me, and this was heartening, allowing me to believe that if I kept it up, I would eventually develop the qualities that made him so special. It was an effort I would make for decades.

When he died suddenly at the age of 37, in 2008, living as his echo became my primary comfort – it felt as if he wasn’t truly gone if I was attempting to walk in his shoes.

Adam Farrer’s mother appearing on ITV’s show Britain’s Got Talent.

Yet in 2015 when I saw my mother standing before the nation, tassels spinning, I was sideswiped by memories of a younger, very different version of myself – when it was not my brother whose behavior I was trying to copy.

For a while, back in high school, I was so moved by the effect my mother’s stories had on her friends, that I began to repeat them to the boys in my year, selecting the anecdotes that had proved to be absolute, crowd-pleasing bangers. But while I would mimic her cadence and mannerisms of her, something was always missing from my versions of her: chiefly, the right audience. Teenage boys, I learned, do not like or understand flamboyantly told stories about middle-aged sex and childbirth-related haemorrhoids. And they especially don’t look fondly upon the boy who is telling them.

“Que are you?” one classmate asked me, while I was retelling my mother’s story about her friend’s bedroom-related mix-up between a jar of Vaseline and a tub of Vicks VapoRub. I was struggling to formulate a reply, when the boy’s fist punched the words from my mouth.

Also Read  Galicia estrenó el Rip Curl Gromsearch por todo lo alto

As I picked myself up off the floor, I knew exactly what I was: a person who was never going to open his mouth in public and fail again. It was not a risk worth taking.

Adam Farrer.
‘I steeled myself and read my story’ … Adam Farrer. Photographer: Simon Buckley

Now, here was my mother, taking the risks I had sworn not to take, being bold and fearless, forcing me to see my reflection in her. As much as I had wanted to be like Robert, I was not like him and never really had been. I was, by natural inclination, like her, and by admitting this, I finally had to let go of Robert.

A few weeks after her audition, on the night she was due to appear in the live semi-finals of Britain’s Got Talent, I dared to emulate my mother again and signed up to read one of my stories at a spoken-word event. I texted to let her know of her, and she was delighted.

“Good luck!” she texted, from a TV studio in London.

Stepping out in front of a dozen or so people that evening, I shook with nerves, then considered my mother, stepping out in front of millions. I steeled myself and read my story, getting the positive response I had always hoped for, while my mother did likewise, in front of the cameras and judges.

I am not exactly like my mother. I cannot walk on to a stage without fear. But I can step up to a microphone despite the trepidation. Then I squint into the lights, adjust my focus to the page and open my mouth to issue an “OK…”, ready for whatever might come next.

Also Read  Colombia: What to do with the ELN? Peace possible | Opinion

Adam Farrer’s memoir, Cold Fish Soup, will be published on 4 August by Saraband, £9.99.


www.theguardian.com

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *