Where I’m from

I am from the cul de sac, from Black Jacks and paper bags of penny sweets.

I am from the ordinary semi that grew and grew to fit in the biggest family on the street, and all the neighbourhood children in the back garden on swings and a slide with a paddling pool in the summer.

I am from the nettles along the roadside, the heather and grass along the catch on the edge of the moors. I am from lazy summer days with my friends and my dog walking the moors and splashing in the water.

I am from the eldest girl of a family of girls and I am the eldest girl in a family of girls, from a broken home way way back in my past, from a broken father with his own damaged past. I’m from never speaking of the breaks. I’m from not knowing that I had an uncle and cousins until my grandmother died and they showed up at the funeral. I’m from the assisted place at the private school, that helped me to be the first in my family to go to university, where I drank and fought and learnt that alone doesn’t have to be lonely.

I am from the eternal making ends meet and always moving on. Never quite sure where to settle or what settling was.

From ‘I want never gets’ and ‘J is the clever one, her sister is the pretty one’.

I am from an unforgiving church that could offer no solace for a friend who took her own life. From the wilderness of back turned on religion, with the lingering sneaking suspicion there is more to the world than we can see or know.

I’m from a mining town in county Durham, the only place that’s ever really been home, from cottage cheese salads and fish and chips.

From the long hot summer that was my childhood, where my brown haired, brown eyed sister caught too much sun and was sick all down the hallway, the caravan parks in Wales where we spent our summer holidays, and the farm in the Peak District where I learnt to milk cows and herd sheep, when we went with grandparents and cousins while my mother convalesced.

I am from pictures stuffed into envelopes, in a bottom drawer of a bookcase, from dusty boxes in the garage from a five years ago move, from pictures that start over again with the birth of my daughter, that flash up on my screen every time I leave the keyboard for a minute.

HT: Brewcrew

The original instructions have disappeared (we found them on fragments from floyd) – but I found an article about the poem and the poet, which I think gives some clues, and a link to a lesson plan you could use to join in?

ETA other blogs with this meme: Sarah at tworedboots, Merry

About Jax Blunt

I'm the original user, Jax Blunt I've been blogging for 15 years, give or take, and if you want to know me, read me :)

(And if you like what you read, and fancy tipping me the price of a coffee or thereabouts, click here)

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  1. Wow. That is incredible writing Jax. Thanks for sharing.

  2. Thank you, I enjoyed reading this. You write beautifully.

  3. Gosh. I already know you are interesting, but that made me want to meet you in some place where we might get 5 minutes to properly chat. šŸ˜‰

    When i get 5 minutes to properly type, i’d like to do one too.

  4. Wow that was deep, thankyou.

  5. Wow Jax that was amazing.

  6. Now THIS is a great idea. Wonderfully done.

  7. I am now..paying homage to you because that was just delicious.

  8. khadijah says:

    really interesting exercise.
    (that sounds dry, I don’t mean it that way).
    veeery strange to visit some key points of the past in one’s own or someone else’s life.
    thank you for this

  9. loved reading this Jax, very telling in an open hearted, vulnerable unbitter kind of way.


  10. I just found this.
    I don’t read many novels these days, but I hope you write one. I don’t think I could resist.

  11. Just spotted this in the sidebar. The more I know about you the more I think we were separated at birth, heh.

    • Jax Blunt says:

      šŸ˜‰ Would love to hear your version. (and also shows popping this in sidebar was a good move!)

  12. Oooh I love this. It’s got me thinking about where I am from now.

  13. Beautiful writing, Jax. I wanted to say hello at Kentwell (I was Benet Baker, in the bakhus) because one of the photos that made the most impression on me before I came this first time was a gorgeous black-and-white pic of you breastfeeding your son. But we didn’t overlap. I shall read your blog with interest (hurray for another book addict!) and say hello next time….

  14. Stumbled upon this, so moving-reminiscent of Seamus Heaney, you write so vividly, thanks for sharing x

  15. Stunning writing xx

  16. Oh, LOVE this. I had to go back and read it twice, just to absorb it some more. Just beautiful (from the ‘clever’ one of her own broken family). x

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