Second Letter to my Son, Bullied for being Adopted

It's hard, when people bully you about things you can't change. I was bullied at Primary School because my mum was a single parent. Girls used to ask me if she had lots of boyfriends. I remember, aged 7, advancing the argument that cavemen- since we were studying them in history- didn't get married, so why should we. It didn't make me many friends. Some girls were told not to play with me.

 

There was a time- before speech- when you were completely fearless, like Little Red Riding Hood, venturing alone into the dark wood. You could crawl faster than any baby I've ever known and your palms developed little calluses because you were always moving off in the park along the concrete paths. I had to run ahead and kick away the broken glass and plastic bags, scoop you up to avoid the dog shit. You loved our cat and tried to follow her out of the cat flap one day and got your head stuck. I had to hide my own fear, so you wouldn't become distressed. I put on a silly voice and pretended to be Fireman Sam, scraping my hands between your head and the opening so I could angle your head to draw you back inside. We had a good chuckle about that afterwards, but I was so relieved I almost cried.

You were fascinated with dad's shaving and he used to put a bit of foam on your face. He turned away for an instant and you'd grabbed the razor to scrape away the foam. There was blood everywhere and dad panicked and called me in. I pretended you were Father Christmas with your white beard that had turned red because I had red hair. I told you my granddad said I had red hair because they'd left me out in the rain as a baby and it had got rusty.  I'm sure you didn't understand a word of my story, but you forgot to cry.

When I gave you your bottle at night, you'd make little contented sighs and your eyelids would droop and you'd put your hand on mine to urge the bottle higher. I'd sing you songs because I thought no one else could hear, but sometimes they'd listen at the door, because I never sang. At Primary School the teacher told me I was to mime the words because I had the voice of a frog with a sore throat.

You loved slides, especially those giant ones in the park by the big library, racing down, climbing up them, being pushed on the swings, the roundabout, laughing and dizzy, staggering around as if drunk. Or the giant spider's web, but sometimes you'd climb so high, you'd get stuck and I'd have to conquer my vertigo and fetch you down. When you were older, I explained that I had vertigo because my granddad used to hold me over the side of bridges and pretend to drop me into the water.

 

So when the wolf comes, I will always try to be the woodsman and kill him for you- with words, because that's all I have at my disposal.

.