Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x