Fall with me
Dear Debriefers,
A few years ago I had a serious fall that came after my mobility had already been declining. Since then I've been thinking a lot about the part falling has played in my life.
This is the story of my childhood, told through its falls. You can watch me share it, or read the text version below.
Access note: click to enable subtitles. The video is a headshot of Peter reciting the poem, and a brief alternate text is in the video description.
Disability Debrief finds new ways to tell disability stories and does so with reader support. Thanks to Say, Toby for contributions and welcome to new subscribers Tilting the Lens!
Fall with me
Fall with me
I hit the floor,
forehead first.
Somewhere between story and memory
I see a man offering to help,
the street, the hospital, the stitches.
We're in Sydney, I'm four years old
and my parents get a tennis headband
to cover my bloodied face.
...
Falling is how I am found out
Mummy wonders about my fragility
And doctors diagnose me with dystrophy.
Don't push Peter, kids are told.
A neighbour tries, to find out why.
...
I'm in the corridor and Daddy
tells me to try the heavy door.
This is a test,
set by the school
to see if I am suitable.
Daddy believes I can pass,
so so do I. I push.
After the visit, Hamilton school's headteacher
writes my parents, concerned.
Jostling may prove quite a problem,
particularly in the playground. She "cannot help thinking
a smaller school might have been more appropriate."
...
At home,
playing in the hallway
running,
there's a cushion, trip:
flat full face fall
forehead slap on the stone floor fall.
I keep the scars,
these are my memoirs.
...
Growing taller,
Further to fall.
Now there's a carpet in the hall,
and I'm learning to stall.
The art of collapse:
don't fall flat - fall down
give at the knees, cut them in the gravel,
red, better than hitting my head.
...
Hamilton school playground
suddenly my headband's snatched
two playmates laughing
running out of reach.
I can't run, I'm not laughing
I've lost them in an expanse
of concrete, kids, danger.
Years later, on the playground for older kids
jostling sends me headdown.
My headband softens the surface,
but is it enough?
Back home, over lunch,
Daddy says I need to wear a crash helmet
and my stomach hits the floor.
I dread being yet more different.
I'm sad to be separated:
it hurts more it hurts longer
than the hits to my head.
...
I start secondary school at Philip Morant
children are told in assemblies that
they should be careful
of the year seven boy that might fall.
I'm the year seven boy, I'm the year eleven boy:
I'm careful, keeping close to the corridor wall,
I might fall, I might trip, I might slip, I might
get knocked and shocked or rushed and brushed.
I study sudden movements, study crowds,
running children, I study sidewalks
cracks, bumps and roots and
I trace the smooth-pathed routes
of newly installed cables.
Safety is on the side,
keeping myself on the margins.
...
My body stretches
taller, heavier,
Daddy explains there's less muscle for my mass.
He times how quickly
I can get to the third floor of the house.
Every other day
we measure how much
I've outgrown myself.
...
On the morning walk into school
I'm adolescent and alone
in my bottle green blazer.
I trip.
I know I can stand.
I pull my right leg up,
lean on that knee, spread my left leg,
and from that wide base, turning my left foot,
pivot my bum into the air, pushing
off the floor with my hands,
I bring my legs together, and I stand.
But today when I lean on my right knee
and bring my left leg out,
I turn my foot, pivot, try again, lean on the knee,
try again, leg out, wide base, turn my foot, pivot...
It's not pivotting and
I know I can stand
but I'm not standing,
I look around to find where this leaves me.
I'm on the pavement, eye to
eye with parked cars and garden walls.
An older girl in a bottle green blazer
passes, looks back.
I'm on my knees
a prairie dog that
doesn't know how to say please.
She comes towards me,
asks if she can help, and I'm up
and now I stand.
...
And now I know -
I walk slowly, I can't run,
I need a banister or wall
to get up stairs.
And now I know -
the ground which gets me down
won't get me up. I don't stand up
from flat nothing,
I need a hand up, a slat,
some ledge some chair some friend,
some stranger some sofa some stair,
I stand up from there.
And now -
I fall
I fall
I fall off
I fall off my feet
I fall off beds, bikes, and chairs
I fall off horses, fall down stairs
At home, on the street
in nature walks
day-to-day and holidays
I fall
I fall in the swimming pool
I fall in the sea
I scrape and bruise and break my arm
I fall
I fall on
I fall on pebbles, cracks and ledges.
...
With my mates in McDonald's
we're shooting straw spitballs.
Mine lands on the next table,
a guy, older than us, spits back
“fuck off”.
I'm scared
and we need to sit elsewhere.
When we get our food,
we go up the steep stairs.
It's fine, there's a good banister,
but on the way down
it's not enough to keep my balance.
I fall
I fall into
Fuss at my friend's party, ambulance, Mummy.
My fault for the spitball.
My fault for falling.
The scar it leaves is shame.
...
My mind is full of mobility,
this struggle with gravity.
I measure contingency:
how to get to my feet
from the floor or from a chair.
I stand on the side
rather than sit with others
and ask for assistance.
What do I need, what can I do,
who can I ask? How do I ask?
I am shy, self-conscious, awkward, ashamed.
How do I ask? Heart-beating, anyhow, anyway, ask.
...
I'm on the field
next to Philip Morant,
Fallen.
No-one nearby.
What do I do?
I wake up.
...
Falling,
heart thumps
knees buckle
I wake up.
Falling,
heart thumps
knees buckle
I wake up.
...
I'm leaving registration early.
Our firebreathing tutor is bollocking our form,
I stand, I move, I fall: sudden silence.
On my knees, I know everyone is watching,
I know I need to turn attention into action,
Lifting my head up, I'm relieved to see Robert
sitting at his desk. I ask him
as if just between us.
...
I argue with my history teacher about cowboys
I bring in books to make my case.
I head back home along the gravel track
the weight of proof in my schoolpack.
Fall fast fall fast
pride into path's pebbles.
...
With Mummy, in Burton's
We get my first suit,
with two pairs of trousers:
concrete cuts clothes.
...
My name is announced
at Philip Morant leavers' ceremony
standing to collect a maths award,
I trip backwards into my chair.
Lost, looking up, I see a senior teacher
rushing towards me, wide-eyed with concern.
He puts his arms around me
lifting in unexpected intimacy.
Mummy didn't see: she proudly photographs
and wonders afterwards
why the photo with my prize
just shows despondency.
...
Walking with sixth form friends
In Marks and Spencers' second floor
I fall.
Jian helps me up.
I am insistently thankful:
I know being lifted through life is
a series of debts that I cannot repay.
Jian shrugs, he was there,
of course he would lift me.
It doesn't have to be a favour:
I can fall into friendship.
...
We're walking back from the beach,
trying to get to town
before it gets dark.
I'm on holiday with my brother in Zanzibar,
I stride, I fall, knees bloody, he lifts me up.
I'm 18 and my body has a bounce to it, I
stride into the remaining sunlight.
We celebrate with dinner, shisha, beer.
I fill the empty pint glass with vomit.
...
I come back home
with a plaster on the back of my head.
It covers the stitches
from a slip on the uneven steps
of a Mombasa hotel.
...
I fall
I fall upwards
I fall after my father
into mathematics at Cambridge university.
I get new suits, a gown
and, for fresher's week
I hide the hurt of my holiday
with a fake fifty cent bucket hat.
...
Years of daily stretches keep me upright
with a waddle a little like flight:
fragile, earthbound, destined down
sometimes with a crash or smash
falling is walking's whiplash.
...
I fall
and as I fall
there's a moment of freedom
in the air, a flash full of possibility,
released from whatever let me stand
a chance to grab or brace or stumble
before I find out if I land.
Afterword
Thanks for reading! It means a lot to me.
Please do share with your friends as that's how people find this newsletter.
For more from me, I'm on Linkedin, and X @desibility and I'm always happy to hear from people.
With love x
Peter
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Marley for filming and editing.
This poem benefited enormously from the coaching of Raymond Antrobus. And some of its inspiration comes out of sessions with Michael Burns.
Thanks to the audiences of earlier versions at Colchester WriteNight, Emotional Madness and Jane's Walk Colchester.
I'm only able to write like this thanks to the kindness and encouragement of friends and family. Thanks in particular to all those who heard previous versions and to my Alchemy writing friends. And to my parents, for their love.
Thanks to Áine Kelly-Costello for access and presentation advice.
And thanks to the readers and organizations whose support to Disability Debrief creates a platform where we can find new ways to tell stories about disability.