Nita will agree

Nita sits next to me on the step in the garden. She has eight chocolate Bourbons on a plate balanced against the earth, a little stony, of the vegetable garden that the women grow.

‘You like biscuits,’ I say.

‘Yes I do. I eat a lot of them. At the hostel – we get biscuits and cakes and I don’t cook. We’re supposed to cook but I need someone to come with me to Tesco’s so I eat biscuits and cakes instead.’

Nita has a cup of brick tea in a saucer. Whatever you suggest to Nita, Nita will agree.

I suggest she takes photographs of the flowers. She liked the picture I gave her of purple and yellow scrubby ones in the early sun.

Nita has a red T-shirt, she has pink shoes. In between is a track-pant, faded blue. Close to her you get sweat – old sweat, not new. You’d have to go some time not washing to smell like that. But Nita’s not on the street any more, her home is Hopetown now. Hopetown, where Floor 3 is for crack and smack. Keep trouble in one place. I hope Nita’s not up there, on Floor 3.

‘How long is it since you’ve seen your family,’ I ask.

‘10 years.’

She has not teeth, exactly, but a mouthful of crunched nicotine and broken black.

‘Do you miss them?’

‘Yes.’ But it is half a word, shrugged into her chest. She weeps. I am inches from her blue eyes in which inside corners rests yellow sleep.

Nita turns to me. Her hair is black with grease penetrated by threads of grey. Why is it 10 years since she’s seen her family? I do not know. I can not ask.

‘They say I’m stupid. I shouldn’t do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘The women ask me for money for their drugs and I give it to them. Off my dole.’

Not enough money for food. £7 a week in rent.

‘My social worker told me not to. I’m stupid aren’t I?’

NITA wants to take pictures of herself to send to the family back home. Home is across the sea and 10 years away. Nita has no kids.

It takes a few minutes with the camera, only minutes and already a picture has been made.

‘I’ve never done photography before.’

She makes pictures of the flowers. Close up, the flowers have white sun patches and often seem to speak. We will print them for her room. She’s hoping to get some clothes today as well. She heard they give clothes here too.

‘I’ll just get a cup of tea,’ Nita says when I look the other way. She carries eight chocolate Bourbons in her hands. I want her to use the camera so I fetch a plate.

I take pictures of Nita laughing in the sun. She takes pictures of Shelly sitting on the step. Nita is happy. She forgets the Bourbons and takes the camera inside.

‘Look, I took pictures of Shelly,’ she holds out the camera.

‘Maybe you can take pictures of things you like and send them to your family too.’

Nita agrees. Nita will agree with whatever suggestion you make.

How old is Nita? I can not tell. I know that when I sit very close she does not move away, and when she weeps and I touch the blade beneath her cherry shirt, she does not flinch.

Nita has pink shoes. She loves her shoes. They’re from the market - £1, but someone said they’re like shoes from a proper shop. We take pictures of her shoes. And her cherry shirt. Her friend gave it to her; it’s the colour that she likes – or maybe it’s the cat on the front.

Nita has an album. We gave it to her. It’s got her name on it. It is hers. She stuffs her photographs between the leaves.

Nita in profile laughing. Did we make her laugh? How old is Nita? I can not tell. Her breasts hang low beneath her shirt, her skin is not that old.

Nita in profile laughing.

Shelly on the step.

Tracked bruised bloodied arms. Black shadow eyes.

Nita in profile laughing up on the pinboard. Nita wants her picture there. She pins it up. She could have chosen any one of her pictures – the flowers or her shoes – but what Nita wants is herself up laughing. Her name in thick black pen.

Her family says she shouldn’t be so unhappy.

Nita laughing on the board for everyone to see.

Change the picture

Comments

[M]

What a sad story - reading it makes me feel so lucky to be who I am and to have had all the things that life has blessed me with. How marvellous that you can do this work to help in some way to improve this woman's life.
M.

[Ramonaramone]

That's what counts! If you can help someone be happy and forget the past, even for a moment. Good work.xx Ramona

[Leila]

Thanx M - and Ramona, I know you know. L x

[Sharon]

hi leila, how are you ? i read about nita - i really don't know what to say - it is so good that this project can give the women at least a little good time.

[Caro]

This is an incredibly beautiful piece Leila. I love the way you write, the things you notice.

You asked what I was writing about in my book as we talked. I was writing about learning through doing. And writing about things, actions, not feelings... Being present in the world.

You said writing is like an intensified experience of living. I think photogaphy is too. But sometimes it might lead me to abstract myself from the situation I'm in. Have you read Susan Sontag's book, 'On Photography'? I thought it was brilliant. She's very critical of photogrpahy: talks about how we validate our experiences through photographing them and how we remove ourselves from reality by putting a lens between it and us. She came around to a more positive view later in her life.

And I wrote about how sometimes reacting to your emotions isn't beneficial... But feeling them is.

So I learnt quite a lot really in that noisy café!

With lots of love Xxx

[armin_bb@yahoo.com]

http://www.cagle.com/politicalcartoons/pccartoons/permalink.asp?artist=kowsar&date=060425

[Laura]

Just stumbled on your blog via Lady Blag's epistles and it's brilliant. Great to keep an eye on your doings through this. And a bloody lovely distraction from work. Poignant stuff.
Lx

[Leila]

Laura! Thanks for your lovely words. I miss u. x