I want to tell you about the night I became a grown-up.
I was in my mid-30s. My spouse and I had been foster careers for several years. One evening we received a phone call:
“We have a 15 year old young man, in police custody for committing ABH (Actual Bodily Harm) on his father. He has volunteered to be taken into care. Could we bring him to you?”
We said yes. 10 minutes later there was a knock at the door. I opened it.
A head shot through the door like a missile, aiming to headbutt me between the eyes. It stopped a couple of millimetres short. And laughed.
That encounter set the tone. For a month, he swaggered round our house owning it, improvising violent, misanthropic, misogynistic rap lyrics, something like this:
I was intimidated, trauma from my own teens laid bare. I avoided him, leaving most of the hard work to my spouse.
One month in, I was home alone. My spouse had gone out for the night; the young man had gone to a friend’s house. Then, around 8pm, the door burst open...
He’d come home early, and was literally frothing at the mouth, raging, shouting “I'm going to get a gun. I’m going to get a gun and kill every white fucker in the world”, while punching holes in our plasterboard walls.
I had no idea what to do. And so, I did nothing. From the “fight, flight, freeze or fawn” trauma responses, my instinct was to freeze.
I stayed with this young man, because it was my responsibility to keep him safe. But I didn’t know what else to do. So I just… stayed with him.
Not interrupting, I listened – for 30, 45 minutes – to this torrent of anger and hatred and violence. He mostly just repeated that one phrase “I'm going to get a gun and kill every white fucker in the world”.
Then suddenly his eyes cleared, he saw me as though for the first time, and he said “oh. Sorry. I don’t mean you.”
Then he sort of folded, and cried, and curled up. And I helped him to his bedroom, tucked him into bed, got him a drink, and wished him goodnight.
A bond was formed that night. Afterwards, he treated me with respect. I had seen the broken baby inside him, which he shielded with armour of violence and swagger.
I think of that night often. Whenever I encounter violence, abusiveness, confrontation, I think of the broken baby behind the armour.
Too many people believe in fighting violence with violence, hatred with hatred; as a foster-carer, that was never an option. It was my job to counter those behaviours with love. With attention. With some attempt at empathy.
And I have seen that approach work. Maybe not always, at least not within the span of a single lifetime. But it does work.
Broken babies. Us adults are just broken babies, with bigger, bolder armour.
Dear subscribers…
Dear subscribers, it has been a while. I’ve been trying to write this article since December 31st, but my ability to write has once more gone awry.
I am immensely grateful to my 3 (three!) paid subscribers, who have stuck with me despite this. Paying to subscribe to this Substack gets you no extra content (although it does get you a hefty discount in the Peakrill bookshop). But it helps me enormously.
I would love to be able to support more writers on here myself. If anyone else takes out a paid subscription, I will pass it on, spending your subs backing writers I admire like Eleanor Robbins, Dougald Hine1, Thomas Sharp, James Burt, Ted Gioia, and Church of Burn.
I also have a new online bookshop for Peakrill Press. It’s much nicer than the old one, and has more stuff in it - please check it out, and don’t forget to use your subscriber discount (which you’ll find at the end of this email).
Nice Weather for Fish
Just a couple of days to go on my latest Kickstarter, Nice Weather for Fish.
Nice Weather for Fish is, perhaps, a whimsical fantasy roleplaying adventure. But apparently it can also be read as Borgesian fiction. It is illustrated by the late, much missed Sheffield legend (and co-founder of the Leadmill venue) Martin F Bedford.
Set at the Hope Springs Spring Fair in 999AD, it’s an upriver trek into the Heart of the Peak District, through a weird landscape of boggy woods, bickering bandits, tiny suspicious miners, haunted cromlechs hiding cryptic secrets, and a hermit who may be the wisest person alive, but also refuses to acknowledge anyone’s existence unless they’re polite. There are fairies, a mysterious rock that can turn back time, and a tribe of cave-dwelling fisher-folk who have many admirable qualities but fluent English is not one of them. Fish fall from the sky, the rivers run backwards, and absolutely no one will explain why there’s a 21st-century wristwatch buried in the woods.
Podcasts
I’ve been on a surprising number of podcasts lately, and I’ve even started my own (or rather, my second one – this Substack can also be subscribed and listened to as a podcast).
The first episode of the Peakrill Podcast features James Burt interviewing me about Nice Weather for Fish, and Peakrill Press’s plans for 2025.
On This Book I Read I discuss a book which changed my life, Viriconium Nights by M John Harrison.
In Andrew O’Neill’s Occult Interview (requires a Patreon subscription, which I think only costs a quid) you can hear me talk about my life, and about magic.
Not exactly a podcast, but I’ve always loved reading aloud, and have rebooted my “Yakanory” YouTube channel, where you can listen to me reading short stories and extracts from books I like.
I’ve recorded at least two more podcasts recently (it’s hard to keep track), so if you’re not already sick of my voice, you soon will be.
Isn’t that weird – I just noticed that Eleanor’s Substack is called How To Go Home, and Dougald’s is Writing Home. Home home home. It’s where the ❤️ is.
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