Home » Performances » Identity and place, Kidderminster, Birmingham & the Black Country

Identity and place, Kidderminster, Birmingham & the Black Country

How much is a person’s identity influenced by place? When I moved to Kidderminster in 2006 I felt the need to become more connected to it, and part of that process was to write about it, hence this blog. I now feel a strong connection with the town. That connection is quite different from my fondness for Birmingham, developed from early shopping trips with my mother, through 3 years as a student at Birmingham University, to many years of working in the area. My feeling about the Black Country is different again; my roots are there. I was born in Cradley Heath and have lived in several Black Country towns. Emigrating across the border into Worcestershire, albeit just a mile or two, was a big step!

In my book The Page Turner’s Dilemma and on my CD Bananas from the Heart there’s a poem I wrote in memory of my street which was demolished when I was twelve. (See below.) I’ve since written two other poems which take me back there, one in standard English and one in dialect.

My Black Country alter ego, Pat – Photo by John Watson jazzcamera.co.uk

Writing and performing in dialect is an important aspect of exploring my identity and my alter ego Pat is an amalgam of Black Country women I have encountered. This coming Sunday, I’ll be performing my latest piece together with other dialect pieces, mostly comedic, in a show called Spake Prapper with Dave Reeves and Billy Spakemon. The show is part of a day of Black Country Spoken Word and music at a unique venue in Stourbridge, the Red House Glass Cone, used for the manufacture of glass until 1936.

Here you will find details of the event and the venue. http://www.kmsevents.co.uk/events/4582817223
It promises to be a heart-warming and entertaining day.

 

37 Holly Bush Street 

37 Holly Bush Street,
a few doors up from the Mission,
lying in bed on a Sunday morning
trying hard not to listen
to the slowest singing in Cradley Heath,
a rousing hymnotic dirge:
“May all God’s notes be joined as one
Slide heavenward and converge!
And when we’ve emptied out our lungs
And, Lord, can sing no more,
We’ll quench our lasting thirst for thee
In the ’olly Bush next door.”

37 Holly Bush Street,
a few doors down from Dingley’s,
source of kali and sherbet dabs
and chocolate drops sold singly.
And there goes Alice in carpet slippers,
fulfilling her daily pledge,
striding uphill to a soul in need
with a plate full of meat and two veg.
And late in the darkness goes ‘Uncle’ George
who brought in the coal at New Year.
As he rolls down the road with his darling Gladys,
piercing the closing-time air
comes “Good night, Gladys!” and “Goodnight, George!”
all down the street and beyond,
echoing through the silent years
till front doors bang shut and are gone.

37 Holly Bush Street,
the heart of a microcosm,
from the boy who dribbled and never grew old
to the woman who flaunted her bosom.
And one day they shovelled us into a heap
and threw all the pavements away,
stopping just short of the pub and the Mission,
but leaving me nowhere to play.

© Heather Wastie

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