blue boy

I’m in Toronto but my head is still in Glasgow. I even priced a week-long visit in late October; it might be nice to return and spend my fiftieth birthday there. I got back Sunday night and woke the next morning with a story forming in my mind. For weeks I’ve been thinking about a blue boy—couldn’t “see” much more than that, but then last Friday I took a walking tour of Merchant City and learned about a wealthy “tobacco lord” who built the door of his home wide enough so his servants could carry him across the threshold in a sedan chair. These Scottish merchants, whose wealth built Glasgow and relied on the trafficking of enslaved Africans, lived in urban mansions and conducted their business on streets that linked them to New World plantations in places like Virginia and Jamaica. My tour guide told us about an enslaved child named Frederick who was given away in Virginia Court as an incentive for traders to buy the loose tobacco leaves left after all bales were sold. The next day I visited Kelvingrove Museum and saw a painting of the Brownie of Blednoch (below), a troll-like creature that will perform chores in exchange for a bowl of cream. Suddenly the blue boy, the blue door, and the brownie came together in a strange narrative that I’ve been working on all week. I also contacted a genealogist who specializes in Irish/Scottish ancestry and she gave me some really helpful feedback on my recently updated DNA results. 23&Me was calling me Scandinavian not that long ago so I’m taking this with a grain of salt, but Ancestry.com made the same update. I grew up believing we were Irish on my mother’s father’s side, but now it’s clear we’re Scotch-Irish. I have some Scottish DNA on my Caribbean side, too, so maybe between both my parents I really am 37% Scottish. 23&Me was even more specific, listing Glasgow as a place where I share the most DNA with folks. Did I feel at home in Glasgow? Not exactly, though it was easy to get around on foot and the few folks I met were friendly. Mostly I hung out with my friend Bre, and it’s the connections with people that form the basis of any community, I think. But she just accepted a job in California so she won’t likely be spending much time in Scotland. Will I? I don’t know. I found a neighborhood in the West End that was appealing—close to the botanic garden and the university, full of Victorian row houses with stained glass above the front doors. I’m not looking to move and still love my home in Hyde Park, but it’s nice to have a new focus for the fall. After turning in a few manuscripts this summer, I’m feeling sort of adrift. I’ve got loads of unfinished novels that could use my attention; I’ve decided not to apply to the 8-month puppetry lab but found someone who offers private tutorials online so will keep working on Seeds from the Stars. Tried to sign up for a drawing class at an art center near my home but it filled as soon as registration opened. Saw lots of art in Glasgow but haven’t seen any this week. The more art I see, the more I want to try my hand at painting or photography. Meanwhile my mother is still in the hospital, still on a feeding tube. She’s in good spirits but is understandably tired of being in the hospital and her next move will be to yet another…this time for rehab. And then? We’re not sure. She misses her friends at the retirement home but it’s unclear whether she can get the care she needs there. I showed her my photos during one of my visits and felt a slight pang of guilt. I’ve always been aware of the luxury of travel, especially when my friends were touring Europe as teens and I could only boast of going to Florida. My friend’s mother is in her nineties and is getting her passport ready for her first trip to England this fall. I might try to meet them over there. Travel is a privilege I don’t take for granted and tourism is a complicated industry. I haven’t been able to find any sources that verify my tour guide’s story about the enslaved boy in Virginia Court. Did my guide, an actor, embellish or entirely fabricate the story? Does it matter if my narrative is based on another fiction? I can forge a connection with Scotland whether or not my DNA ties me to its people. In a way, their involvement in the trans-Atlantic slave trade gives me all the permission I need to write my own triangular narratives. Maybe it’s time to dust off my memoir, The Hummingbird’s Tongue, and reflect some more on archipelagoes…