We Meet Again

A week had gone by since I handed in my letter to Mike. Then, one day, when I was working in the pub, he came in.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ he answered. ‘What time do you finish work?’

‘In an hour.’

‘I’ll meet you outside when you’ve finished.’

I saw the nervousness in his face and of course I was nervous as hell too. How would this meeting go?

The hour went by and I knocked off work and went outside. He was waiting and asked me if I’d like a meal.

I agreed of course and he took me to a restaurant. The atmosphere was subdued but I was full of anticipation and nerves.

‘Look, Linda,’ he said finally, ‘I am very flattered that you feel as you do about me but it has to end here. Apart from the age difference, my parents would never accept you and both of us have been hurt before and I at least feel that I can never trust myself to have another relationship ever again.’

I was crushed by what he said but I controlled myself.

‘I’ve been hurt before too but I’m ready to take the chance,’ I said. ‘Can’t we at least try?’

‘I honestly feel it would be a mistake.’

Clutching at straws, I played my last card.

‘Can’t we at least be friends? Surely we can do that?’

‘I suppose there would be no harm in that,’ he agreed. ‘Friends it is, then. Nothing more.’

‘Friendship is good. At least it’s better than not seeing you ever again.’

I had to make do with that. It was the best I could hope for at the moment.

But my heart still felt the same and I knew that the cards predicted we would be an item.

I just didn’t know when.

I read the cards

I sat down and first did a Celtic Cross spread with my Tarot cards. When I looked at the spread I gazed at it long and hard.

In front of me were the following cards.

The Hanged Man

The Tower

The Devil

The Lovers

Then there were :

the nine of cups

the two of swords

the page of wands

the four of pentacles

the five of cups

and the two of cups

The Hanged Man obviously referred to my present state of waiting. The Tower was a pretty good description of my past and my attempts to escape from it. The Devil obviously was my past and the Lovers would (hopefully) be my future.

The nine of cups symbolised my aspirations for a happy future; the two of swords represented my subconscious with all its inner conflicts; the page of wands meant that I was going to get some advice – I didn’t know who from – the four of pentacles represented the external influences on me and those I was involved with; the five of cups stood for my hopes and fears and in particular my fear of disappointment; and the two of cups is the card of love and marriage and represented the outcome of my spread.

I then repeated my divination with the ordinary playing cards and drew the following spread.

Eight of clubs, king of hearts, jack of diamonds, seven of hearts, ace of spades, nine of clubs and two of hearts.

The eight of clubs means a dark young woman and also means patience. The king of hearts means a fair-skinned man, often with money. The Jack of Diamonds means a man in authority but also help from a stranger. The seven of hearts means that love with prevail. The ace of spades means problems but also a proposal. The nine of clubs stands for danger but also for marriage. The two of hearts, my final card, means a visit from friends but also marriage.

Both spreads were encouraging and seemed to show that in spite of the difficulties I would somehow get my Mr Right!

Reminiscing and thinking

As I lay in bed in my rented room my mind went back to happier times. I remembered how much I loved camping under the trees in a bothie (tent).

The freedom I always felt among nature and in the countryside contrasted starkly with the concrete prisons of towns and cities. During the eighteen years of my life to date I’d moved in and out of freedom and felt like a runaway slave seeking perpetually to cross the Ohio and achieve emancipation.

In my bedsit I felt trapped within the four walls of my room every bit as much as a prisoner in a cell. Here I was, giving up my freedom – and for what? A degree? A job as a slightly higher-paid wage slave? The only future I could see at present when I finished uni was a life utterly ‘cribbed, cabinned and confined.’

My Roma blood rebelled against the very idea of such tangible chains on my spirit. I could wander the highways, sleep under the stars, touch the simple beauty of nature, feel the free air and rain and sun upon my face.

In the wild I felt in harmony with myself and as if I was in touch with a deeper spiritual level of existence.

It isn’t only the obvious beauty of the daylight. We with our artificial light miss so much of the beauty and mystery of twilight and darkness. The whole spirit of nature is different at night. The moon rather than the sun glows in the sky and in the brighter countryside, stars twinkle.

Walking among the hills the moon seems close enough to be touched with your fingers. Only if a vaporous cloud passes across its face do you realise the true immensity of the distance separating earth from the planets.

The hoot of an owl is often the loudest sound you can hear. Gentle winds sway the grass into movement and as you walk your feet feel so much lighter than when trudging by daylight.

These and similar thoughts passed through my head as I lay on the bed in my room gazing forlornly at the ceiling above.

My head swam with confusion. I longed to give up the settled life and be a full-time gypsy like Uncle Jimmy. I didn’t think of myself as loving Mike but I knew we were twin souls meant to be together and that we would love one another.

I also knew that I’d disappointed my parents enough already and I had to pass my degree. Even though the idea of being a graduate meant nothing to me I knew it would make my parents proud and happy.

Mike’s objections to our relationship were based on the 20-year difference in our ages, the probability that neither of our parents would be happy about it and possible problems for him at work.

I had to find answers to all thes objections that would satisfy him. I wasn’t bothered about any of them but because he was I had to try and persuade him.

I decided to begin by reading the cards. I did two spreads, one using the Tarot and one using the ordinary playing cards.

I’ll give the results of my readings in my next post!

I am blanked

After our heart to heart Mike left and I lay awake for hours thinking about things. I knew we were meant to be together and to hell with social conventions about age!

So when I went to work in the pub I was sure he’d come in and we’d talk and go back to mine and maybe be more intimate.

Except he didn’t show up.

Not then, not the next day or the day after.

His absence plunged me into a depression and after a whole week without any contact I decided I’d have to push things forward.

I wrote him a letter and took it to the office of his department.

In it I poured out my heart, told him I knew were were twin souls meant to be together, told him his age meant nothing to me and that I ached for the two of us to be close to one another, not just in body but in mind, heart and soul.

I wasn’t sure what he’d make of it and how he’d respond but I couldn’t bear being blanked.

We needed to talk and I only hoped he was willing.

I left the letter for him to read and waited in nervous anticipation.

True love ways

I’d been at uni and working part-time as a barmaid in a pub when my life changed for ever.

I was standing at the bar just starting to pull a pint for a customer when HE walked in..

I stopped dead in my tracks and my arms went into a state of suspended animation when I saw him.

The funny thing was that HE also stood frozen in the middle of the room unable to move.

And, as each told the other later, we both KNEW that we were having the same effect on each other.

It was like each of us had been hit by a bolt of lightning.

Somehow I managed to finish pulling the pint for my customer and he managed to make his way across to the bar.

‘Hello there,’ I almost whispered. ‘What can I get you?’

‘A….a pint… of Ruddles County, please,’ he stammered

So I pulled his pint and he stayed propping up the bar, trying to talk to me as best as he could with all the comings and goings of customers.

I’d heard of twin souls but I’d never experienced anything like it. This was radically different from anything I’d known or expected and it went way beyond sexual attraction.

On the face of it we were a totally unlikely couple. He was fair-skinned and I was dark, he was a gauji and I was a Roma, and he was also a lot older than me.

As I found out later, twenty years older at 38 years to my 18.

But that didn’t bother me at all. I knew there was a primal spiritual connection between us and I knew at once that this was the man I was going to marry.

He told me his name was Mike and I told him my name was Linda. Mike was a lecturer in philosophy while I was only a student and on completely different courses.

He was tall and handsome and being 5ft 11 myself I liked the idea of a man I could look up to with him being 6ft 4 tall!

He stayed therre all evening and at closing time asked if he could take me home. I accepted at once and asked him to wait outside till we’d finished cleaning up.

When we were done I went outside and he took me back to my place. I asked him in for a coffee and I’d have been happy to have fucked him there and then.

But Mike was a perfect gentleman. As we sipped our coffees and talked he made no attempt to move in on me.

Since I knew we were connected and meant to be together I was puzzled. I wondered if he was shy so I moved closer towards him and smiled.

‘You can kiss me, you know,’ I said. ‘Assuming you want to, of course.’

Mike actually blushed when I said that.

‘Of course I’d like to,’ he said after a short silence. ‘But I didn’t like to presume anything. You invited me in for a coffee and as far as I was concerned that was all you meant. Nothing beyond. Well, coffee and a chat.’

I was slightly hurt when he said that.

‘Don’t you find me attractive?’

‘Very much so. And yes, I freely admit that when I saw you in the pub you had – an effect on me. Not simple lust though of course that came into it. It went far beyond anything as – expected – as lust. I felt as if there was an instant bond between us and I was quite shaken by that feeling.’

‘So what’s the problem? Don’t you want to kiss me?’

‘Of course I do. But it’s not that simple.’

‘Why not? Kissing’s not exactly rocket science!’

‘No, of course not, but it tends to lead on to – other things.’

I laughed when he said that.

‘What, fucking, you mean? Well, big boy, I’m up for a good fucking if you are!’

He gave me a sad look when I said that.

‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I may find myself doing something we both regret.’

I got angry when he said that.

‘I don’t get you at all. You say you find me attractive but you won’t fuck me or even kiss me. What’s the problem? Or is it you think I’m some fucking slut? Let me tell you, moosh, loads of blokes at uni have wanted to fuck me and I’ve said no to all of them. It’s only YOU I want to fuck!’

‘I’m flattered,’ he said. ‘But it’s not because I think you’re a slut that I won’t. Look at the age difference between us – how old are you, Linda? 18, 19? I’m 38 years old. When you’re 30 I’ll be 50 and when you’re 40 I’ll be 60. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s what’s in your heart that matters and not what’s written on your birth certificate.’

‘How do you think your parents would react if they knew? Don’t you think they’d look on me a dirty old man – or at least a dirty middle aged one?’

‘Maybe they would. But I can live with that. Once they get to know you they’ll come round.’

‘Perhaps, but mine would never accept you. Especially my mother. Anyway, we wouldn’t be good for one another. I’m damaged goods, Linda.’

‘So am I, Mike. Well damaged. Almost beyond repair but I honestly believe the two of us can heal each other.’

Then I told him about how my life had been and he listened in stunned but sympathetic silence.

‘You’ve seen a lot of life for one so young, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose so. Has all that put you off me?’

This time he put his arm around me and gave me a sad smile.

‘Not at all,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I’m genuinely honoured and touched that you trusted me with – such difficult and intimate private details. Hidden grief is generally a burden. What you shared with me today will remain between the two of us.’

‘Your turn now,’ I said. ‘You reckon you’re damaged goods so tell me your sad story.’

So Mike told me about his psycho bitch of a mother who used to beat him regularly as a child and once even tried to kill him. His family were narcissistic snobs and completely money mad and he was the black sheep of the family because he’d chosen a different path.

He also told about being raped at the age of 15 by three gay men and i was angry and sad for him. At least he caught up with each one individually and beat the hell out of them!

Then he told me how his heart had been broken when he fell in love with an American girl living in England. They’d been an item for two years before she left him for a man who at the time was his best friend.

This double betrayal shook him and he became frozen inside, incapable of trusting anyone or showing affection.

We were both damaged goods, two lost souls yearning to love and be loved and yet we’d both been hurt by others.

After the mutual sharing of grief we hugged one another.

What we had went way beyond sex.

We were twin souls mean to be together.

All I had to do know was make Mike realise that!

The Romani language

It’s probably more accurate to speak of various languages spoken by Romanies rather than a single language because there is so much variation between the dialects that often it’s difficult to understand Romanes speakers from other vitsas (tribes).

For example, my base language is Romanichal (Anglo-Rom) which is about the least pure form of the language as it’s imported so many words from English, Irish, Welsh and Scottish Gaelic as well as a few other languages. Because we’ve been less isolated in Britain than in most European countries our language has been far more affected by the other inhabitants in the British Isles.

Even so, Romanichal is closely related to Cale, a dialect spoken by Basque, Spanish and Portugese Roma. Lovara, a dialect spoken in Germany, Austria and the Czech Republic, is very influence by German and, to a lesser extent, the various Slavonic languages. Kalderash is deeply influenced by the Slave tongues though German has also had an influence upon it.

In Albania, Greece and Turkey many wors from Greek, Turkish, Arabic and Persian sources have crept in.

Of course an increasing proportion of Romanies, particularly in Britain, are ‘lalleri’ – non-Romanes speaking – and a much higher proportion has only a smattering of the language.

The origins of the various forms of the language have been traced extensively and the matter is now indisputable. The overwhelming majority of the language derives from India.

Grammatically the structure of Romanes is closest to Bengali. Around 70% of the words used in Romanes derive from Sanscrit with around 10% Slavonic or German, 10% Persian, Arabic or Turkish, 5% the Celtic languages, 3% Basque or Spanish and 2% ‘other.’

For a bit of a laugh I’ll copy the first sentences of the first textbook I used when I started learning German but put them into Romanes instead.

Akai bori foro Londra.

Londra bori foro.

Londra bori foro?

Avah, Londar bori foro.

This means:

Here is the big city of London.

London is a big city.

Is London a big city?

Yes, London is a big city.

(Yes, my first German textbook really WAS that bad – like Ionesco’s ‘Bald Prima Donna’ taken seriously!)

Because Romanes, the base tongue of all the various dialects, has been so influenced by the languages of the countries through which we’ve passed, there’s nearly always half a dozen words for the same thing.. Sometimes the same word can also have more than one meaning.

For instance, ‘pal’ can meet friend or brother; ‘chai’ can mean girl, daughter, sister or tea! (Even though it’s obvious from the context which meaning is intended I tend to use ‘mookerimungeri’ when I’m talking about tea!)

The language and its various dialects deserve a far more extensive treatment than I can give them in a single post so I’ll come back to that subject later.

I’ll just take a moment to say:

‘mishto hom me dikkava tuti’ – I am pleased to see you!

Gypsy stereotyping in popular culture

Gypsies have probably been more mythologised than any other ethnic group with the possible exception of the Jews.

A quick dip into some of the mythmaking throws up Esmeralda in Victor Hugo’s ‘Notre-Dame de Paris’ (filmed as ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’), the eponymous heroine of Bizet’s ‘Carmen,’ the dark tempter who makes the white girl leave her family for him in the song ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsies,’ the romantic fantasies of Carew Bamfylde (self-proclaimed ‘King of the Gypsies’ even though he had not a drop of Romani blood and we do not and never have had any such title), to the shadly and crooked villains of Cher’s ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’ to the laughably joyous existence portrayed by Keats in ‘Dawlish Fair.’

And so on and so on ad nauseam.

I cannot think of a single accurate portrayl of Romany life and culture or even a successful depiction of a Romani character in popular culture or even in serious literature.

Where are the Romani equivalents in fiction of Jim in ‘Huckleberry Finn,’ south-east Asians in ‘Lord Jim’ or even Uncle Tom?

A few films have tried to present a more rounded picture but only one, ‘Raggedy Rawney,’ comes close to success and at least evokes the tragedy of the ‘porajmos’ – the gypsy holocaust. It is no accident that Bob Hoskins was a Roma (or at least a diddakai. Every single gadje film about us is either patronising, libellous or impossibly romanticised.

As for ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’ that is entirely based around Irish travellers with not a drop of Romani blood flowing in their veins!

We are seen as thieves, cheats, child abductors, paedophiles, romantic seducers (our menfolk), sultry sirens tempting gadge men (our women), whores, fortune tellers, hawkers, con artists, litter louts and (at best) dreamers living an impossibly anachronistic life.

And so it goes on and on and on….

Shows like ‘My Big Fat Gypsy’ or ‘American Gypsy’ are about as accurate a portrayal of gypsy and even traveller life as ‘East Enders’ is of London’s East End or ‘Dallas’ of life in Texas!

Even D H Lawrence’s ‘The Virgin and the Gypsy’ is totally ridiculous. The virgin is a real woman, the gypsy a lifeless caricature. Emily Bronte descried Heathcliff in ‘Wuthering Heights’ as looking ‘like’ a gypsy.

So when will someone bite the bullet and take a genuinely objective look at our life instead of either romanticising, patronising or trashing us?

We’re still waiting!

Gypsies and travellers

Gypsies and travellers:

One of the most common mistakes by gadjes is to assume that gypsies and travellers are the same thing. They point, for example, to the Gypsy and Traveller Council in Britain, cheerfully ignoring the fact there’s a conjunction in its title!

Gypsies AND travellers.

NOT the same thing.

As I said when I was talking about Roma identity, to BE a gypsy means you MUST have at least SOME Romani blood in you.

Throughout the history of the Romanies travel has played a huge part in our lives and culture. Sometimes it’s been willing – seeking the freedom of the open road; sometimes it’s been enforced on them either by escaping from persecution or by deliberate deportation..

But where they have been relatively welcomed they have often chosen to stay.

I was privileged to visit and talk to the Horahane gypsies of Sulukule in Turkey who lived there for a thousand years. A few years after my visit Erdogan, the Turkish Prime Minister and now President, demolished their homes to make money out of building projects.

There are many different groups of travellers. The Irish tinker speak Shelta Thari which is a debased form of Irish Gaelic as well as English. Other Irish travellers speak a mixture of English, Irish and cant that is sometimes called ‘gammon.’ Scottish travellers speak a mixture of Gaelic, Scots and English. Welsh travellers speak a mixture of Welsh and English.

There are also ‘mumpers’ – rural tramps – and ‘crusties’ – the most visible examples of the last group being the New Age Travellers.

All these groups travel to a greater or lesser extent though many have settled habitations.

A similar group found only in Switzerland are the Yenish. They have no Romani blood but periodically are overcome with wanderlust and travel around the country in the teeth of official persecution.

The Rudara who come mainly from Romania and Bulgaria are perhaps the poorest and most oppressed people in Europe. They also travel extensively but in their case almost entirely to escape persecution or to seek a better economic future.

The Rudara are the only one of these groups who are Romanies but because of their appalling treatment they have become feral and predatory upon gadjes and have all but forgotten the way.

The whole notion that being a gypsy implies the necessity of travel is nonsense.

Equally being a non-Romani traveller refers to a lifestyle rather than a literal process of perpetual motion.

Apart from the fact that these travellers do NOT follow the laws of the brothers and often do bad things for which we, the Roma, are blamed, so too when local criminals learn that Romanies or travellers are in an area they ‘up’ their own crime rate knowing that ‘the gypsies’ will be blamed for their crimes!

Travelling certainly is important to the Roma; it’s often the only way we can hook up with distant friends and family.

So we ‘jaul the drom’ – travel the road; ‘pen the patrin’ – leave signposts for other Roma to follow’ and camp at our ‘atchin tans’ – stopping places.

But more and more the law is being misused to close down our atchin tans and move us on.

I am writing a record of a way of life that is becoming extinct in front of my eyes.

In the words of the Ewan McColl song:

‘the day of the traveller’s over;
there’s nowhere to run to and nowhere to bide,
so farewell to the life of a rover.

Romani identity

Romani identity has always been complex but there is one overwhelming factor that determines it. That is our possession of Romani ‘rat,’ blood.

Particularly among British Roma there has been extensive intermarriage with non-gypsies which obviously dilutes the percentage of Romani geness.

There are pure Romanies, posh-rats – people who are half-Roma- and diddakai – people with some Roma blood in them.

Romanies are divided into two principal groups, Roma and Sinti. The terms Roma and Romani are often used interchangeably but this is a mistake.

Just as there ar two separate groups of Romanies, so there are distinct ‘vitsas’ – tribes – within the groups. In Britain the predominant tribe among the Romanies is Cale but with the growing numbers of Eastern European gypsies arriving that is becoming less true.

There are at least twenty-three subgroups of the Romani people.. The most important are the Cale, Manush, Kalderash, Lovara and Horahane. In recent years with the collapse of Communism and freer movement across the European Union many of the Rudara (mainly from Bulgaria and Romania) have become highly visible presences in other European countries.

The Cale are widely spread out but are mainly found in Britain (particularly Wales), the Basque region of Spain and France, Spain, Portugal and (perhaps surprisingly) Finland. Cale means ‘black’ and is directly derived from the Sanscrit word ‘kala’ meaning black.

The Manush are Sinti rather than Roma and they are mainly found in France and Central Europe. ‘Manush’ means ‘people’ in Romanes and again the same word is used in Sanscrit with the same meaning.

The Kalderash are mainly found in Romania, Bulgaria, Central Europe and the Ukraine.

The Lovara are mainly found in Hungary, Germany, Austria and Central Europe.

The Horahane are mainly found in Greece, Albania, Bosnia, Kossovo and Turkey. Unlike most European Romanies they are Muslim.

The Rudara are mainly found in Romania, Bulgarian, Hungary and Serbia.

Though they are different with different dialects and customs all these groups are Romanies.

My blood is mainly Cale with some Kalderash but I’ve got friends who are Lovara, Manush and Horahane as well as Cale and Kalderash.

It is our blood that gives us our identity, more even than our language. Our traditions and the law of the brothers still prevail among us though sadly a combination of persecution and practical difficulties is slowly eroding them which makes me sad.

For all our differences in language, culture and lifestyle it is the blood within us that defines us and makes us Romanies.

We are also bound by the law of the brothers and anyone who violates that risks losing their Romipen.

Our blood and our code of conduct bind us together and define us as Romanies.

None of the other trappings matter.

Singing the blues – Romani style

Before I tell the story of how I met my future husband I want to talk a bit about Romani music. Just as American blacks developed spirituals, gospel and the blues which were three of the streams feeding the mighty river of rock and roll and onwards, so too we have a long tradition of singing the blues.

Like American blacks, our history is one of slavery, oppression, discrimination and murder Our ‘brigaki djilia’ – literally ‘sad songs’ – or ‘canto jonde’ – ‘deep songs’ – are every bit as powerful and vibrant as the blues.

We were slaves in India under Mahmood of Ghazni, slaves in Eastern Europe to the Hungarians and Austrians, slaves in the West Indies and United States (in the West Indies we were nicknamed ‘redlegs’), and the experience of our time as slaves is etched deeply within our collective psyche.

It may be one of the reasons why our desire for freedom is such an overwhelming passion among us and why the swallow – symbol of freedom – is the bird we honour most.

The Romani diaspora has meant we are found throughout Europe, in America, Asia and Australasia though far less so in Africa. Wherever we go we influence the music and dance of the countries we pass through or settle in and of course we in turn are influenced by their music and dance.

Flamenco in Spain is a rich blend of Roma and Muslim influences; chalga in Eastern Europe blends Indian, Turkish and Slavonic rhythms together.

In recent years the influence of black musicians on the Romanies has grown and we now have Roma rap, Roma hip-hop and Roma techno. Jazz was an early influence on Roma music with styles like gypsy swing very influential.

Django Reinhardt is probably the most famous of all Romani musicians but there are many others. In Bulgaria for instance there is the extraordinary Azis, a kind of Eastern European Kalderash Elton John. Kal are an impressive example of jazz-flavoured Romani music.

And in recent years traditional Romani songs have become popular and fashionable.

Ironically Romanis, except in Macedonia, are treated worse in Eastern Europe than anywhere else in the world yet their music attracts a wide audience in those countries.

Gypsy music is currently pretty ‘cool’ even if the people from whom it springs remain overwhelmingly outcasts in the wider society.

We are seen as ‘gypsies, tramps and thieves’ and that negative perception of us remains the norm.

Just as you see white racists cheerfully singing along and dancing to black music while routinely dissing non-whites so too you see gadjes (non-gypsies) enjoying Romani music while badmouthing us as ‘gyppos’ and ‘pikeys.’

In Eastern Europe the theft of Romani music by gadge musicians is as common as when white artists stole wholesale from American blacks.

Music is part of who we are and wherever you find Roma you find music.

Just as blues grew out of the Mississippi delta slums, so modern Roma music grew out of the mahalas – ghettoes, shanty towns – of Eastern Europe.

I’ll write more in future posts about music in Romani culture but this is a brief introduction and background.