The Black Flamingo

by Dean Atta

  Dedication

  for George

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Barbies and Belonging

  Sandcastles

  Music and Stars

  Coming Out

  Sweet Sixteen

  Leventis

  Show Business

  University

  Drag

  Glitter Ball

  Just Be a Man

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  For Resources and Support

  About the Author

  Books by Dean Atta

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I am the black flamingo.

  The black flamingo is me

  trying to find myself.

  This book is a fairy tale

  in which I am the prince

  and the princess. I am

  the king and the queen.

  I am my own wicked

  witch and fairy godmother.

  This book is a fairy tale

  in which I’m cursed

  and blessed by others.

  But, finally, I am the fairy

  finding my own magic.

  When female

  flamingos lay eggs in

  the zoo, the eggs are taken

  from them and put into incubators.

  The zookeepers give dummy eggs

  to flamingo couples to nest with, while

  the zookeepers watch their behavior

  to figure out who will make the best

  flamingo parents. When the incubated

  eggs are almost ready to hatch they

  decide which couple will be given

  normal eggs and which will be

  left with those that never

  contained precious life.

  I often feel

  like a bad egg that

  was not meant to be, like

  a dummy egg cracked open,

  an impossible thing, but somehow

  living and thriving, defying the

  zookeepers’ intentions, an experiment

  they watch and patiently wait to see

  what might become of me, to see

  how I survive, without complete

  love.

  I was born in London,

  two months before the end of the world,

  on October 31, 1999.

  Mummy tells me,

  “When we got closer to the millennium,

  people thought planes would fall from the sky

  and clocks in computers would go back

  one hundred years. But time cannot go back.

  We can only move forward.”

  I am a baby, just hatched.

  My only feathers are my tiny eyelashes.

  Over my gurgling, I don’t hear my father

  telling Mummy, “I’m too young to be a dad.”

  Mummy tells me all this, when I’m old enough.

  How six days before the millennium,

  she burned their Christmas dinner

  and he shouted, “You’re useless!”

  before throwing his plate down, turkey

  stuck to the kitchen floor, and I cried,

  startled by early indoor fireworks.

  That was the end for them. The beginning

  for Mummy and me.

  Barbies and Belonging

  Today is my sixth birthday

  and I’m hiding in my room.

  Last year, for my birthday,

  Uncle B bought me this

  Casio watch. Look—it lights up

  and is water-resistant. That means

  I can wear it in the bath.

  Last night, when Mummy was

  making dinner, I snuck into

  her bedroom and looked inside

  her wardrobe, parting clothes

  to see the back where she

  always hides my presents.

  I picked up the parcel, feeling

  the shape of the long, thin box,

  inside the silver wrapping paper.

  It was definitely the right shape

  to be

  a Barbie!

  I carefully peeled

  the tape at one end

  and peeked underneath

  the wrapping paper

  at the top of the box,

  to see a green logo:

  Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

  I told Mummy two months ago,

  “If you only get me one present

  this year, please can it be

  a Barbie?”

  “Michael,”

  calls Mummy, “where are you?

  Come down and open your birthday present.

  Your friends will be arriving soon!”

  I stand at the top of our stairs

  and shout down,

  “Is it a Barbie?”

  Mummy comes to the bottom step,

  smiling gently.

  “No, Michael, I didn’t think you were

  serious. But I got you something

  that I know you’ll love.”

  I watch a tear

  land on the wooden floor

  between my Turtles slippers—

  a gift from Aunty B last Christmas.

  Mummy comes upstairs, embracing me

  in a soft, warm, Mum-smelling hug.

  “Oh, darling, I can get you a Barbie

  for Christmas, if you still want one.”

  Christmas is ages away.

  I’m about to cry again when the doorbell rings.

  Emily, Amber, Laura, Toby, and Jamal

  have all come around for birthday dinner

  with their mums.

  Callum is the last one to arrive.

  His dad brings him but doesn’t stay

  like the mums do.

  Callum and Emily don’t like each other.

  Callum lives in a flat with his dad.

  They play video games together

  and eat takeout for dinner

  and sometimes Callum gets to stay up

  and watch TV all night, if his dad is out;

  it must be so much fun.

  Callum is mixed the same

  way as me, a black dad and white mummy,

  but he doesn’t live with his mummy

  and I don’t live with my dad.

  Mummy has made stuffed grape leaves,

  stuffed peppers, and Greek salad.

  There’s olives, carrot sticks, pita bread

  and hummus, which I love, and taramasalata,

  which I think tastes yucky but I love the word.

  I teach my friends how to pronounce it:

  Ta-ra-ma-sa-la-ta. Tarama-salata.

  “What is it?” asks Callum. “And why is it pink?”

  “It’s fish eggs,” I say, proudly, “and my mummy

  told me it’s dyed pink. I think it looks pretty.”

  “But it tastes disgusting!” Callum says,

  spitting it back out onto his plate. “I hate pink.”

  He scowls, looking straight at Emily.

  Later, I blow out six candles

  on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles birthday

  cake and make

  my wish

  for

  a Barbie.

  Emily’s playroom is a bubble-gum-

  pink mess. She has forty-two Barbies;

  I know because I counted. She also has

  four ponies and six Jeeps for them.

  Goddess of Beauty looks brand-new.

  When Emily shows her to me

  she says, “She’s meant to be

  the Greek goddess Aphrodite,
<
br />   but she looks like your mummy.”

  Emily has lots of toys but this doll

  captivates me, her flowing white

  and blue gown and her gold headband.

  I pick up some of her other Barbies

  with their missing arms, legs, heads.

  “Why don’t they have full bodies?”

  “Their heads came off when I was brushing

  their hair,” Emily says, but I’ve never seen

  Emily use a Barbie hairbrush. The one

  for Goddess is still in its packet. I take it out

  and gently brush her hair.

  “I’m going to ask my mummy to get me

  this one for Christmas,” I tell Emily, proudly.

  Christmas morning,

  I race downstairs to find

  a present under the tree.

  No wrapping paper, just

  a pink bow on the box.

  Mummy has bought me

  a Barbie!

  But she got it wrong.

  It’s not the Goddess

  but I hug her anyway.

  “Thank you, Mummy.”

  This Barbie doesn’t have long, dark, curly hair

  or dark eyes like Mummy’s,

  like the Goddess.

  I decide to name my doll Phoebe.

  Phoebe looks like Emily.

  I don’t cut Phoebe’s long, blonde hair

  or pull off her head or any of her limbs

  like Emily would.

  Phoebe is not

  the Barbie I wanted

  but she’s the Barbie I’ve got,

  and I decide to take care of her.

  Uncle B arrives in his black BMW

  to pick me up to take me to Granny B’s

  for Christmas dinner with my dad

  and the rest of the Brown family.

  As I leave, Mummy grabs my shoulders

  and turns me around, smiles,

  and puts out her hand. “Michael, please

  can you leave Phoebe here?

  I need her to help me clean up.”

  It’s only a ten-minute drive in Uncle’s BMW

  but it feels alien.

  I wish Mummy was coming with us.

  I’m happy when we arrive, because the family

  cheer and I think it must be for me.

  Aunty B yells, “Finally, we can eat!”

  “First, we muss pray,” says Granny B.

  Everyone bows their head.

  “Faada God, we tank you dat Mikey

  can be wid us dis special day, we pray

  dat he is neva a stranger to you or to

  dis family. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  Everyone at the table repeats, “Amen.”

  My dad comes down from his bedroom.

  There is a spare seat and place laid out for him

  next to me. He silently piles his food up and

  takes his plate back upstairs.

  “Hey, Mikey—that’s great!” Uncle B says,

  looking around the table at everyone else.

  “That’s two Christmas crackers we can pull

  together!”

  Boxing Day.

  Emily and I are playing

  in my room.

  She’s brought Goddess Barbie with her,

  who has a shaved head now.

  Emily sees Phoebe and asks,

  “Couldn’t your mummy afford

  the one you wanted?”

  I feel myself getting hot.

  I reach under my bed for my

  black Action Man toy from Uncle B,

  kept in his box, which he says is vintage.

  On the front is Action Man’s name,

  “TOM STONE,” and in his picture,

  holding a big gun, he wears a green hat

  and camouflage outfit.

  I proudly say, “Look what my uncle got me.

  Shall we get him out?”

  Emily closes her eyes to make him disappear

  and says, “He looks scary.”

  A few days later, we’re in Emily’s playroom.

  Emily pulls out a brand-new Barbie from her

  fairy backpack.

  Versace Barbie.

  “Versace is a fashion designer,” Emily says.

  “Mummy has two dresses by Versace. Daddy

  bought them for her.” She pauses. “Michael,

  do you have a daddy, too?”

  “No, my mummy buys her own dresses.”

  For my seventh birthday, instead of

  another Barbie, I tell Mummy I want to change

  my last name. I tell her I want to match her.

  I want to change my surname from

  his Brown to her Angeli.

  Mum once told me, “Angeli means ‘angels’

  or ‘messengers.’”

  She kneels down and puts her hands

  on my shoulders, asks, “Are you sure?

  You’re very young to make these kinds

  of decisions. What about Granny Brown

  and Aunty Brown and Uncle Brown?

  They all do such nice things for you.”

  I reply, “They do, but you do the most

  nice things.”

  She smiles and hugs me tightly.

  I hug her back; I count ten seconds

  in my head and then drop my arms

  to my sides but Mummy doesn’t let go for

  another nine seconds. Nineteen seconds

  is the longest hug I have ever had.

  On my seventh birthday, after my presents,

  Mummy hands me a piece of paper:

  Certificate of Name Change, Michael Angeli.

  I don’t want his name

  dragging behind me like a dead dog on a lead,

  like toilet roll on the sole

  of my new Converse All Stars,

  like a shedded snakeskin,

  like a second shadow,

  like the thick vapor trails

  of the Red Arrows,

  diesel mixed with colored dye,

  making a mark in the sky.

  I don’t need a plane because

  with my new name I can really fly.

  That night

  I have a dream

  in which Mummy is killed

  when a British Airways Boeing 747

  crashes into our house.

  The left wing cuts through her

  bedroom window but I survive.

  Would I live with my Uncle B,

  Aunty B, or Granny B?

  Or would I become an orphan?

  Mum’s gone out and her new boyfriend,

  Trevor, lets me watch a horror movie

  called A Nightmare on Elm Street.

  I am fascinated by the man

  in the red-and-green striped sweater

  who visits people in their dreams

  and kills them. At school I describe

  what he does and the glove he wears.

  Knives for fingers. I swipe at the air

  and children run away screaming,

  except Callum, who just laughs and then

  says, “Go on, then, rip my guts out!”

  Smiling and holding open his navy-blue blazer.

  The next day, the principal calls

  Mum after complaints from the other parents.

  “Children are having nightmares,”

  she tells me when she sends me to bed

  early, but I sit at the top of the stairs.

  “What were you thinking?” Mum shouts

  at Trevor. “He’s only seven years old.”

  Trevor speaks quietly and I can’t make out his reply.

  “You really don’t think you’ve done

  anything wrong, do you?” Mum laughs.

  “He’s not your son. It’s not for you

  to decide what he’s old enough for.”

  “So why did you leave him with me?” Trevor shouts.

  “Because you said you wanted to

 
; bond with him. I didn’t think you meant

  by showing him Freddy-effing-Krueger.”

  I hate hearing her shout.

  It makes my tummy feel funny.

  But mostly I feel bad

  for getting Trevor into trouble.

  I am eight

  when my sister,

  Anna,

  is placed

  into the nest of her

  white-wicker Moses basket,

  newly hatched,

  a chick

  for me to help

  Mum

  raise

  for the whole summer holiday.

  Crying

  for her thumb to suck

  when I tuck her hands

  under her

  tiny torso.

  Anna is a living doll.

  A brown-skinned Barbie.

  Mum lets me pick out

  her outfit each morning.

  When

  school starts again,

  I count down the hours

  until

  I can run

  home and see Anna.

  My favorite thing

  is to sing to Anna:

  “Itsy Bitsy Spider,”

  “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,”

  “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,”

  and other nursery rhymes.

  Mum asks if I want

  to have singing lessons.

  Trevor takes me

  in his cool silver Audi

  every Saturday morning.

  Anna has a different dad

  but we have the same surname.

  Mum decided

  and Trevor didn’t argue.

  In the dining hall at school,

  I explain to Callum: “Trevor is Anna’s dad

  but not mine.”

  Callum asks, “If you have different dads,

  isn’t she your half sister?”

  When I get home,

  I ask, “Mummy, are we only half?”

  “Don’t let anyone tell you

  that you are half anything.

  You and Anna are

  simply brother and sister.

  Don’t let anyone tell you

  that she’s your half sister.

  Don’t let anyone tell you

  that you are half black

  and half white. Half Cypriot

  and half Jamaican.

  You are a full human

  being. It’s never as simple

  as being half and half.

  You were born in Britain.

  You need to make space

  for what British means.

  What it means to you