From the age of 12, all I wanted to do was read and write poetry. When I wrote a poem – or I should say at that point, tried to write a poem – it felt like something was happening that was bigger than myself. Even now, strange things happen when I sit down and write. It’s like time moves at a different pace.
I was so proud to be the official poet of the 2012 Olympic Games. I think the Olympics did so much good for people. I live in east London and I still see the way it benefited people who live here. Simon Armitage told me that poetry was in the very first Olympics. I loved learning that!
When I left the children’s home at 18, there were two things I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Write poetry and find my family. I knew that I could use the attention my poetry received to help me do that. I knew that my story was something that people would want to know more about, and that would help me, too.
I tried not to think about what meeting my mother would be like. People would say, “Mate, it might not be that good, it might not be easy.” But I knew that. I knew family wasn’t perfect. I was the one that grew up in the fucking children’s home.
Part of the beauty of family is its dysfunction. It’s dysfunction that is at the heart of all functioning families. I promise you, when you don’t have a family, you actually crave that dysfunction. I would give away everything I own or have achieved to have had a dysfunctional family who knew me as a child.
I still feel cheated by my experience growing up. Put into care, taken out of care, having my name changed. It endures. Marriages, births… Now I’m in my 50s, deaths and illnesses. All these times when people come around you… For me they haven’t. It’s a constant reminder of what other people did to me.
I’m not angry any more, but it’s a daily battle not to be. It would be tragic to be 55 and still consumed with anger. That’s no way to live a life. People sometimes say that anger can fuel a journey, but it always becomes toxic. I wouldn’t have achieved anything if I’d stayed angry.
Forgiveness is empowering. It gives you the power to not make dark events the central narrative of your life. I forgave my foster parents. I forgave my mother. It’s just a sad story. Most people in it didn’t mean to cause the harm they did. Forgiveness is you having the power to say: “It’s OK.”
When I got my OBE, I was stunned into silence. When someone says, “We’ve been watching what you do, and we’d like to give you this…” It’s a rare occasion when I don’t have the words. I think it’s important to be good at receiving compliments, but equally important to be given them. If you’re only giving things away, but you’re not receiving them, there’s something wrong with that.
I have nobody there for me. But then I never did. If I’m given an award or something, there’s nobody from my past who’s going to call and say: “Well done.” There’s nobody for me to prove what I’ve achieved. There are no sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents – but then there never was. And I’m finally OK with it. This is my life. I just drew a slightly shorter straw than everyone else.
Lemn Sissay is performing My Name is Why at FORWARDS Festival, Bristol on 3 September (forwardsbristol.co.uk)
