I Collect Myself

Tawnya Renelle

When I was born, I punched the nurse.

This is a story among the few my mother tells of me again and again that feels like a kind of origin.

My mother says, always, I came out a rebel. I came out strong and ready to fight and unwilling to take crap from anyone because I punched the nurse within minutes of being born.

Beneath my five-minute old fight the truth is that the nurse flicked the top off a needle for vaccination and it hit me in the head causing an involuntary twitch—an instant spasm—a movement of my arm that landed fresh from the womb and directly onto her face.

My mother talks about the memory she has of me and how the nurse said to her:

We’ve got a feisty one here—she’s come out ready to fight the world!

The thing about this myth—this legacy of self—this origin story—is that only in the last few years has it made sense to me or maybe is it that I have accepted it and drawn into these collections of myself. When I was younger, I didn’t want my origin to be that I had always been fighting.

Now though, it just is a part of me, just a story that she tells, and a story that I sometimes tell:

Yeah, on the day I was born, I punched the nurse.

 

Growing up I had two women who showed me what sadness meant in the best ways that they could. One couldn’t start crying, she said, or she would never stop. She taught me the value and power of screaming into a pillow at night. The other was the opposite, loud and dramatic, anger and sadness always at the surface and external. Between these two as a child, I did neither. I was often stalled and unable to react or display sadness. Perhaps it is why I turn to writing as a quiet way to find a space for emotions to exist—to let words be sobs and sentences screams.

 

On the train to Oban today a woman sat next to me. I should say an American woman. I should add an American woman between 55 to 65. And then I should add she smell of incense and myrrh. And when she began to talk and asked me questions there was a timber in her voice that felt familiar.

The journey between Glasgow and Oban is roughly three hours. We talked intermittently between both reading our books. She told me she how she felt pulled to Scotland. She had visited 20 years ago. She felt life was too short to not. She wanted to know about me moving to the UK—how I found it. She asked me if she could give my name and business information to some of her friends, talented writers she knew who had finished manuscripts. I suggested she read Sharon Blackie. I suggested she visit North Berwick. I told her how to get to the bay beyond the castle in Oban that I had swam in several times.

At the Connel Ferry Stop, about 20 minutes outside of Oban we resumed our conversation for the final time, both having put our books and phones into our bags. As we talked, I was overcome with emotion and tremendous desire to cry and then apologise to her for my sobbing and explain that she reminded me of my great aunt—my great aunt who died in January—my great aunt whose life has so recently become a model for mine—a mirror—a deeper understanding of our connection in her absence then I might have realised when she was alive. This woman sat beside me was an echo—remnants of her—a kind of ghost.

I didn’t cry and suppressed the other overwhelming urge, to hug her. As she walked away, I sent and felt for her a feeling of gratitude—for a nod and touch of something I hadn’t known I had needed—for that reminder.

Author's Bio

Tawnya Renelle graduated with a Doctor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from The University of Glasgow in 2021. In 2020 she became the founder and director of a small creative writing business Beyond Form Creative Writing. The organisation is dedicated to offering accessible online workshops and mentorship focused on experimental creative expression. For seven years Renelle has worked as an educator in a variety of settings including non-profits, universities, and arts centers. She has published poetry and essays across a range of platforms including online literary magazines and anthologies. Some of poetry can be found inBlue Nib Magazine, Hedgehog Poetry Anthology, SPAM Magazineand The Pitkin Review.In May 2019 my first collection of poetrythis exquisite corpsewas published by Calenture Press, described by Colin Herd as “a book of deviance. A book of delight. An embodied book. A personal book. A book of fetish. A book, above all, of pleasure.” My second poetry collectionPromptswas published in 2022 by Orangeapple Press and was described as “the line between a list and a poem blurring. The book doubles as a set of writing prompts to we reader-writers, but it is notes to self-notate a notable self.” Recently I was the editor of a sex positive anthologyPoetic Sexplorationand released a small zine combining photography and writing calledEtiquette for Strumpets. I am an interdisciplinary and experimental writer and strive to always push boundaries and work across genres and artforms.