Baby Steps In this post, I am going to give you a brief rendition of what my childhood was like. I lived in my grandmother's basement with my young parents and older brother for the first two years of my #life. I don't remember much from that time. I do remember being unable to correctly pronounce the names of two little characters from an educational children's book my mother used to read to us. My brother laughed at me for that. I decided to keep my mouth shut in the future. I remember sitting on the living room floor in the house we moved to next. I looked up to see my mother, standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, and wondering how her hair had become so curly in the short space of time she'd been out. It's also where I discovered real music. The first song I remember hearing is Smells Like Teen Spirit. I learnt that having a younger sibling means you don't get all the attention, but that was okay, because my older brother was there to look out for me. I once dropped my stuffed toy orangutan into a tiny stream of water. At the time, it was the biggest, scariest river to me, but my brother jumped in to save my orangutan. Another time, I lost my pink, heart shaped balloon with Minnie Mouse on. My brother had a circular balloon. It was blue, and in the centre was Goofy. I tried to catch my balloon but couldn't, so I promptly stopped at our stairs and cried. He watched my balloon for a second and then let go of his, taking my hand instead. With his other hand, he pointed at the sky and told me to look. We watched out balloons drift away and laughed heartily. There is nothing quite like the carefree nature of a toddler. We moved again, and I didn't make friends easily. The one friend I had, I lost on my first day of school. I never quite recovered. A year later, she and her new best friend were bullying me, and so was the girl whose mother was our teacher, and her father was the school principal. It wasn't fun. The others joined in sometimes. I don't remember much, tried to suppress everything I suppose. I do remember one glorious day, just before the summer holiday after the worst year I ever had in junior school, where I was sat in the centre of the schoolyard, telling y classmates I'd be rid of them by the end of the year. I called then something bad, but I can't remember exactly what. I had learnt long ago to keep my mouth shut, but when they said nasty things to me, I never hesitated to bite back. Saying bad things was nothing I worried much about, even if I got told off for it a lot. During the summer, my little brother and I went on a little trip on the ship if which my dad was the captain. He said things no child should ever hear one parent say about the other. Luckily, my little brother was spared. Then, three weeks after the summer holiday, I left. My brass instructor, an Englishman who'd lived here it years, came to say goodbye. He gave me a £10 note that I regret using to this very day. My nan saw me and my little brother off at the airport. We were travelling alone and were to meet our mum at Stansted. I was twelve and he was nine. I learnt, then, to take responsibility.

It's funny I should find this right after I wrote 'Motherland'. It fits the end. "I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you." Genesis 28:15 So maybe the country will be fixed.

Motherland Before I start telling you about myself, I want to describe what sort of place I was born into. It'll help you understand. In the middle of the North Atlantic there is a cluster of 18 little islands. The population of this true microcosm has never exceeded 50 000. During the summer months, the sun never sets. The pavement is hot under the children's bare feet, the breeze is cool and everything smells fresh and joyful. Then everything is covered by a thick blanket of mist when autumn comes around. You can hardly see anything in that fog. Little pearls of moisture cling to every remaining blade of grass. I say remaining because most of our grass is put in sheds as hay. It serves as food for our sheep during the cold, stormy winter months. Last year, we had the strongest hurricane since 1989. Unfortunately, I slept through most of it. As opposed to summer winter rarely sees the sun, and when it does shine it's but a bleak spot, low on the horizon. But I digress! I was born in spring. One would find it hard to believe when sat in a shaking, dark house, but the sun does rise again. The fields turn green and become dotted with lambs, the sky turns blue, and the clouds on it slowly dissolve into nothing, preparing for another cloudless summer sky. It's a beautiful place. The mountains and valleys are like a cradle, the eternally fresh air makes you feel alive. But there are two sides to every coin. The politicians are a mob of rotten criminals and they're the only criminals we have here, so nothing ever happens and it makes this country a bore. Suddenly the mountains seem like the impenetrable walls of a prison. There are no jobs for the likes of me, a student graduating college in two months. There is no work for someone with the education I want. And if I don't come home to work, I'll be in serious debt. No one wanted this change in the system, but this change was declared last week and will be in effect later this year. And we're supposed to be a democratic country - hah! Most men are chauvinists and those who aren't, are closet chauvinists. Not the best place for a young girl to be. It's pretty, yes, and I'm sure I'll visit in the future, but I have no desire to live here. Maybe I will when things have been sorted out. It is a rather beautiful place after all.

Introduction I'm never quite sure how to introduce myself. The name is a good place to start, I suppose, but if you've checked my username, you already know what to call me. I guess I could tell you a bit about the name. The first half, Mai, could be interpreted as the month of May. Although not my month of birth, it is as sunny and fresh as March. It's also a derivative of Maya, a grand, intelligent people of ancient times, or the mother of Buddha, or, as my book about names likes to tell me, means "sea of bitterness." It sort of clashes, I think. Then there's 'Brit,' derivative of 'Bridget,' a divine, Celtic trinity. If memory serves me right, it's the name of the goddess of sun, nurture, poetry... the last one goes hand in hand with my grandfather's name, who was named after the Greek god of light, healing and, yes, poetry. Apollon. I hope this gives you a sense of who I am, fundamentally. There are several more layers but I'll tell you about them when I'm not half asleep.