Whoever Said It Was Easy

Getting out of bed, on time,

eating breakfast

if you’re lucky,

jump in the shower,

pack your bag,

brush your teeth,

look in the mirror,

check for spots,

do your hair,

open the door,

wrap up warm,

say goodbye,

step out your house and

bop to the bus stop, all the while looking cool?

That’s hard,

all of that, five

days a week

is hard.

Getting on the bus and being cussed because

your team lost the night before

or the trainers that you’re wearing represent

what your mum and dad can’t afford

or your jumper, shirt and trousers were what your

older brother was wearing the year before

or there’s a girl sitting two seats behind you that you’ve

fancied for two years and you know that she has her

hair in a bun on Mondays and Thursdays, wears eye

shadow on a Friday but doesn’t get the bus

home because of drama class, yet she

doesn’t even know your name?

That’s hard,

all of that, five

days a week

is hard.

Sitting in class, and no matter how hard you

try you just can’t understand what’s going on,

or you’re studying so many subjects in one afternoon you get confused,

or the pressure of hitting those high grades just to hold down that uni place,

that’s hard.

Having the answer to the one question that at

some point in your school life you will be asked:

‘What do you want to be when you leave?’

To even have an inkling of an answer,

that’s hard.

But what’s really hard,

what is incredibly hard,

what is University Challenge hard

is when you know what you want,

when you know what you want to be,

whatever that may be, but

it seems everyone around

you wants to tell you

you can’t,

you can’t.

‘You can’t do that,

people like you

don’t do that.

I’ve never done that, so

you can’t do that,

you can’t.’

It’s as delicate as an egg, balanced on the

slight curvature of a spoon, then

placed into a race on school

sports day.

A plant trying to lay roots in shallow soil subjected to wind.

A thin plastic black and white 99p football that

makes a ping when kicked and goes off in the wrong

direction, floating in slow motion into a bush full of

stinging nettles, watched by a rabble of open-

mouthed young boys.

An adult robin, leaving a nest full of chicks

unattended for a split second, under the

swooping shadow of a magpie.

All because

someone says:

‘White boys don’t make rappers,

black boys don’t make painters,

brown boys don’t make footballers,

girls don’t sit on boards of big business,

state school kids don’t make prime ministers.’

For every one can, there must be about a thousand can’ts.

That’s like a one in one thousand chance of

making a can an actuality.

It’s like trying to hum your own tune in a packed

stadium singing a football chant.

That one can is still a chance and I would rather fail

knowing that I’d at least tried than give in to

the voices telling me that I can’t,

and there’s a lot of them,

and yes, it is hard,

but it gets

easier.

(c) Paul Cree 2023