Scaredy Cat

Biopsy, such an ugly word for a cancer adventurer.  It strikes fear into the healthy heart and soul, teasing possibilities and memories deliberately cast aside.

I watch the brain dance, trying not to let my body sway to its tune. All of the learnings I have written about over the course of the past 6 years need to be brought into the conscious, the brain must not be allowed to trigger the cortisol that wakes up the amygdala.  The call of Google must be ignored.  But it’s so hard not to give in, to not look for the worst instead of the best.

To stop myself, I go looking for inspiration and courage, seeking solace in the words and wisdom of others.  I am reminded of the poetry of Edgar Albert Guest;

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low but the debts are high,
And you want to smile but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit…
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit!

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many failures turn about
When we might have won had we stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow…
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out…
And you can never tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

I like the bluntness of these words.  There is no ambiguity or room for interpretation.  Stick with it, don’t give up, reframe.  It works to lift the spirit.

But then I find the following…

A Litany for Survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
A Litany for Survival.” Copyright © 1978 by Audre Lorde, from The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde by Audre Lorde.  Copyright © 1997 by the Audre Lorde Estate.

Goodness, this puts the brain dance into the baby corner.  These words call my soul and I experience the metallic taste of shame.  Living in South Africa, with all of its glory and its gore, these words SHOUT perspective.

Andre Lourde, a self-described ‘Black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet’, uses this poem to deliver insight into the struggles faced by black Americans who have lived with fear ingrained.  I cannot begin to imagine a life lived like this.  A life lived, still by many, in this complex rainbow nation.

Here,  the most unequal society in the world, many are unemployed or have little or no income.  The latest statistics from the quarterly Labour force survey show an increase in unemployment.  In a country of roughly 40.7 million people aged between 15 and 64 (potential employees) approximately only 16.4 million are working.  Those who are not able to work, because they’re at school, or ill, or for some other reason, are estimated to number 13.2 million. That leaves 27.5 million people in a void.  And what do these 27.5 million people do to survive?  Maslow’s hierarchy of basic needs is not being met for huge swathes of the population. So many of us luckily struggle to understand the fear of not knowing where our next meal is coming from, or not feeling safe as we go to sleep – from attack, from the physical environment or from nature itself.  When survival is your job, there is little room for acknowledging anything but bare necessities.

While modern South Africa should not be neatly categorised into the haves and the have nots, the whites and the blacks and the coloureds, the roots of colonialisation cannot be discounted.   In addition, the seeds of corruption and state capture sown by the previous Zuma regime have created seismic disparity across all ethnic races, genders and ages.  Crime and poverty and fear, as expressed by Lourde’s words, are demonstrably evident in all regions here.   The need for change cannot just be expected to come from the political establishment and the ballot box – elections are on May 29 2024 –  but needs to be systemic, involving, including and not confined to, all levels of enterprise, communities, and the judiciary.

Ultimately, acknowledging my privilege and with Lorde’s words in my head offering the needed reframe, I lie on the gurney and fully accept the enforced sleep granted by the anaesthetist’s needle.

I will sleep the deep sleep.

The biopsy results will come back as benign.

I am blessed.

Limbo

Here in Port Louis, Mauritius, I sit in a hotel room waiting for tropical cyclone Eleanor.  The downstairs bar is emptied of its glasses, bottles and furniture, tiny birds fly unchecked in the indoor breakfast room, grateful to be indoors where the crumbs are plentiful; guests gather at the buffet, filling their plates, unsure of when the next meal will be served.  Storm tracking apps are traded like stocks with much chatter on Eleanor’s projectory and strength; reception lies quiet, its glass front doors locked.  Hotel staff who have not gone home bustle around, calmly helping guests with their queries and needs.

Caucan Waterfront, Port Louis, Mauritius

Bellies full, we stagger back to the room where the food coma hits and I pass out, missing the blustery gusts, the driving rain and the Palm trees bent double in the gales.  I wake up to silence.  No bird song but no perceptible damage either.  The anti-climax hangs in the air between us, like a missed opportunity for a story yet to be told.  In gratitude, Craig completes his expenses and cleans up his emails while I sit with my book, trying to concentrate and quieten the busy mind.

For me the last 24 hours are the analogy for the last six months – a promise of something which turns out not quite as expected.

For South Africa is a beautifully cruel country offering contrasting experiences and incredible highs and lows.   Learning to trade in trust has been hard, I’m having to go inward to come out again.  While we remain physically safe, I have lost psychological safety having trusted people who have stolen thousands of pounds worth of irreplaceable family heirlooms and jewellery from our home.  When coupled by a serious physical assault by a medical professional, who was (wrongly) trusted on the basis he was a British High Commission approved Doctor, I find myself unmoored, bobbing along in a questioning sea; What is my skill set?  What is my cultural awareness?  How do I show up?

Male Lion in Madikwe National Reserve

By contrast, placed in wide-open spaces of endless sky and a far horizon glinting in the sunlight, with elephant breath through the window and a reverberating lion roar in the ear drum, the country of South Africa delivers a truth perspective; I am but a mere speck of breath in the universe.

And so, in this ying and yang of experience and expectation, disappointment and joy, fear and excitement, I sit in stasis.  I have to work first on self before enjoying the fruits of future work.

While this cannot be rushed, I also recognise my fortune; a now comfortable home and a life-partner gainfully employed, I have the luxury of taking the time needed to heal and explore.  My South African counsellor, used to dealing with victims of violent assault, murder and rape does not indulge willy-nilly, self-reflective wallowing.  Let’s call the spade a shovel and we will dig in to the past to understand the present.  In reality this means I am swallowing medicine I have tried to avoid for 30 years.

You can’t lie to liars without becoming a liar. We can’t cheat a cheater without becoming a cheater. Fighting fire with fire doesn’t protect trust it merely leaves you with the ashes of your integrity. Michael Josephson

I don’t know where this will lead.  For the first-time, in a long time, there is no clear outcome.  To learn to trust again, I must first trust in time and instinct.

Sit in limbo.

The storm may hit;

It may also swerve past.

Tropical Cyclone Balal 2024

Decency and Manners

Moving to a new country and starting the process of integration is always fraught with excitement and disappointment. And while I am fortunate to have some knowledge and contacts in this continent, I have to remind myself to lower my expectations of what would be considered to be common decency and manners in my own culture.

Where I’m from and brought up if I were to say, “I’ll call you next week”, I would call you next week. Were we to arrange to meet and I had to cancel because I was ill and therefore had to reappoint, I would make darned sure, I was in contact to confirm and I would show. If we made an appointment, I wouldn’t call 30 minutes beforehand and cancel. If I said I would look you up next time I was in town, I would look you up and we’d meet for coffee or a glass of wine.

In short, where I’m from, you do what you say. You stand by and show up to your commitments because that is being a respectful human. Respectful of others time and their attention, respectful of what it takes to reach out.

Of course events happen, plans change, other priorities pop up. But communication costs nothing and for the sake of a 30 second text, a quick email or a short phone call, mutual respect is maintained.

So now I’m adjusting my expectations while making sure that I don’t let my own standards slip. It’s important to observe, note and manage oneself accordingly. While behaviour might be driven by cultural, hierarchical, psychological patterns, it should never be mirrored particularly when it contradicts values, or decency.

 

 

Here we go again

  Culture shock. Part 1

In the past 6 months, I’ve experienced two international moves, a short-term rental in the homeland where my task was to support the boy to pass his IB diploma; Surrendering a role I loved; A close family member’s death and funeral; Bed hopping in England; Tenants moving out of our property ; Putting the house on the market; Dealing with incompetent estate-agents; Taking the house off the market; Removing/throwing out items and repacking a storeroom after a rat party-infestation; Refreshing, repainting, cleaning and sorting the house; Finding and supporting new tenants; Packing away a life; repacking for a new life. All the while being accompanied in all endeavors by our family dog, Monty.

Monty the Golden dog

Part of my Intercultural Communications Masters degree meant studying both culture shock and reverse culture shock but there is no textbook in the world that prepares you for this level of change.

We were in Barbados for five and a half years. Known for being a “great place to go on holiday” on arriving, I wasn’t prepared for all the classic stages of culture shock; the newness and novel nature of being somewhere different but similar, followed quickly by the need to sleep for long hours of day and night; the growing anger and disgust at some of the attitudinal and behavioural differences, much unexpected on an island so reliant on tourism; the futile attempts to make changes to improve the community; the gradual acceptance of societal norms; grief and reluctance to say goodbye.

But it was so much more than this – the island was a place of security and sanctuary during the pandemic. Led by a communicative and charismatic Prime Minister, Mia Mottley, inhabitants were kept well informed of the context of decisions, even when such decisions were unpopular. Once airspace was closed down – the repatriation effort on this is a blog post on its own – the people who were left had chosen to be there, or belonged on island, and the shift towards connectedness became palpable. Almost, without exception, compliance was close to 100% whether it be mask wearing, specific days and times to go to the supermarket (based on the initial of your last name) and not leaving your home cartilage (for an initial 6 weeks). Although somewhat claustrophobic, as adherence was so high, there was a strong moral tolerance borne by all. This temporary burst of community-spirited socialism and kindness enabled resilience, positive mental health and survival so I’m truly grateful that we lived through this period on ‘De Rock’ as a family.

Ariel view of Barbados

Of course, it’s the people who make the place and we become close to a wildly diverse group of billionaires, millionaires, musicians, golfers, dog lovers and fun folks. Barbados brings out our not-so- latent hedonism. Rum runs through the veins as much as blood and we are never far away from the next gathering or party or bonding chats and conversation. I have mixed feelings for the actual place but I cry for the people I leave behind.

Final evening at La Cabane

We say goodbye to the Caribbean at the end of February and fly first to England, for 10 days. I’m unclear if this is reverse culture shock, sadness about parting with dear friends, or the clear division, politically, morally, economically or socially created by 13 years of economic mismanagement, avarice, lies, corruption and greed, but this place no longer feels like home. I become wary of engaging in deeper conversation beyond pleasantries- every day brings a new political scandal, a new division created and stoked by all kinds of media, in particular the rabid press owned by billionaires who neither live nor pay tax in this country. It feels like the stuffing has been kicked out of England, it’s certainly much changed and it doesn’t take much to see individuals and their thin-skinned lack of tolerance emerging. Of numerous examples I’ll cite one – at a petrol station in Southampton, I fill my car and pay. I don’t have sat-nav in the hire car so pull out my phone to confirm my onward journey. Given my destination is already pre-programmed, this takes less than a minute. During this time, a large Ford Ranger truck reverses in front of me, blocking me in. I beep my horn and a large, bald man tears out of the truck and using the most foul and colourful language tells me in his own inimitable way to be quiet and that as I was obviously using my phone I deserve to wait. I show him my sat-nav screen and he hurls yet more verbal abuse, in particular sharing his thoughts about my gender. He scares me into silence and as I depart he uses threatening, abusive gestures towards me. No one intervenes.

So we head northwards to Scotland, to my own kind, and I spend 4 months eating all the chocolates and sweeties, baked goods, pies, bread, black puddings, haggis and meats of my childhood. Despite all the walking, I gain yet more weight but the tasty morsels are doing more than satisfying my appetite, they are feeding my soul. And this isn’t talked about in the academic books – the coping mechanisms of dealing with reverse culture shock. Familiar food, re-purchasing familiar knick-knacks, drinking childhood drinks ( hello ‘Cremola Foam’), listening to traditional music, going to places you would avoid if you lived in country. Chasing nostalgia and connection as if it’s a drug. It’s all normal.

The suitcases get packed, unpacked, repacked once more, the traveling with a dog stress cranks up again, the short temper re-emerges as the adrenaline-fueled, organising stress, seeps, drips and pours into all waking and sleeping time. This is not the time for partners or husbands to disappear but invariably he finds some excuse or some way of becoming invisible, indisposed, busy doing  ‘important’ other (away-from) activity.

The conveyor belt of travel takes over and total submission is required. Landing 11 hours later and going through all the normal palaver of immigration and customs, luggage collection and finding the driver, and I’m launched back into the newness and discovery of a familiar, yet different, place; the Mother country of the Mother continent: South Africa.

South Africa

So my plan as I hunt for my next role, is to become the experiment – to observe the shifts in emotions, observations, instances and experiences and to recount these here as a record of one individuals response to culture shock. Let’s see what happens…

.

 

 

 

 

Why

Although employed by the UK Department of Trade, I’m locally engaged. This means when Craig moves roles and I go with him ( there are some days when this is more of a consideration than an absolute…hah), I will need to leave my role and stop leading my fantastic Caribbean DIT team.

The thought of this day has me almost coming out in hives. Having invested so much into my current role, there is much still to do and still so much more to learn. I’m just getting started.

But public service people-change is structured and planned. Particularly in relation to overseas roles. So it’s inevitable we will move on; even though, at this time, we have no clue as to where and when.

Dealing as a “trailing spouse” with this level of ambiguity, where I have no control nor influence, and where I have to give up my own hard-won job, is turning out to be harder than I thought. I’m driving my mentor batty with my over-thinking and frustrated drive for action.

I need to create and package a portable career; a transferable kitbag of skills, knowledge and experience, which can be deployed wherever we end up. I comfort myself that I knew only a little about international trade and investment two and a half years ago and yet here I am today, regularly speaking publicly, leading the most productive team in LATAC and directing the work of the Caribbean Trade Envoy. And all the while managing degrees of complexity, a vast array of wide ranging challenges and a suite of stakeholder engagement that makes my corporate career seem like a whimsical breeze.

Yet I remain uncertain and nervous. I’m wired for work and the fear of future unproductive, unstructured days fills me with horror to such an extent that I’m over-engineering from the get go. So my mentor sets me the task of updating my CV and forming the stories I will share of my experiences and achievements. Writing is a passion so this doesn’t seem like too much of a chore until I sit down at my keyboard.

What do I want and much more importantly, why?

Prompted by conversations with my sis-in-law, I sign up for Simon Sinek’s foundation course on finding my why. I’m only part way through and loving it but have found today’s exercise to be mentally challenging. The task is to write at least 6 stories on my life’s peaks and valley’s, stories which elicit emotional highs and lows which I can tell with passion and authenticity. In the beginning this seems similar to the work done on the True North leadership journey but as my depth of self awareness and emotion has increased since my cancer, I’m much more prepared to be open, honest, vulnerable and raw.

And it stinks.

I discover, as I write the headings and shape over forty story bones, that my desire to spin gold out of horse manure, has disappeared. I can see patterns and themes emerging as if the theatre curtain has swept open while I stand on stage; undressed, alone and vulnerable. I’m untethered.

So here I am unburdening on this blog. Trying to create distance from the jotter of notes and timelines and memories. Sitting with more whys than Simon Sinek has ever dreamed of in his entire puff.

I know the ‘what’ of my stories and in most cases I know the ‘how’ but the why??? There is so much I can’t answer particularly in those stories languishing in the valleys of life. I can’t take responsibility for others actions and decisions, I’m only responsible for choosing and accepting my reaction and action to these circumstances. In many stories patterns emerge of white knuckle survival, the outsider’s desire to belong and a dogged determination to not show reaction or weakness, even when crumbling inside. But the why? The purpose, motivation and intended outcomes of others… well I’ll never know. My fear of being a victim means I spend little time pondering on why others have acted as they’ve done; it’s a senseless enquiry as it doesn’t change the past and increases the chances of poor behaviours based on deep seated fears. It has the potential to become a never ending perpetual cycle of introspection and conjecture.

I’ve come to realise that my why, my purpose, needs to be based on sunshine experiences so I’m not reacting to negative forces. It’s a real Star Wars insight. I choose to be Luke and reject thoughts of Anakin.

So whether it’s the 5 why’s (going back to my total quality management days here) or the NLP clean questioning guidance when ‘Why’ can never be part of the interactive dialogue enquiry; this 3 letter word has the potential to elicit powerful emotions and reactions.

I will step through the rest of this course with more caution, consideration and care.

And get on with the easier task of updating my CV.

The day after

So the detox juice thing isn’t going so well. I stare into the now empty pot of Belgian white chocolate ice-cream, while next to me beckons a similar sized pot of unopened, rapidly softening, organic chocolate delight. This is breakfast in the tropics; the morning after a hurricane hits.

We know it’s coming way before it arrives.  There are lots of warnings and businesses and Government offices start closing the day before. Many here laugh that “God is a Bajan” so they remain relaxed, viewing this as paid time off to hang with friends and family. There is the usual rush for petrol and for basics at the supermarket but it’s all in lighthearted, good natured terms; there is a general held view that such  storms blow past this lucky island with minimal disruption to life.

But  tropical  storm Elsa, upgraded to hurricane Elsa, decides to be the first hurricane in 55 years to smack this delusion to smithereens.

In the 78mph gusting wind, roofs blow off, trees fall taking power cables with them, landing on roads in the wet with live cables sizzling. The lashing horizontal rain pelts down, drenching the remaining volcanic ash, turning it into stubborn dark grey sludge. Roads are flooded, cars and vans submerge in the rising waters. Corrugated walls fly away like weightless sheets. Roof tile shards crash to the ground.  For 3 hours Elsa blows her fury leaving in her wake bursts of angry temperamental rain.

She departs, leaving behind a personal reminder;  our patio is strewn with torn and lost plant limbs and debris; forlorn, reluctant confetti of a wild wedding at which we were the bewildered guests.

By mid-day, the heat is rising,  stifling action and inducing restorative sleep.  There is little to do, no power means no WIFI and Roscoe, who slept through the entire thing, is desperate to hotspot my data so he can stay connected and find the latest Euro 2020 football scores. It’s funny-sad to watch his generation rootless at the loss of the umbilical internet cord.

In the evening, we drive over for a mutual cook-a-thon at the residence where there is generator power, a working gas cooker, blessed air-con and WiFi for the teenager. On the way there,  the devastation aftermath becomes more gut-renching. Lots of the little wooden chattel houses are blown apart by the wind and 100+ year old trees shamefully show their naked roots as they lie majestically supine, rendering roads impassable. Later driving home, we are hopeful that power and water are restored but it’s not to be; as we turn by St Thomas church which has already lost a mighty oak tree, darkness greets us.  We drive down the hill knowing it’s moonlight only at our home.

I’m up sweeping and mopping at 7am before the heat rises. It’s eerily still, barely a puff of wind.  All windows and doors are open trying to catch a breeze to help cast off the day before. It’s a beautiful blue skies morning, the sun kissing a glistening sea. It’s hard to believe this was a raging skyscape barely 24 hours before.

IMG_5310

Power continues to be off  and water remains a tap trickle. The contents of our freezer are on the other side of the island and I travel 10 miles to enjoy a shower in a friends pool room. We discover the knobs on our old, large Weber gas  barbecue have quietly disintegrated despite being sheltered under the now rotting branded cover.  This necessitates an evening trip to the takeaway on the highway, Chefette, where we appear to be joined by half of the folks of Holetown.  Power outage is at least good news for one commercial operation.

The night time air is heavy, hot and claggy.  All windows remain open but the curtains remain statuesquely still. I lie on the yoga mat next to the open patio doors. The persistent mosquito buzzing does nothing to aid sleep.

Outside the sky is clear, the stars are bright and all of Holetown lies in darkness. Yet more trees have brought down electrical cables, Barbados Light and Power have been overwhelmed by Elsa. We may get power tomorrow or maybe not. It will be as it will be.

In the last 4 years between Elsa, Dorian, Maria and Irma; the ferocious lightening storm of 2 weeks ago; the rise in the amount of sargassum seaweed layered across all beaches on island; the steady increase in air temperatures; the battles with seasonal torrential rain and the resulting flooding;  the reduction in fish; the loss of coral reefs; we are witnessing, first-hand, the reality of climate change. And these tiny islands with their ambitious NDCs and determination to move to Electric Vehicles and sustainable renewable energy sources, are catching the brunt of the developed nations industrial progress.

These islands are not just holiday destinations. They host entrepreneurs, developers, thriving businesses, and lots of opportunities for investors.  Homes for all living creatures and prosperous livelihoods are under threat.  We need to understand that decisions made elsewhere to burn, mine and harvest fossil fuels and hydrocarbons have severe consequences in places where there is little protection from the erosion of earths’ atmosphere.

In 120 days from today, COP26 goes live.  The message is clear; ambitions and talking isn’t enough, we need finance, action and real change.
Let’s get it done.

 

 

Do it anyway

We’re off to a Strawberry full moon gong-bath in the still pool waters of the Animal Flower cave at North Point, Barbados.

I am more than surprised that Craig is with me in the car. Over the years, he has endured my exploration of alternative healing therapies. Over time, we have learned that his tolerance levels extend to polite listening and occasional glugging of protein shakes,  tasting of açai bowls and falafel balls. But experiences; well that’s not been a couples thing for us. We both know he’s here because his mate is also coming with his wife.

So there is little pressure to look out for his mental well-being as we head down the steep steps into the depths of the cave as the sun sets.

838A524D-354B-4E2B-B67A-03E1151C2C89-300x225.jpeg

The upstairs chatter quickly dissipates as we all concentrate on navigating the slippy rocks and stones underfoot . We slip and slide our way from the opening cave into the dusk- darkness of the main cave where the natural pool water glistens as the ocean roars beyond. Candles are being lit and the large gong merges into the majesty of the natural rock formation like an ancient statue.

We each find our space, some gathering by the side of the pool, others seeping into the shadows around the cave walls. The only noise is of stones cracking underfoot as we all settle in.

The reverberation of the gong begins; inside and out. My brain gets busy busy. I notice thoughts, worries, concerns. I become hyper-focused on Craig somewhere behind me. I’m a jumble mess of inner projection, judgements and fear. Craig looms into my side vision stumbling his way down to the pool which he falls into like an inebriated aquaman.

4F50DCA6-92FB-40B4-B33E-C89C28ED5E4A-300x225.jpeg

Unusually the water also calls me forward and I inch inwards sensing different levels of noise and vibration. It’s ferkin freezing. No one else appears to notice but my goosebumps are almost as large as the rocks underfoot. I sit shivering, partially submerged, and in the recognition of the cold and of the continual vibration, my mind quietens. I develop my own inner chant and my breathing slows and shoulders relax. And I forget about everything and everyone else.

The high pitch of the bells propel me into the now; people are moving and like a lemming I gather myself back into human form. Craig and I are the first to leave the space. An unspoken understanding of the need for a differing environment propels us upwards and out.

I don’t ask how it was for him. I don’t ask others this either. I know this can create a need to articulate in words that which is a deep inner experience. Not everyone can access these words immediately and I myself need to internalise and ponder before shaping my out-loud thinking.

We catch up with our friends and sit down for dinner in the restaurant upstairs. Between the rum punch and the flow of the wine and the fizz, normal, established patterns re-emerge. Our shared experience remains unspoken.

EF0339C7-ECCB-4319-8D46-C4550C4D86F0-300x225.jpeg

A moonbow appears on the water. A blessing and a reminder.

Water forms 60% of our mass; our brains and hearts are 73% water with our lungs construction about 83%. I know from my cancer recovery and foray into alternative healing therapies that the Solfeggio monks of the 12 century used sound to raise vibrations and energy. I have previously worked with 174 Hz to relieve pain and stress; 285 Hz to heal tissues and organs; 396 Hz to lift fear and guilt; 417 Hz to help facilitate change and 528 Hz for transformation and DNA repair. Our Solfeggio wind chimes currently play in the wind breath on our patio, soothing Craig during his periods of working from home during this pandemic, without him understanding why.

It’s enough to experience in the body without the busy brain always knowing.

It’s enough to be and do it anyway.

 

 

 

 

Sign of the times

We are now back home on our tiny tropical island. Monty dog is delighted to see us and is acting as if we’re never to be out of his sight again.

To get here we had a couple of similar but very different experiences with regards to COVID testing. The protocols relating to travel to Barbados clearly state all passengers need to have a negative COVID PCR test taken 72 hours ahead of disembarkation.

We had a night of stress; well to be accurate Craig was stressed; trying to book a COVID test in England for the following day is a bit like trying to get popular festival tickets the moment they go on sale. Web pages refusing to load, the need for constantly inputting various bits of information only to find out no test slots are available so to start all over again. Eventually,  we find a 15.30-1600 drive through slot in Chesterfield, miles past our Rotherham destination. This also means we need to leave St Andrews at 0900 the next morning instead of having a leisurely final breakfast with the boy.

Craig drives through Storm Francis in grim determination with the wind and rain battering our hired Volvo. It eats up the miles as we drive further away from the boy, out of the homeland and into the mood matching weather front. Stopping only for petrol and a brief comfort break we make the testing site at 15.40 to find it deserted. We are the only clients here. No queues; no need to show the desperately saved QR code’s from the gov.uk site; no need to match the car registration in some undefined system. Just gather some paperwork which is attached to our windscreen wipers and drive through to two medical staff, bundled up again the biting gales and nippy rain squalls who are barely sheltered in the large open ended marquee. The swab down the throat makes us gag and the nose swab is not at all uncomfortable: 5 swipes round each nostril with all 3 swabs bagged and labeled using the codes they’ve given us to register to receive our results. We drive out of the test Centre at 15.53 with a deflated air: is this really it?

Of course it isn’t. This is England 2020 under the Johnson government; we get on the plane 72 hours later with no results.

Arriving in Barbados, we walk towards the line with the other unfortunates who have not received their test results on time. It is quite a line. Thankfully our dip passports help us gain quicker traction and about 30 minutes after landing in Barbados and completing a form, I am in a cubicle with a fully gowned up medical doctor resembling a medic in a war zone.

This experience is very different. The throat swab is way longer than the UK version and I wretch several times before she takes it out my mouth. Just like the UK COVID experience she hands me a tissue and tells me to blow my nose to clear the nasal passages ahead of the next part of the test. She then asks me if I have a preference of which nostril to use, I am slightly perplexed by the question but state I have no preference. She then asks me to do a couple of deep breaths and to then continue to breathe through my mouth as she inserts the swab up my left nostril and down towards my throat. This is my surgical side and within a few seconds I’m aware it’s a poor choice. This is no tickle, my eyes are watering and she continues to probe for just over 10 seconds. It feels like my nose is bleeding. It’s not pleasant. It feels invasive. When done I ask about the test procedure explaining the difference in experience from the UK. She tells me Barbados is following WHO guidelines with no deviation and that she is aware of a number of false negative tests arriving into the island.

I’m curious so I start asking other friends and colleagues about their experience of COVID tests in the UK. So far the common factors seem to be the throat swab and the mild gag reflex. But some have had their nose swabbed with the other end of the test stick used for their throat swab, some have had both nostrils done, some have had only one nostril done. None have had their nose swab done down the back of their nasal passage.

I’m left wondering about testing consistency and voracity. Naturally in a small island it’s easier to control the process to ensure all testing follows WHO guidelines but how is this managed in the UK? Who is testing the testers?

After a summer of gaffes and U turns, falsehoods and blame-shifting, my Westminster trust quota is at its lowest level. The levels of grey uncertainty in my mind are far exceeding any minuscule slivers of black and white. Public health and well-being are paramount to getting our economy back on its feet and test, track and trace are fundamental foundations to this goal. 

From my limited experience and investigations, surely it’s not beyond the wit of man to get some consistency across testing protocols, including on how to book a test?

The lesson being learned; be careful where we put our X.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Digging deep

In less than 90 minutes we are leaving this hotel, leaving St Andrews, leaving Scotland, leaving behind our boy.

I have no idea how other Mothers cope with the leaving. There is no manual and like other “women’s issues’ little discussion on how. And while I imagine every leaving is different dependent on the relationship and on practice; this is my first time. It hurts as if some magical being is reaching inside me and slowly extracting the organs which keep me breathing.

I promise Roscoe that I will not cry when we walk away from the boarding house. I remain dry-eyed all evening. The bright blue sky’d sunny yellowness of the following morning lifts my mood: the day beckons to get to know better the town where he’s going to be for the next few years. We are texting and he says that most of the boarding house boys are off to Edinburgh for the day so of course we pick him up and saunter into St Andrews for a large plate of celebratory oysters. Leaving the restaurant it’s apparent that this Barbados boy is inappropriately dressed for Scottish sunshine so we purchase a lightweight fleece to go on top of his thin T shirt as he is beginning to turn blue with the cold. Craig has to take him back to our hotel as he cannot get heat into his bones. His first lesson in dealing with our home climate; Layered dressing.

We walk the beach. The sky is glorious and the miles of cold hard golden sand are scattered with dog walkers, kite flyers, pram pushers, whole families out enjoying time together. We amble-walk, the wind at our backs, catching our words, our laughter and blowing all imminent future wrenching away. We argue how far Ben Cross, Nigel Havers, Ian Charleston ran for the opening sequence of Chariots of Fire; both boys have no faith that the actors ran far at all. My romantic notions of about a mile dashed by my husbands pragmatism as he points out the freeking freezingdom of the North Sea. Although we are surprised at the amount of hardy Scots with their trousers rolled up and their feet bare as they walk in icy waters this afternoon. It’s enough to make my bones ache just watching.

I know they ache for other reasons as I loop my arm into my son’s as we more purposely stride into the wind heading back towards St Andrews town. Turning into its cold embrace is a metaphor of momentousness: the leaving is marching towards us. 

We decide to have dinner at the hotel; Roscoe lured by the promise of escargot and being still of the age where the whiff of strong garlic is of no consequence. I watch him wrestle with the tongs and a few elusive snails and wonder how the boy who dislikes anything but pasta, loves the food we’ve eaten today: another quirk of his capricious contradiction.

All too soon it’s time. This time much harder as we all know this is the dreaded au revoir. I have to dig deep to maintain any semblance of composure, managing only by seeing my boy is matching me and I don’t want to make it any harder for either of us.

Now, I watch the rain battering against our window; it’s dreich grayness apt. How do other Mother’s do this? I have no blueprint, no plan. The packed cases mock me, silent tears run as I type. No words come. It’s just screaming emptiness inside, impossible to describe.

My challenging, gorgeous, contradiction of a boy is now being nurtured and grown by others.

I ache.

 

Bias

I wrote this over  a year ago and for some reason never posted it.  Given all that’s happening now with BLM and the ugliness of division wrought bare with UK and US politics, it seems apt to actually press “publish”

Last year, the Irish actor, Liam Neeson, opens his mouth and lets a genuine insight come out during a newspaper interview with a journalist, Clémence Michallon.   In this he admits to having combed the streets looking for any lone, random, aggressive, black-skinned man; to batter with a cosh in revenge for a close female friend being raped.  During this interview, Neeson was at pains to point out that he knew his feelings were wrong and this primal need for revenge could not be assuaged in a decent society.  And given he probably knows more than most, the reeking damage that revenge creates, having grown up in Ireland at the height of the troubles, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

FILE – This Saturday, Aug. 15, 1998 file photo shows Royal Ulster Constabulary Police officers as they stand on Market Street, the scene of a car bombing in the centre of Omagh, Co Tyrone, 72 miles west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The Aug. 15, 1998, attack was the deadliest in four decades of conflict over Northern Ireland. None of the Irish Republican Army dissidents responsible for killing 29 people, mostly women and children, has been successfully prosecuted. (AP Photo / Paul McErlane, File)

Obviously I don’t know Neeson so cannot speak on his motives and how he thinks.  However,  he does make a fine point which has been lost in a lot of the more sensationalist press and TV coverage on this story;  primal revenge comes from a very different place than conscious or subconscious bias and the two should not be confused.

Even the associate professor of experimental psychology at University College London, Lasana Harris, struggles to make a conclusive link.  Although he says that incidents such as rape can shape the the way someone thinks about a specific community, he thinks that it may have something to do with existing or pre-existing biases.  To give credit where its due,  he acknowledges that there is an unjustifiable prejudice when it comes to black people being perceived as perpetrators of sexual assault. “You can control it if you’re aware of the stereotype, if you’re aware of the fact that you have these stereotypes and these biases,” he says.

It’s this acknowledgement which creates the distinction; primal revenge involves an action or behaviour which is not premeditated or thought out. Bias is often a conditioned choice which can be mitigated once someone is aware they are biased in some way.  Neeson became aware of this in the week after hearing of the rape and chose to change his attitude and behaviour.

This all starts with our brains which are complex systems which control much of what we do.  We can be exposed to 11 million pieces of information at any one time; however our brain only has capacity to functionally deal with about 40 information ‘bites’ at any moment.  Thankfully we  have the capacity to make unconscious decisions within 200 to 250 milliseconds after taking in a piece of stimuli,  so we  filter information and select what is important to us, to reduce the demand on our brains.

In addition, and I’m massively simplifying lots of neurological research here;  our brain is made up of 100 billion neurons. As we grow and develop, these neurons are ‘wired up’ to each other and  then communicate through thousands of connections  helping form our memories.  The part of the brain called the hippocampus is vital for forming new memories. We use our hippocampus and surrounding areas to bind our memories together and add information about context or location.  Given we start to form our memories as early as 3 days old,  we all have different memories based on our own experiences, backgrounds, cultures and attributes.  Even so our memories are not exact records of events; they are  reconstructed in many different ways after events happen, which means they can be distorted by several of our biases.

Our fundamental way of looking at and encountering the world is driven by this “hard-wired” pattern of making decisions about others based on our memories and what feels safe, likeable, valuable, competent, etc. without us even realising it.  So we see certain things and miss certain things, depending on what the unconscious is focused on. It filters the evidence that we collect, generally supporting our already held points of view, and dis-proving a point of view that we disagree with.

Add to this mix, our culture, which comes to  life though the symbols and meanings, stories and myths, observations, values and assumptions we  start gathering from a very young age.  Symbiotically we absorb the generalisations and stereotypes that  our human groups holds and by human groups I mean family,  friends, colleagues that we spend time with;  they all influence our bias even when we don’t realise.  We all use stereotypes to some extent, as they help us to learn about people and other human groups as well as make quick decisions such as, is this situation safe or dangerous?  Our capacity for stereotyping also helps us look through a busy crowd and spot our friends.  So in summary our brains, cultural upbringing and life experiences influence our stereotypical thinking and our biases.  Its what makes us uniquely human.

I’ve hosted cultural subconscious bias awareness workshops and run coaching sessions on the impact of bias particularly on decision making and teamwork.  Invariably participants warm up by completing a number of the free bias tests offered online.   These are useful for me too as certain instances or situations on this island can affect my bias and I want to stay aware of my reactions and choices.

For I too experience deep seated racial bias here in Barbados.  White skins to black skins;  black skins to white skins and black skins to different shades of black skins.  I have lost count of the amount of times I have been standing in a queue, quite happily with all colours of skin, only to find when its my turn to be served for the black-skinned teller or server to walk off, or find another laborious task to do first,  before serving me.  Never was this more blatant than in a Wildey coffee shop next to Carters, the local hardware store, when after queuing to place my  coffee order, the local server walked off when I got to the front of the queue, forcing her colleague to eventually shout across the store for my order.  I watched the same woman do this twice over with other white- skinned customers as I sat drinking my coffee.  Another small example involves the local Cheapside market stall vendor who charges me $6 for a bag of lemons and then charges the customer standing next to me $2 for the same product.  When I ask about the price difference,  I’m aggressively informed “this is my price.  Do you want the lemons or not”?  You quickly learn not to argue, particularly when you feel the need for the accompanying gin!    Living here and experiencing this regularly I now have a small inkling of what racism must feel like for black skinned people living on my home island.

There are many training courses and workshops that recruiters and hiring managers can attend to make sure that their own biases do not affect the hiring process.  However,  its often difficult to find out the personal biases and attitude of the candidate without stepping into a minefield of employment law.  This is why I love this practical 5 minute article by Fletcher Winbush which gives an easy to follow  6 point guide for any hiring manager to uncover any underlying attitude issues held by a candidate.

More employers, particularly those in the service sectors;   need to hire for the right attitude and awareness of personal bias, than just relying on skills (which can be taught) or experience (which can be learned on the job).

Understanding our personal biases gives us choice; to look at any situation which gets our dander up and figure out why we think and feel this way.

Stay curious about difference.  Stay curious about yourself.

 

 

For those curious about change