Not Such Idle Hands

(c) Daeya Malboeuf

On the way into work the other day, I overhear a discussion between otherwise unknown colleagues.

‘How are you settling in to life here?’ asks one interlocutor.

‘Actually, I don’t find it very friendly’ is the reply.

Instinctively, I chime in

Me neither

Later that morning, I have a similar conversation with new colleague Predrag, fresh from Croatia. He’s soon to be joined by his wife and small children. We swap pleasantries and notes about finding accommodation.  He then asks my thoughts on the city. I try to be diplomatic.

Well my experience moving here on my own would be different from yours…

Not missing a trick, Predrag sees through my evasion. He tells me his single Bosnian friends have found Strasbourg rather alienating too.

It’s great if you have a family but…

…As his friends put it, it’s a City with a village mentality.

When I share this conversation with sis and a friend, independently of each other they reply:

Strasbourg doesn't sound very appealing, or...if it weren't for your interest in the language, I'd wonder why you're still there.

A part of me feels it's unfair to give the town a bad image. It is so easy on the eye. It's just compared to a city like London where, for all its faults it is open, diverse and any and everyone can potentially find their own 'tribe', Strasbourg by contrast closes in on itself.

Speaking to Predrag about his friends' experience, it feels good to be understood. It’s not all in my head then, which has been a gloomy place of late. I’m also missing the regularity of choir practice after a sporadic start to the year on that front.

I'm doing what I can to resist the grim thoughts. The devil makes work for idle hands and minds. Thus, I’m in default busybody mode.  

My melancholy seems to be a good creative fuel. A friend in the UK and I are keeping each other accountable regarding our fiction exploits. We both agree that when inspiration flows it’s truly a spiritual experience. I believe I feel closest to God in those moments.

I’ve also volunteered to take on more tasks at work whilst a colleague is on extended sick leave. It’s certainly more hectic, and there are some teething problems adjusting to working with different budgets and management styles. At least the job feels more rewarding.

One afternoon in early January, the strains of fluid piano playing float down the corridors of Le Chateau whilst I’m on my lunch break. My curiosity leads me to two colleagues having an impromptu sing-along to Billy Joel’s She's Always a Woman. Of course I join in, mangled lyrics and all.  One should never pass up such serendipitous artistic opportunities. It’s as if for an instant, I've woken up in a musical.  Thanks to this happenstance I discover that a colleague at THRO regularly organises open mic nights. A suivre...

That weekend, I attend a short story workshop with po-faced American author, playwright, musician and artist Mark Safranco. A talking shop, more like, since we don’t get any writing done. Polymath Safranco is ironically averse to workshops, preferring a Q&A format. An audience with....if you will. It’s a useful session nonetheless. There's much to be gleaned as he discusses his journey and writing methodology. He graciously answers questions with a broad East Coast inflection over a two-hour period. Although we don’t do any writing exercises, I still leave with a short story idea.

That evening I meet up with Gael, a mutual acquaintance of the Afropean team.  Having reached out to me over the Christmas break, we’ve agreed to meet up in the New Year.  No romantic intentions; strictly platonic.

He has travelled all over Africa and Europe, thanks to his job as a chemical engineer. Add to this his Senegalese, Lebanese and French heritage, not surprisingly he's also multilingual. Gael is not a pedant like me, who wants to be a scholar in every language. He’s happy to make himself understood for functional purposes. His experience of learning Portuguese for example, was a baptism by fire whilst working in Mozambique.   

Gael and I spend an agreeable evening speaking about everything under the sun including a lively discussion about the Christian faith vs. indigenous practices; not too dissimilar to that I had at the Afropean symposium with one of his idols Tété-Michel Kpomassie.

Gael also has a passion for music and hospitality. He’s returned to his old stomping ground, Strasbourg to open up a bar that reflects the Afropean ethos.  He proceeds to qualify what that means. He extols the virtues of his European girlfriend who has a passion for Congolese culture and politics. He believes she’s more qualified to be called Afropean than those Francophone Africans born in France with little active connection to their culture. I agree culture trumps ethnicity. Someone of mixed-heritage like Gael, who was born and raised on African soil before moving to France, is culturally more connected to the Motherland than yours truly although I am ethnically ‘thoroughbred’. Still, I don’t think his girlfriend his automatically a candidate for the Afropean label. I am also frank about my distaste for what I call Kim-Kardashian syndrome; black men who want a ‘black-white’ woman instead of the real thing. I explain to Gael that although I don’t have any truck with the cultural appropriation argument, (there’s no such thing as single ‘black’ culture or identity for one) I do take issue with the apparent self-centredness of many black men. It's as if the struggle concerns them alone.

 They seem to ignore/be oblivious/indifferent to the plight of women of African descent. Neither are they self-aware of how much they have bought into the narrative of disregarding us whilst venerating Caucasian women.One can’t ignore the fetishisation either of the stereotypical African buck which has nothing to do with valuing culture.

I have female European friends who genuinely take interest in various African/Caribbean cultures and are married to men from that background. I too have eclectic taste in men. But let’s not pretend it’s a level playing field for women of all backgrounds. From a global socio-economic and media perspective, women of African descent are often at the back of the queue.

Gael and I discuss the desire of many immigrants to assimilate, in a country that insists you’re French before (or instead of) anything else. We speak about colourism. I remark that some of those of lighter hue aren't as sensitive to the issue as they should be. I tell him about the documentary Dark Girls and mention the case of former Brazilian carnival queen Nayara Justino, stripped of her title for being considered ‘too’ dark-skinned. We both acknowledge the reality that most high-profile brown women are light-skinned and/or mixed race. Gael nods sympathetically and makes all the right noises. Yet there seems to me a cognitive dissonance in regards to his reaction and whom he’s dating. It’s too familiar a story. I wonder if he has, or would ever, date a woman with a similar background to his Senagalese mother, for example. I mean to ask but somehow don't get round to it.

 It’s not to say every brown man that dates someone from a different background is a sell-out. I just don’t think they’re honest enough about how much of the European ideal (both aesthetically and economically) they’ve imbibed.

At the end of the evening, despite an otherwise pleasant exchange, I can't shake the vague sense of disillusion.

This Week's Soundtrack: Oxnard by .Anderson Paak, Sade Birthday Mix.

Seasonal Tristesse

 

(courtesy of www.adavic.org.au)

In the absence of a guest to tend to, I flounder during the Christmas break. I find myself floating in a forlorn fog around New Year. Almost from the moment I drop Coral off at the coach station, I am in tears most days.

It’s been a good few years since I had the January blues. Last year the novelty of relocating to France and finally moving into my own flat was enough to keep me upbeat.

This year I have been laid low by the combination of overcast weather (I really need sunlight), the sense of isolation to which I thought I’d become accustomed, the old anxieties about ageing and the year ahead. Try as I might, I’m also anxious about work after my last appraisal; more precisely the pressure to be even more visible, despite my efforts. The thought of phatic post-festive conversation fills me with an unreasonable sense of dread.

During the break, I endeavour to have as much human contact as possible to combat the seasonal melancholia. 

I attend a mid-week language meet-up which, to my disappointment, has precious few native French speakers. Amongst them is globetrotting polyglot Jean-Paul; seven languages and counting and nearly as many children with different mothers. His Anglophone accent is so natural, I assume at first he's a Yank. He seems incredulous about my linguistic frustration. Perhaps his innate abilities make it hard for him to relate. In his own way he doesn’t want me to be defeatist. Still, his pep-talk is somewhat counterproductive. Later the group has a stimulating bilingual chinwag about the current political challenges on both sides of the Channel. I leave the meeting in cheerier mode.

My friend Jeanne invites me round for some festive games/unofficial housewarming. She’s just moved into a new flat on the other side of town with good mate, Annalise.  Jeanne’s family are visiting from the South. I have another lively political discussion; this time with her younger sister Francoise, about what she believes is the deterioration of the French public sector. As she contemplates the perceived efficiency of the private sector, I instinctively defend the current model. In theory. It’s better to attempt to reform a creaky system than undermine it altogether (especially since austerity politics has a lot to do with the current decline). We’ve lived through that nightmare in the UK. Francoise isn’t sure. In my faltering French I concede that a heavily centralised system is not the answer. Alternatively, a better devolved public ownership model could well be the way forward.  I’m frustrated that my French isn’t as fluid as I’d like it to be but the conversation is a good mental workout.

We’re later joined by Annalise’ brother Cédric and his ballerina girlfriend and friend, Monique. We spend a while introducing ourselves, accompanied by a not-so-brief bio. Somewhat disgruntled, I note Cédric-as young as he is- already following the trend of so many African/Caribbean men in his preference for vanilla over chocolate.  With my eclectic taste in men, I have no problem with the idea of mixed relationships. However, in a western context in which much of the representation of women of African descent is less than positive (if represented at all), unconsciously or not it appears many black men have trouble seeing us as valid romantic choices.

At the cusp of his 20^th year on the planet, Cédric also makes me feel old.  I could have been his mum if I’d started early. He’s not much older than I was when mum was my age.

Despite these gloomy thoughts, I still have some fun getting my head around the complicated rules of Annalise’ parlour games and eating one too many pizza slices. 10pm. The
frolics are only just getting underway and yet I have to leave if I want to make it home at a decent hour. I miss my connection anyway.

New Year’s Eve is spent in contemplation and prayer, watching the various firework displays outside my window. The air is thick with gunpowder. Unlike last year, when I was in the mood for some quiet time, I’d have preferred to spend the night in the company of my church brothers and sisters. Alas, no NYE service is planned. The time alone nevertheless turns out to be beneficial.

My Japanese sweet pea, Kokoro is also in town for the end-of-year celebrations. I find out by chance when she responds to a festive email greeting.  We plan a catch-up that week. It’s the first time we’ll have seen each other since she relocated for work reasons to The Benin Republic in the autumn. 

Behind Kokoro’s typically understated replies, I detect the move has been more difficult than she is letting on. Thankfully, safety doesn’t appear to be an issue. Integration on the other hand is still a challenge. The expat community meets more sporadically than what she was used to in Strasbourg. Towards the end of the meeting she admits to the sadness that comes with solitude. She's still trying to put on a cheerful front. I can only imagine.

It’s with mixed-feelings I return to work the next day. As usual, the break seems to have too quickly come to an end. Then again, the latter part hasn’t been so restful thanks to my propensity to fret. I don’t have a good reason to waste my annual leave moping at home. Besides, most of my colleagues won’t return until the following week. I should take advantage of the post-festive calm.

That week also marks the return to choir practice after taking a week’s break. The turnout is better than expected. It’s just the combination of silly antics and graft I need. We get through more songs than normal. It’s good to be back.

At the end of rehearsal, alto Yvette takes the opportunity to bid us a tearful farewell. Not before she does a blinding solo. My fellow choristers watch bemused as my jaw hits the ground.  In the three months I’ve been a member, Yvette’s not been given a chance to shine. She’s humbly kept her peace whilst less-gifted vocalists are routinely handed the figurative mic. 

The practice concludes with some remnants of seasonal refreshments. I descend on Yvette, effusing praise. I feel as if we’ve just met only for me to lose her. We previously bonded over our common observations of Strasbourg life. She’s decided to return to former stomping ground, Bordeaux where she has a more established network of friends. I suppose it’s an excuse for me to head south again. In the meantime, we make plans to link up before she leaves for good in February.

That weekend I’ve set aside for some spiritual recalibration. I avoid my phones and email for much of the time. I only leave the house to attend church on Epiphany Sunday.

As I’m to discover from the positive and fruitful start to the following week, some dedicated God time does me good.