Fragile

After mum’s visit, it’s back to reality. Despite the bleakness and my morale at an all-time low, by the grace of God I find the resolve to go to work.

There is some good news on the professional front. THRO’s impending financial gloom has been averted for the foreseeable future, thanks to canny diplomatic manoeuvres. 

Elsewhere, I hear things that deepen my sense of disillusion.  

There’s a two-tier system in place at The Organisation; those who were fortunate enough to join THRO when permanent contracts were handed out like sweets. Then, there’s everyone else.

If you’re not one of those jammy sorts with the golden ticket, to stand a chance at any upward mobility you have to go through an arduous selection process. This includes all-day tests, interviews and the like. The procedure takes several months. Most frustrating of all, those on fixed-term contracts -such as yours truly- would have already gone through all this carry-on to get a foot through the door in the first place.  Meanwhile, senior management pulls strings so that their friends and family get plummy positions via temporary contracts. They’re spared the indignity of job insecurity through these Godfather/Godmother-style connections. 

Fine. None of this is new to me.

What is new is learning that senior colleagues with permanent contracts, dogged by complaints and a dubious reputation, are simply moved on within the organisation or ‘reassigned’. Whilst those working on a fixed-term basis who fall out of favour with La Direction; well their contracts are simply not renewed.

The Human Rights Organisation, eh? Charity begins at home.

Recently a swathe of colleagues, including my line manager Sophie, have undergone one of these recruitment assessments (and not for the first time). During the preceding weeks they cram for a test that, in the end, pays little heed to the reference material. They spend the equivalent of a working day being made to jump through shape-shifting intellectual hoops. By the end, they feel shafted. Some don’t finish the paper. One colleague plans to make a formal complaint.

It’s as if we were set up to fail, Sophie observes ruefully.

The alternative strategy? Professional stagnation or seek opportunities elsewhere.

Previously, I have been adept at keeping a good work/life balance. Yet the office's disagreeable ambiance has started to insinuate its way into my personal life. I’m daily fighting to keep anxiety at bay. I’m not always getting a good night’s sleep. The fatigue exacerbates the unhappiness. I have to stop my thoughts from wandering to gloomier places.

Summer’s here and activities start to wind down. The first Friday of July, I expect to make a difficult choice between two places I’d like to be; an outing with the street team and choir practice. Both of these will be the last sessions before the long summer break.  In the end, neither go ahead that evening owing to poor turnout. The choir’s pot-luck is postponed until the following Friday. That suits me. I can delay the summer farewell for another week.

That Sunday after church, I’ve planned to meet up with recent acquaintance, Noelle in the picturesque Alsatian town of Barr. She’s based in Selestat, on the outskirts of Strasbourg herself. I’ve had to make my peace with trekking a little further for our meet-ups. She’s chosen Barr as a break from the norm. The views are to die for, Noelle insists. I don’t doubt it. I find that the aesthetic appeal of the Alsace region is consolation for its shortcomings.

Chateau Landsberg: Barr, France

The ominous forecasts of stormy weather do not materialise. Au contraire, il fait beau.

It’s a drama free commute to Barr. Noelle collects me from the station, dressed in jeans and trainers. It's the first time I've seen her in civs.  By contrast I am kitted out in my far less practical Sunday Best. My sandals are nonetheless sturdy and, as it turns out, more trustworthy than Noelle’s slippery trainers.

The first stop is the Andlau Chateau; dating back to the 13^th Century.

En route, Noelle comments on how much better my French is compared to when we last spoke.

Maybe you were tired but it was a bit of a disaster the other day.

I feel demoralised.

In fact, I’m probably more sleep-deprived this time, I explain. It really depends on the context. Perhaps my brain is just generally more alert during the day…

Noelle will proceed to correct my French at various points during the excursion. Later she will rephrase a message by text when I’m under the impression that it’s grammatically legit.

On the whole the outing is pleasant. The scenery is as lush as promised. The second stop at the Chateau de Landsberg reveals it to be more attractive still than its Andlau counterpart. The peripheries of the Black Forest in Germany can be seen from these heights. A group of Goths have organised a very modest-sized festival on the grounds. Noelle will later treat us both to Mint Diablos at an Inn with laid-back and friendly staff, overlooking more inviting verdure. We laugh often and Noelle speaks candidly about more painful chapters of her life.  And yet, what will remain of the day is her critique of my linguistic efforts (that, and the lingering suspicion she’s trying to recruit me into a cosmetics-flogging pyramid scheme).

Let’s get some perspective here. It’s not the end of the world if I make grammatical errors. It shouldn’t be. And yet I’ve reached a stage in my Alsatian Adventure where I’m especially fragile. Certain experiences have taken chunks out of what self-confidence I had; not least my current work situation. Living here has brought pre-existing neuroses to the surface like never before; something akin to the symptoms of an allergic reaction. If I was aware of my issues before, they’re flagged up even more in this context.

One area of particular sensitivity is my language skills; or rather the perceived personal failing it represents. After all, perfecting my French was one of the primary objectives of relocating to The Hexagon. It’s not as if I don’t welcome correction. It’s about the way it's done. A very French way; severe and dry. In a British anglophone context, you make corrections sparingly and in a tactful manner. An interlocutor would generally prioritise communication over accuracy.  In the Francophone context, the two might as well be inseparable.

I understand it’s cultural and reflects the strict pedagogy the French themselves undergo. It also betrays remnants of linguistic imperialism still at play, grounded in ideology that the French language (and by extension, the culture) is inherently superior, refined and has a 'civilising' effect on those who speak it. Thus, with the exception of some sympathetic individuals, non-Francophones feel as if they are constantly being judged on their linguistic merits. Any shortfall appears to be treated by the French as a moral failing. I am not alone in this sentiment. I’ve heard similar comments from many a non-Francophone on both sides of The Channel. Perhaps that perception is stronger in this region than elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s thoroughly dejecting. Faced by such exacting standards, it would be better for my peace of mind if I simply gave up trying to please the implacable. If only it were that straightforward. The pressure comes from within and without.

I would expect Noelle to know better. She lived  in the UK for over a decade. She should understand how challenging the process of acquiring another language can be; particularly if you grew up monolingual. She speaks good English but I’ve heard better from Francophones who’ve never lived in an Anglophone country. The difference is that I would not be pedantic about this.

The problem arises again the following day when I have a farewell meet-up with HRGS choir member, Elise. She’s returning to her hometown further south having lived in Strasbourg for several years.  She has a tendency to not only dryly correct my French but anything else she finds amiss. The comments aren't reserved just for me, either. I don’t know if this is a projection of her insecurities. At least on the language front, she’s gifted.

In any case, I’m not in the mood for it. Since waking up that morning, it’s been a battle to keep my emotions in check. I just about have a handle on things when I meet up with Elise. The melancholy is nevertheless close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears. One too many of Elise’, no doubt well-intended, corrective remarks. I explain that this has been a long-standing niggle. For a while, I found myself avoiding her company. It is only right that I am candid with her. I apologise for this unintended absence.

Elise is contrite. She claims it's selfish of her to correct me so often, given I don't have trouble making myself understood.  I too feel bad. I hadn’t planned to dampen the mood of our parting rendez-vous. I’m also much older than Elise. I’m supposed to be robust. 

I am in the throes of one of my cyclical Strasbourg-related downturns. I intimate some of the issues at work. It resonates with Elise. She admits she’s stayed too long in the region. After a number of years trying to make the best of it, she’s finally relocating to be closer to her family. We have similar reservations about the local mindset. When Elise describes the choir as an oasis, she takes the words right out of my mouth.

It’s not right to complain when I am in good health and I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world. Those are the things I try to focus on when I’m in good form. Yet, there’s something about Strasbourg life that occasionally eats away at me. I believe I’m past the worst of it only for another vague à l’âme to momentarily wash over.

On the bright side, I’m due another upturn soon. It might be an uphill struggle sometimes but it's not a losing battle. Some wise words by Eitan Kenner, a musician I have recently interviewed on the beginning of his own spiritual journey, come to my rescue time and again. Like a God-sent refrain.

"...To me, God is just "being"; surrendering to the moment without all the background noise; without all the questions and all the little details..."

Soundtrack: Flamagra by Flying Lotus.