It’s A Wrap

 

(courtesy of The Guardian)

This December doesn’t just mark the end of the Gregorian calendar year. For me, it’s the end of a brief, prematurely-ended era.

My contract at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) comes to an end on New Year’s Eve. The office will close before Christmas and I have outstanding leave. My last working day is in mid-December.

Management continues to act in bad faith. Lauren, the head of TTUO, behaves so inappropriately that my union has to get involved. New-ish manager, Gina doesn’t have the courtesy to acknowledge my departure; not even so much to arrange a proper handover. Whether it’s a guilty conscience, bad manners, cowardice or all of the above, it’s pretty damn unprofessional.

My application efforts so far have not yet yielded any fruit, albeit feedback has been promising. I spend many a high-pressured day preparing for an internal interview with a different department. All my other plans are put on hold for several days whilst I'm consumed by this task. It’s clear during the process that I don’t have the required specialist knowledge but I can’t quit half-way.

The interview is a mixed-bag; inspired in places but exposing my inexperience in others. The already under-resourced team needs someone to hit the ground running. If they had more personnel, someone to mentor me, then they could take the risk. When I speak to the head of department, Kojo (who also happens to attend my church), he confirms my presentiment, explaining it was a tough decision. I’m nonetheless encouraged. Likewise when I receive the rejection letter after another interview; this time with SOUL (The Solidarity Union League), a partner organisation of TTUO. After digging for a bit more feedback following a generic email, they assure me my performance was strong. They just thought I’d flourish in a policy role, rather than the more administrative post I suspected this of being.

My last day at TTUO is, naturally, bitter-sweet. We conclude the programme I’ve jointly coordinated with an online farewell party, where everyone in attendance has her chance to play DJ. I receive lots of affirming messages in the lead up and on the day itself; from the participants of the programme, colleagues, consultants and even the interpretation team with whom we’ve collaborated. 

 I have a very candid exit interview with TTUO’s Human Resources department. I explain to my lovely (now former) colleague Émilie -as I’ve said to others- that given the circumstances in which I took up the post, it always felt like a dress-rehearsal; never the real performance. Émilie agrees. She say she’s only heard good things about me. That is a triumph, per se. I can leave with my head held high, knowing this is all on management. For definite, it’s not me. It’s them.

However, I still have to face the reality of an uncertain start to 2022. Coupled with the ongoing insecurity engendered by the pandemic, another Christmas separated from relatives and the unwelcome reminder that I don’t (yet?) have my own family, I have some dark mental well-being days. Sometimes, my mind feels like it’s eating itself. When I start crying for no particular reason, it’s a dead giveaway.

Yet, I must acknowledge that I’m in a stronger position than last year. Yes, I was employed but also incredibly isolated. My connections to the city were not half as strong as they are now. The few I had had either unceremoniously disappeared or already left to spend the festive period with their family. My mum’s own Christmas trip had to be cancelled at the last minute after travel from the UK was banned. If Christmas Day 2020 itself was serene, I recall a cliff-edge drop in morale swiftly afterwards. I don’t know what this festive period holds but I’m grateful for some forward movement.

I haven't spent a Christmas in the UK since relocating to Europe in 2017.  But for the pandemic, mum would have visited or I would have spent time with sis in a (now very closed) Japan. I decide on an Open-House set-up for Christmas Day.

The Belgian authorities allow for a limited number of guests for Yuletide socialising. Days before Christmas, my plans are in suspended animation. I’m still awaiting confirmation from particular acquaintances on whether they’ll accept my invitation. This includes Ciaran, the sweet Irish-American I befriended in Croatia. Failing that, there are invitations from friends elsewhere. The vague state of affairs means I’m having to be more last minute than is customary. It’s stressful. I try to be reasonable and understanding but radio silence makes me nervous. And it's rude.

Still, Christmas 2021 is so far more cheerful than its predecessor. My community has greatly enlarged. I am spiritually well-supported both in Brussels and elsewhere. My morning prayer group continues to be a lifeline; offering up supplications to the Almighty on my behalf before I ask.

I am able to engage offline in my Belgian church’s festive programme. A soup kitchen is organised each weekend in December – save for Christmas Day. More like a mobile kitchen, where we distribute packed lunches to those sleeping rough around Brussels. 

There’s a special advent service taken over by the kids and young adults, including a pretty slick, short pre-recorded re-enactment of the nativity story. If the praise and worship slot leaves me uninspired (as usual), I’m delighted to sing Joy to the World with the congregation at the top of my lungs; twice, on Pastor Mike’s request.

It’s a season of departures, as expected; some more long-term than others. Brenda invites me and Roxie around to her place for a birthday meal, mid-December. It’ll be the last time we hang out this side of the New Year, as Brenda is days away from taking the train to Austria to be with family.

Earlier that Sunday, straight after church, Auntie Carol and I meet for the last time before she relocates permanently back to the West Indies.

I am still wont to go on long, wistful walks enjoying the light displays in various communes. It’s just this time, there’s more activity going on (I admit, I miss some of the tranquillity of last year, although not its cause). 

It is my second Christmas in Brussels but it might as well be the first. It’s the first time I’m experiencing the Christmas market buzz; still going, to my surprise, despite surges in cases earlier in the month. Festivals cancelled last year, tentatively resume this December such as the Brussels African Market. A day after I join old colleague Steve and his wife, Sylvia for a meal at their home with their lively, articulate and culturally-informed children, they accept my invitation to the BAM; round the corner from where they live. We pick up some great accessories crafted by European-based African artisans, as well as those directly from the Motherland. A couple of vendors have come all the way from Mali. I can only presume they’re touring markets across Europe. That’s the only way it would be worth their while. On exiting, I catch sight of that ol’ pain-in-the-proverbial, Rob. Lately, more than ever I’ve been successful at keeping him at arm’s length. I nod a greeting. He returns it, then proceeds to stare at me as if we’d never met.

(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

That evening, after a few weeks’ absence, I reconnect with my platonic boyfriend, Renzo. (That’s the facetious and affectionate descriptor I use with our mutual friend Clarissa, when we video chat a few days earlier.)

On his polite request, I join Renzo for an Italian-Catholic service near Porte de Namur. It’s a wholly new worship experience for me. After the initial good-humoured salutations I'm a little tense, trying to be on my best behaviour. Equally, I sense that Renzo is conscious of how alien it all might be. Remembering how much he threw himself into proceedings when he visited my church (which he describes as an ‘exotic experience’), I’m eager to be supportive.

I get a kick out of hearing my friend sing and recite the liturgy in his mother tongue. I’ve always had a soft-spot for the Italian language, one of the prettiest of the Romance family. I can comprehend bits and pieces; now more thanks to my exposure to Portuguese, than to the two years I studied it over 20 years ago.

Afterwards, I suggest we wander to Place Cocq-Fernand to gaze upon the Cinderella-like Christmas décor. Renzo is in playful mode. He challenges me to a running race, backwards. Concerned about falling over in my heels, I decline; to my later regret. I need to work on my spontaneity.

I convince Renzo to stroll to Flagey. I like the walk and want to enjoy the festive view. It’s also a route that at times, despite myself, I still associate with The South American. I came to know it through him. I look for opportunities to overlay it with new memories in alternative company.

Although ancient history, the relational disappointment of my early days in Brussels still occasionally haunts me. It tends to surface the moments when I’m generally anxious and/or unhappy.

Part of the way to Flagey, Renzo and I fall out. He recommends an exhibition he’s just visited, on sorcery from a feminist perspective. I’m irritated by anything that I perceive to glorify the occult; especially when it’s conflated with women’s liberation struggles. I have observed certain Westerners romanticise or treat the topic with a lightness; a mere socio or anthropological curiosity. Given my family history and cultural background, I find this inappropriate to put it mildly. In my strong reaction to Renzo’s suggestion, perhaps I’ve unfairly projected these tendencies on him. In any case, not for the first time, I feel he’s being inadvertently dismissive. 

We’ve had charged moments before but this is our first proper argument. Our first real test. We're two single-minded individuals, belonging to historically marginalised groups. The same attributes that have aided our affinity can at times also be sources of tension. We both feel the need to stand our ground.

After a short but excruciating silence, Renzo chooses the high road and changes the subject.

(Louise neighbourhood, Brussels. Courtesy of Foursquare)

It takes me a moment to recover but I go along with his goodwill. The flowing conversation resumes. We end up walking the scenic route to Louise, circling back to Porte de Namur. We’re due to part ways on the Toison D’Or Avenue. I plan to continue to Arts-Loi. Renzo isn’t keen on the idea of me going alone. 

It's a journey I make all the time by foot, I insist.

Stylish as ever in his warm-looking, well-coordinated burnt-orange overcoat and beanie, he offers to accompany me- on the proviso we take the metro. He’s freezing.

Not having work the next day, I go with Renzo some of the way home- in the opposite direction. Partly to prolong the time in his company. Maybe also to compensate for the moments lost to the disagreement. By the end of the evening, we’re as affectionate as ever; embracing and saying our Christmas farewells. I’m relieved and reassured that our friendship has reached a stage where it can withstand disputes. If I say I love my friend, then there must be room for us to get on each other's nerves. Anything less would be doomed to superficiality.

Yet by the next day, I’m still rattled. It feeds into a broader, exhausting neurosis that I endeavour to pinpoint. It can’t just be about my now unemployed status. Or facing another Christmas, effectively relying on the kindness of people whom I haven’t known for long, if I’m not to spend it alone again. Or the lack of natural light, cold and general malaise that I encounter as the New Year approaches. Or the absence of any illusion of control over my circumstances...

But thank God, tomorrow is another day. Another chance to (try and) surrender all to the Almighty and not get too lost in my own head.