Monday, 13 December 2021

Resilience

 

After my brief but well-needed Portuguese excursion, I return to Belgium to an ever-complicated work situation. The trade union representatives (TUR), including my colleague Demetria, have been doing their best to defend me in my absence. They write a strongly-worded, well-argued letter to management to challenge their recent decision not to extend my contract. 

No complaints about my work have been raised. The funding -which management disingenuously feigned as ‘hanging in the balance’ - is confirmed whilst I’m on leave. Besides, we have surplus to carry over from this year, which Demetria and new manager, Gina herself, costed into the project proposal. Gina and the GS, Lauren, keep insisting that the format of the programme will change. Fine, I say, but not the substance. It’s not as if I’m suddenly required to become an accountant or civil engineer. The essence will remain the same. I was recruited on the basis I could adapt.

After receiving the TUR letter, the GS agrees to meet with them. It’s false hope. I am not party to this conversation and, for the sake of confidentiality, no notes are taken by the reps. At the very least, the TUR want to convince Lauren to allow me a transitional period. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to tie up in the New Year. She’s adamantly opposed. When asked how she could ignore that my contract is already accounted for, she apparently hints that she’s promised that money elsewhere; to a department filled with her (white) South African compatriots.

A lot transpires from that meeting, all of it supposedly off the record and not necessarily in my interests to divulge at this point. Suffice to say that management feel untouchable; not least because I have a less secure, fixed-term contract. The cronyism and double-standards are so blatant, that it’s positively sloppy. The TUR are devastated on my behalf. Alas, at this stage their hands are tied by internal politics. I’ve already started to look for opportunities elsewhere. I have a lot of annual leave to spare which management would prefer I take in one go, so I am out of their hair. Meanwhile, Gina has been studiously avoiding me since our confrontation at the meeting where she effectively gave me the boot.

This awful situation has nonetheless highlighted how well-supported I am within the organisation and without. On my London trip, sympathetic friends listen with sad incredulity. Several colleagues and affiliates express their chagrin as well as solidarity. My team organises a catch-up/pre-farewell lunch. My colleague Steve and his wife Sylvie stay in regular touch with supportive messages. At church the likes of Karin and Monica ask for regular updates. Pastor Mike sends me a text, remarking that he hasn’t seen me in church for a while (he’s unaware of my travel plans) and sends a prophetic prayer. Renzo’s is an ever-ready shoulder to cry on. I am rich in relationships. It’s nothing to be taken for granted. After so many months of pandemic-related isolation, the comfort of this is sweeter still.

The work stress has clearly taken its toll but my life hasn’t come to a stand still. 

I reunite with Renzo after my holidays at an exhibition he’s co-curating. He’s taking a break when I arrive. I fear I’ve missed him and send a mildly panicked text. His gallery colleagues have been looking at me askew.

I’m so relieved when he walks through the door, I’ve barely said hello before wrapping him in a tight embrace. We’re both a bit giddy, having not seen each other for a while. Renzo makes an unwittingly humourous comment and I double up with laughter. He turns crimson, wearing a confused smile, probably nervous that something has been lost in translation.

No, caro mio, you're just witty.

I wish I could be funny in multiple languages.

I don’t care much for the exhibition itself, which at first sight appear to be a series of misshapen hair nets. Renzo takes the time to expertly explain the intention and craft that the featured artist has put into each creation. It’s an enthused side of him that’s new to me. He's finally making inroads into his true vocation, after years wasting away in the corporate world. More than the work itself, my pleasure comes from seeing my friend in his element.

The last Sunday of the month, Renzo, Brenda and Roxanne will join me for a late lunch/early dinner -or “linner” as we dub it. They overlap with Bruno - a recent acquaintance I’ve made - of mixed Cape Verdean origin. 

Bruno organises conversation groups for men, where they discuss and deconstruct masculinity in contemporary society. We first make contact when in early autumn, I send him an email politely demanding to know why these events aren’t open to women. His response is gracious and studied, ending with an invitation to meet and talk. We’ve remained in touch since. He wants to take me up on the idea of a mixed-gender conversation circle. I invite him round to dine and discuss. I have to reschedule after he drops out at the last moment. When my plans for the following weekend extend to a group linner, Bruno gently informs me on arrival that he won’t be staying to eat. He wasn’t expecting a crowd. It’s Sunday; his day to recalibrate before the week ahead. I’m apologetic. It was a gamble to tell him last minute things had changed.

For the time we do have alone, Bruno asks me pointed questions about my objectives for the mixed circles and what role I envisage playing. Basic but still surprisingly difficult to answer. I respond with lots of my usual verbal processing and digressions. I’m already feeling disorientated about the misunderstanding over the afternoon’s events. Bruno seems to find it useful nonetheless. True to his word, he leaves as the rest appear. He and Renzo exchange a brief but courteous, if a little awkward greeting. They would be somewhat familiar to each other from the conversation circles.

There is an element of relief to be only entertaining three. It wouldn’t have been fair on Bruno or the others if he stayed against his will. Plus the layout of my otherwise attractive living room is not the most suited to hosting dinners for multiple guests. All three of them well and truly an integral part of my Brussels life, they’ve met on previous occasions. I’ve prepared a vegan curry for Renzo and my trademark mixed-meat tagine for the rest of us. We spread out between the Diner-style counter and the inviting couches. It works itself out. 

Despite ourselves, we end up talking shop. Roxanne and Brenda’s work schedules sound punishing. Of course, I update them on the latest twists and turns at the office, including Demetria's announcement she’ll be expecting in the spring. It’s the best news and a delicious irony, given management’s recent decision to downsize an already under-resourced team.

We while away easy hours in each other’s company. The night is still young as my guests start to troop home. They leave with enough leftovers to at least spare them a night or two of cooking.

I hope to make these “linners” a regular feature over the colder months. Especially as our options could be limited for external activities. Although Christmas is a lot more swinging this year than my first Brussels Noel (on lockdown), there’s a nervousness about the worrying infection rates in Belgium. It’s whilst attending a stimulating theatre performance about young Europeans drawn to the Far Right, that I first hear of the Omicron variant. The outing has been organised on Internations. A member of the party is anxious about the detection of cases in Belgium that day. And thus the pessimism begins.

The following week, I attend a DJ set -another Internations-related event – where rumours are circulating of a near-total shutdown. Again. 

I admit I have mixed-feelings on entering the bar. It’s a COVID-pass only event but still... There’s a heck a lot of people in a confined space. Various socials are going on at the same time. I don’t see anyone familiar and I’m about to forfeit my five euro entry fee when I run into man-about-town Aurélien. He informs me auntie Carol is in the house. I perk up. He shows me to the corner where they’ve congregated. An older Ecuadorian mulatto called Bonaparte apparently takes a shine to me. We talk a little about South American politics and the pink tide. With his transatlantic accent he describes his drift towards the centre from his Radical Left past.

 I’m cordial but wary. If the sting is less sharp than it once was, I'm still smarting from my many misadventures with heteros so far in Brussels. When Aurélien tries to invite himself over, I smile and inform him and Bonaparte that only gay men are allowed to hang out round mine. They think I’m joking.

The music is pretty cheesy; EDM remixes of Europop, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Boney M. I make an effort to dance all the same. Bonaparte flays his arms around enthusiastically, using this as a pretext to shimmy up to me. I try to be jovial but protect my personal space. The selection starts to perk up as I head out the door. Typical. It’s then that Aurélien speaks of rumours circulating around another closure of bars, restaurants and cafés. (In stereotypically French libertarian style, he's generally against restrictions). 

I’ve suggested we organise a surprise farewell for Carol at a bar, before she moves permanently back to the Caribbean. Aurélien's not convinced such events will be feasible for much longer.

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario is averted, for now. Nightclubs close and there are various other limitations. Mercifully, nothing as drastic as this time last year. Yet.

Some of Carol’s friends have already conspired to turn an Internations’ winter party into a send-off. It falls on a very busy Friday in early December. As far as Carol is aware, I'm not available that evening. 

I'm double-booked, having signed up to attend a film night at church about undocumented migrants in Belgium. It’s a subject about which I’m keen to have deeper knowledge. The low budget feature by a charity called Olivier, based on real-life events, is hard hitting. It’s thus frustrating to hear the moderator – himself supposedly involved in support work for the undocumented – use phrases such as ‘illegals’ and claim that ‘the population doesn’t like migrants, so politicians give the people what they want’. I can’t let these slide. Before exiting to surprise auntie Carol, I comment on the problematic use of phrases such ‘legality’ when it comes to migration -or any human being-and how politicians aren’t hostages of fortune. They often cynically drive the prejudices around certain types of migration to distract from the real causes of inequalities.

I rush out to auntie Carol’s farewell; grabbing mutual friend Roxanne’s present along the way. She has to stay and help with the clean-up after movie night.

New COVID rules dictate that venues close at 11pm. I arrive so close to the end of the social that I am not charged. Heck, it’s worth it to see auntie Carol’s surprise.  It takes me a while to locate her at first. I don’t recognise her from behind. She’s wearing a feathered black and ruby wig. 

I proudly hand her my gift (courtesy of a Brussels’ Christmas market artisan), after drawing a blank for so long.

 The room is throwing down to the last strains of music. It’s some sort of dancehall. Not really my cup of tea but I am in the mood to party, despite my could-sleep-standing-up fatigue. Predictably, Carol’s close friend and my one-time nemesis Rob is in the vicinity. He co-organised the gig with fellow Internations consul, Marcus. I give Rob a wide-berth except for a furtive wave goodbye. 

I'm more surprised to see Simon-Pierre mingling in the crowd. He’d dropped off the grid for so long, I began to assume he were sick. Evidently not. There’s a moment of mutual recognition. Perhaps. My new hairdo takes him longer to place me.

I reflect on my cool and fleeting interactions with SP and Rob. I know I can be good at holding a grudge and don’t want to indulge bad feeling. Yet, I also have enough quality relationships to not squander energy on those that aren’t. On one hand, it seems only right that SP and I have a conversation about why communication abruptly ended. Then again, as Renzo reminds me, it’s not a mystery why Simon evaporated. C’est toujours la mème ritournelle. Especially with these heteros. In the end, maybe there was never anything genuine to salvage.


Soundtrack: Befriended + We Walked in Song by The Innocence Mission, An Evening with...Silk Sonic, Geography by Tom Misch.


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