I write this blog through gritted teeth. I lack the energy and inclination. I don’t have legions, or even a modest-sized core, of loyal readers eagerly awaiting my next instalment. Nothing but the internal pressure under which I constantly put myself propels me to update after a mini-hiatus. It’s one of those moments where if I don’t write now, I can’t say when I will next.
In my current state of mind and circumstances as they are, I’m conscious of wallowing and that sentiment coming through on these pages.
Shortly after my return from Coimbra, I have an overdue chat scheduled with Bruno. We become acquainted indirectly through a series of events he organises in autumn 2021 discussing masculinity in the 21st century. We strike an instant platonic rapport. I assume it’s the start of a beautiful friendship. Not quite. Bruno soon becomes less and less accessible.
After some radio silence, he reaches out with onward plans for a gender relations project on which he’s keen for us to embark. On my end, he’s been unresponsive for so long, I give up on maintaining contact. It’s part of the emotional spring-cleaning on which I set my mind at the end of 2021. When Bruno eventually does get in touch, I let him know exactly why I’m even less tolerant of any flakiness. He believes I’m projecting. I disagree.
He suggests we speak offline. No pressure.
We meet one Tuesday morning in early February.
Following the difficulties experienced towards the end of my contract at TTUO, my sleep has been significantly disrupted. I am thus very tired when I arrive at the agreed location near Place de la Monnaie. I blame the fatigue for being emotional during our discussion.
We discover that we had approached the interaction with different objectives. I was interested in getting to know Bruno as a friend. I believed I was riding an auspicious wave with gay acquaintances last year.
He saw me as a potential business partner. Friendship might develop organically later.
I couldn’t understand why he was being so pushy about this potential joint project. His ambitious seemed premature. He couldn’t understand why I was being so familiar and eager to socialise. My attempts to practise Portuguese were interpreted as being overly-affectionate; something Bruno only comes to realise as we’re clearing the air.
Perhaps I’m a little too accepting of his version of events. In the moment, all I can see is my own error; getting ahead of myself again. With the exception of one acknowledged oversight, Bruno effectively admits to ghosting me. He should have shared his misgivings from the outset.
I tell him the conversation has been instructive. If nothing else there’s resolution. I’m happy to cut my losses and move on.
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| Place de la Monnaie, Brussels (courtesy of tripadvisor) |
I do reflect on how I presumed such misunderstandings couldn’t happen if all I wanted was a platonic interaction with a gay man. Said out loud, it sounds naïve. Regardless of sexual orientation or outward displays of sensitivity, men are more or less socialised the same way. Consciously or otherwise, they participate in and perpetuate imbalanced gender dynamics. They can be withholding and err towards emotional unavailability.
A couple of days later, I spend the afternoon with Sylvia. She’s wants to know the Matongé area better. We lunch in Brussels’ famous Quartier Noir before taking a stroll to a pop-up African bookshop near Marolles. She asks if I’ve received news from my former workplace, following the outrageous behaviour of senior management before I left. A complaint has been escalated to my Union’s HQ via my former Delegation.
I’m playing with the idea of giving it another month before chasing up. Sylvia urges me not to delay any longer, lest my inaction be mistaken for indifference.
Perhaps deep down I have a negative presentiment about the whole affair. I nevertheless follow Sylvia’s advice and reach out to the Delegation.
They send an apologetic but ultimately disappointing response.
Nothing can really be done... yada, yada…
No substantial reason is proffered as to why. In my response I point out that the Delegation and the Union itself should have been more proactive in updating me. I can only guess how long I’d have been not-so-blissfully ignorant if Sylvia hadn’t persuaded me to get in touch. I am frank about how angry and let down I am.
I suspect that internal politics and concerns over bad optics is preventing my Union taking action, rather than any legal shortcomings. It’s not as if there’s any love lost between them and the offending party; the outgoing Secretary General of TTUO. I couldn’t think of a better time to hold her to account.
One of the Delegation has the temerity to reply in a ‘private capacity’, complaining that my message upset her feelings. I carefully draft a polite but strongly-worded response.
I am happy for her to share it with her colleagues, since my dissatisfaction pertains to a collective failure. If she does acknowledge a delay in contacting me in the first instance, she doesn’t have the courtesy to apologise. Between the seven members of which the Delegation is comprised, somebody surely could have taken the responsibility to notify me of the latest developments. Or just to ask how I was. One of them, Demetria, I considered a friend. Although they did a great job of supporting me at the start, lately the Delegation have put their own discomfort ahead of doing what was best by me.
They all have the luxury of not thinking about it. They have secure jobs, families, other preoccupations. My current situation is circumscribed by what has transpired until now.
Not to mention the unprofessional behaviour of the Union liaison. He hasn’t had the decency to contact me once, let alone consult me about the decisions that have been taken on my behalf. It’s a disgrace. I request to be put in touch with him directly.
Beyond that, I let my ex-colleague know I am not interested in hearing any more self-justifications and excuses. Unless the Delegation can say something that substantially changes the state of play, I ask to be left alone. I need to process all that’s happened as well as look into what limited options there are for recourse. I make further enquiries elsewhere that leave me even more at a loss.
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| art-du-mojito.fr |
This latest turn of events pushes me close to the edge. My sleeping patterns have been deteriorating for months and my general angst increases. I feel exhausted to my core. I notice I am even more garrulous than usual in others’ company. My constant nervous chatter is indicative of non-stop mind traffic.
Some days are better than others. I host another successful “linner”; this time with Em, Karin and Renzo. The latter two apparently feel so at home, they leave some of their belongings behind. Renzo invites me round the following weekend to return his goods and hang out.
It’ll be my first visit to his abode, if brief. With plans later that day, he squeezes me in between engagements.
Renzo’s minimalist flat is as tasteful and impeccable as I imagined. Outside, it's brisk but sunny and dry. Natural light streams in through the many windows. A snazzy-looking imitation wireless radio blasts Funk and Soul grooves in the kitchen.
I ogle Renzo’s impressive book collection, featuring black feminists and anti-imperialists.
Renzo is welcoming, offering me a home-cooked lunch. I have a nibble of his delicious veggie equivalent of meat loaf. I've brought a bottle of virgin Mojito to share. It has all the makings of a relaxed time in good company. And yet. It feels like hard work and I can’t say why. I don’t feel uneasy when Renzo comes round to mine, most likely because I’m on my own turf.
Nobody is to blame. We’re each struggling with our own internal battles. We’re each doing our best to navigate them in our respective ways, whilst trying to be there for the other. It’s just that day, the alchemy is off.
