Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall