Life After THRO: Muddling Through

And it came to pass. My life after The Human Rights Organisation begins on an otherwise uneventful Thursday in mid-October.

Following weeks of conflicted feelings about my change in work status and the events that preceded it earlier this year, I’m emotionally spent. I am technically on holiday but leisure time is a luxury I can’t afford. I need to intensify my job search. I want to catch up on all the studying I haven’t been able to fit in around work. There are also household chores to which I must attend. I hope to squeeze in some writing whilst I’m at it. In between that I am obligated to wade through the morass of French welfare bureaucracy now I’m currently non-active.

I have made a schedule for myself. Two mornings a week to look for work. Mondays are to be spent either at Oh My Goodness! café or at the University library (since all the others are closed). I quibble whether to become a member since it would only really be to use the printer. The desk clerk is all smiley and flustered and keeps apologising for giving me the wrong information. At first I assume it’s because he’s new and not used to the procedure. When he asks where I’m from, the penny drops. I can be quite naive about the intentions of the opposite sex.

Tuesdays and Fridays I stay local since I’m likely to be busy in the evenings. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I’ll while away some hours at the inviting André Malraux Médiathèque in central Strasbourg. Whatever happens I don’t want to spend too much time in my flat. Whilst I’m temporarily out of work, I can’t take human contact for granted. I also must make sure my French doesn’t suffer. I’m tentatively hopeful after noting that my spontaneous interactions in La Langue de Molière aren’t as laboured or clumsy as I feared. I even receive some positive feedback. 

 In the spirit of keeping up and improving my French I start attending a midweek event organised via Meet-Up that I’ve usually been too occupied to frequent.

I’m pleased to note that there are more native francophones in attendance than Christmas 2018; the last time I was at this particular gathering. One Thursday night, I pass a particularly pleasant evening in the company of two gorgeous Tunisian-Italian brothers; Constantin and Stefano. I grin from ear to ear when they knock a decade off my age. Eye-candy and compliments aside, they’re especially keen to meet up and practise their English. They picked up an intermediate level living in Hong-Kong within an impressively short two years. I’m happy to oblige. I invite them to join me and Gustavo, my lovely Lusophone acquaintance and talented linguist who also wants to entretenir son anglais. That is...once I can find the time. 

 I skip out of the meet-up in good spirits and glad for the distraction. I've been wrestling with remnants of feeling for The Old Heartache I left behind at THRO. The sense of regret lingers long after our final farewell. A vicious circle of self-recrimination plays itself out. My wholesome evening of chat with Constantin and Stefano reminds me there are other men on this planet. I’ll be fine. The frustrating ambiguity and remaining debris of heartbreak will work themselves out of my system with time. The healing process is already underway.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where I feel almost desolate and running low on hope. I’m angry with God, with THRO and myself at how things have turned out. News of a UK General Election fills me with both excitement and great apprehension. I am due to visit the UK soon but don’t know if there’ll be any opportunity to campaign whilst I’m there. One more thing to worry about, if I let it.

I try to distract myself with my new daily routine. I attend a special Jazz and Psalms service at Temple Neuf one Sunday; a break from the norm. I’ve invited former colleagues from The Organisation; Natalya and Winnie. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Natalya flakes for more whimsical reasons than I’d expect. It throws me off. I compromise my hitherto tight schedule and end up missing all my travel connections. I arrive at Temple Neuf later than planned (as usual) and annoyed with myself for being a stereotype. Winnie and her housemate Helga are already seated. Pastor Rohan expounds on how both optimism and pessimism are extreme forms of fatalism. Christians aren’t called to endorse either, he gently admonishes.  He speaks of God not imposing on our free will. Of late this has also been a recurring theme at my main church. Normally, I would look past the coincidence for deeper meaning. In this instance however, I’m not sure. This doesn’t chime with my experience. Maybe for most others this Divine Imposition is less apparent, with a far wider margin of manoeuvre. My whole life, on the other hand, has felt very much circumscribed by God. Then there’s the biblical case study that is Jonah. As a wise young woman once said to me, free will is over-rated and over-stated.

After the service I try to communicate this to Winnie and Helga without it turning into a rant. I’m not convinced that I succeed.  Musing over determinism aside, we're all feeling upbeat thanks to the soothing effects of the acoustic sax and piano interpretation of hymns. We commend the musicians heartily.

Later that week, my choir HRGS has its first show of the term; another welcome distraction from my intermittently bleak thoughts. I’ve invited a good deal of acquaintances, including Winnie and other former work colleagues. In the end, only Catarina shows up. By coincidence the performance takes place in a church she’s planning to visit. Maybe it’s a sign, I suggest playfully.

I see her at the front, having a whale of a time. She joins in enthusiastically when our seasoned showman choir director, Kiasi insists on audience participation. The choir turn out in good numbers. To my mind it’s vocally one of our most consistent performances. And yet rather than lift my funk, the concert compounds it. To my shame, I attribute much of this to my own vanity. A couple of non-issues niggle at me about my solo. A few members decide to interrupt my ad-libs, quite unlike how we rehearsed it. Furthermore, Catarina says nothing about my performance despite my efforts to calm my nerves and do a decent job. My dissatisfaction hovers throughout the weekend. I leave multiple self-commiserating voicemails for my sister. I am even more sensitive than usual these days, I observe. She’s a pillar of strength; speaking wisdom and firm truth in love.

Shards of light pierce through elsewhere. I attend a seminar at my church organised for single women. The speaker, Régine, is a pastor whom I hold in great regard. She shares about her unorthodox upbringing, sexual misadventures, marrying a man nearly 10 years her junior in her 30s as well as her struggles with crippling anxiety and insecurity. Régine’s candour about her non-linear spiritual journey is a refreshing change from the cut-and-dry narrative some Christians feel compelled to rehearse. She readily answers the personal questions posed by her attentive audience. When someone asks her how to overcome low self-worth in the face of societal pressures on women to be flawless, Régine answers in her customary honesty. There’s no magic formula or one-shot panacea. It’s a spiritual battle. We must persevere with God.

Although our life stories diverge significantly in places, there’s also much to which I can relate. I’m effusive with thanks for Régine’s authenticity after the seminar. I’ve no doubt I’ll draw comfort and strength from her testimony in future.

Soundtrack: A Love Surreal by Bilal,

Visit Number Five: Part Two

Krutenau district, Strasbourg

Part One

The psychological comfort and familiarity of mum’s presence is an indescribable morale boost. My discouraging work situation has taken its toll. Mum comments a number of times that I’m more irritable.

I’ve always been a bit uptight. I counter, defensively.

Not like this.

I have no qualms admitting that my battle with anxiety has intensified of late; despite my prayers and non-chemically assisted efforts to stay on top of it (including said missing gratitude journal). Depressives often say that it is of no help at all when told to ‘cheer up’. If it were that easy, they wouldn’t need the advice. I believe anxiety works the same. Telling someone to relax is as counter-productive as ‘cheer up’. Mum is doing her best to understand. She is well-versed about my current professional situation. I don’t like to worry her by being so visibly unsettled by it.

Better out than in, she admonishes.

That Thursday we’ve arranged to have dinner with my gastronomically-astute pal, Gael. He and mum met on her previous visit with sis. The rapport was instant. Gael has mentioned introducing me to some more of what Strasbourg has to offer on the cuisine front. Mum’s trip is the perfect opportunity to make good on these intentions. He knows I like food from the MENA region. He sends me a selection of his personal recommendations from which to choose. By pure coincidence, I opt for Chevaliers in Krutenau; a restaurant he happens to be taking over for his new Afropean venture. It’s a splendid evening. The food is fine, if not spectacular. The customer service and present company make the night what it is. We talk and laugh late into the evening. Polyglot Gael switches to English for mum’s sake. He’s a knowledgeable and genteel interlocutor. He and mum swap tales about their West African childhoods. We’re intrigued by his extensive travels across the Motherland. Mum asks which country he enjoyed the most. Zimbabwe, he replies. It’s so much more than the dire news reports which we’re used to in the West.

Gael generously offers to pay for our meals. We insist on taking care of a decent tip for our gracious host, Hassiba.

On the bus back, a notification flashes on the electronic screen: Free transport all day Friday. It will be extended for the whole weekend by the following day. The City Council want to encourage drivers to leave their car behind. It’s great news for mum. She’ll barely use any of her transport credit during her trip.

Told you, mum. You bring good fortune. 

Back to work the next morning but only for half-a-day. TGIF, albeit a hectic one. Held up by last minute hitches at the office, I’m running late for a rendez-vous with mum and another one of our Strasbourg-based pals, Catarina. It’s almost a year to the day when we met at a church barbecue. Then, the country was in the grip of World Cup fever for the men. This year it’s the women’s turn. Alas, Les Bleues don’t take home the trophy this time.

We’ve agreed to meet Catarina at one of my regular haunts, Oh My Goodness! It’s been a while since she has spoken English. Bless her, she makes the effort for mum. I believe she appreciates the practice. Her knowledge of the current French political situation is impressive; as is her awareness of some of the UK’s neo-liberal travails. She predicts that Macron’s right-wing economic reforms will only drive the working class into Le Pen's clutches. It's something I’ve feared since his mandate began.

We part ways with Catarina at the tram stop and hop on the D to Kehl Rathaus. I want to show mum the changes since her last visit. As is her habit, she treats me to various household items for my flat.

I’m in a hurry but don’t wish to rush her. I have choir rehearsal that evening. I am reluctant to miss it. The following day we'll do our last show before the two and a half-month summer break. As a compromise, I notify the choir directors I might be late. I arrive even later than intended, having been hijacked by an email from a Labour Party-affiliated organisation of which I’m a member. They are reacting to another fomented ‘scandal’ with a disappointing lack of discernment and goodwill. Disillusioned, I let them know exactly what I think.

I feel the anxiety returning. I try to put it to the back of my mind on the way to choir practice, where temporary reprieve awaits.

It’s not just infuriating messages in my inbox that have set me off. The weekend schedule has run away from me. There are occasions where activities accrue until I find myself having to be in numerous places all at once. I’ve promised mum a market trip in the morning en route to a half-day conference at church. That evening my choir, HRGS will be part of the line-up of an open-air solidarity gig. I’ve had to jettison the idea of the free Petite France Happy Tour, I’d wanted to squeeze in.

Mum tries not to let my agitation get to her. Somehow I unwind despite running behind schedule. By the time we’re wandering through the market near Esplanade, picking up some unexpected bargains along the way, I’m pretty Zen about whether or not I’ll make the seminar. I’ve already emailed the organisers that I might be a no-show.

It's a full blown heatwave. My attention falls on a man in a brown leather jacket. What a fashion statement in this weather. I'm wondering how the poor thing copes. He starts to jerk, yell, and disappears through the crowd moving frenetically. I catch sight of his soles, hanging out of leather flip-flops. They're greyish-green with deep, canyon-like crevices. It takes me a few moments to recover from this apparition.

Mum and I head towards my church after thoroughly perusing the market wares. We’ll stop by at the Lidl’s opposite the church building but not before I pop into the conference to show my face. I’m not surprised to only have met the post-seminar refreshments. The organisers appreciate my efforts in any case. It’s a brief but edifying moment of fellowship over vol-au-vents.

At the LICRA Solidarity Open Air Performance,
Place St. Thomas, Strasbourg

After shopping it’s home again for some rest, preparation of supper and other tasks. I change into my evening outfit before mum and I head back out to St. Thomas’ Square for the Solidarity gig. Organised by anti-racism NGO, LICRA, the show is dedicated to 21-year old Afghan refugee, Habib who took his life in late May; dejected by a lack of financial and moral support. My mind will frequently return to this young man over the coming days. The event's hosts speak of how this isn’t representative of an international and welcoming city such as Strasbourg. Hmm. Even for those with creature comforts, the so-called Capital of Europe is alienating at the best of times. I can only imagine thus how desperately lonely and frustrating it would be for someone with neither language nor means.

Despite the tragic circumstances, the ambience is nonetheless celebratory. To my pleasant surprise, HRGS come out in encouraging numbers; even those who haven’t been to rehearsals for a while. Mum is a hit with the members. She has no issues communicating, many of them being fluent English-speakers. For the first time I hear the extent of Elise’ auto-didact linguistic genius. Her English is pretty impeccable for someone who has never studied it officially beyond secondary school. I feel inadequate.

The obligatory comments about mum’s youthfulness are forthcoming and welcome by both of us. Mum sits in on our practice. Five choirs use what available space there is to go over their repertoire. HRGS attracts a lot of attention before and during the performance. We’re second on the bill. It will be one of our best gigs to date; save for a very ropey rendition of The Circle of Life. Mum doesn’t have any compunction giving this frank feedback to choir directors, Evan and Kiasi. They receive it in good-humour.

The vibrant atmosphere is palpable. I am relieved and delighted to observe mum in her element. She thanks me repeatedly for bringing her along. She is touched by the choir's friendliness. Not for the only time during this trip, my mind goes to Maya Angelou's observations about the mother/child relationship. She speaks of how the very presence of a mother can change how your acquaintances perceive you; an invisible, protective force field.

After our presentation, most of the choir sticks around to see the other acts and for the grand finale performance of We Shall Overcome. All the choirs are supposed to perform. By the end, there are hardly any remaining. A choir specialising in Broadway standards and Yiddish folk-music take up a lot of stage time. As does the final jazz-folk vocalist. He’s meant to limit his set to three songs. We’re appreciative of his particular stamp on El Paso Condor and join in gamely with Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Then, emboldened by the crowd’s warm reception, he launches into a slow, folky-soul rendition of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall; a bizarrely morose choice.

It’s around this time, well past 11pm, the rest of us leave en masse towards the tram stop; save for Elise. It’s her last concert with HRGS before she moves down south to be closer to her family. Evan reminds us about the last rehearsal before summer. My heart sinks. It clashes with the last outing of the street team.

See you in September then.

I start singing EWF's hit. Inside however, I'm crestfallen.

I don’t know when next I’ll perform with the chorale. My heart breaks at the thought of another lonely summer stretched out before me; the activities that were a life-line on hold for months. That, and the thought of mum’s looming departure back to the UK, reduce me to hot tears several times that weekend.

Sunday morning doesn’t go according to plan. I have to change outfits owing to a malfunctioning zip. Time escapes me. I’m the one who makes us late to church in spite of nagging mum to be ready by half-9. On arriving, I find that the English interpretation service is not yet ready. I panic at the idea of having to do the translation again; one week after another shaky turn on the rota.

Much ado about nothing. Two interpreters turn up for this week’s session.

The message that Sunday is about knowing our value before God; how it's important to understand our own in order to properly affirm others. It's an interactive affair with short dramatic interludes and video clips. At the end, I offer tearful prayers to heaven. The sermon has taken on a personal urgency.

Mum will admit later that the translation isn’t as fluid as previously. The interpreter is a novice who disappears before the service is over, leaving me to translate the announcements.

We meet and greet a few familiar faces and head back in the direction of Étoile Bourse. Mum would like us to spend some time at the Orangerie; the park a stone's throw from my office. Just being in the vicinity of work makes me uneasy. Yet I can still appreciate the serenity of the adjacent green space.

It's a sweltering day; high 30s. We miss two of the irregular buses, partly down to a timing mistake on my part. I take every trivial disappointment to heart that morning; feeling personally responsible.

Calm down. Please. Do you see me upset? Mum reassures. We got here eventually. 

As was the case last year, something about the tranquillity of the Orangerie sparks off a tearful, soul-searching conversation with mum. I recount how anxiety and guilt have stalked me since childhood. Wrestling with perfectionism and feelings of inadequacy. We continue to share and pray. Faced with my anguish, Mum brings a healthy balance of compassion and rock-solid support.

Still, my weepiness gets her going a number of times. We both try to hold onto the night; eating a homecooked meal including mum’s jollof rice and akara bean cakes (by special request) and resuming our unofficial custom of watching Tales of The Unexpected. We go to bed long after 1am.

Monday morning. A week exactly since our Basel visit. Mum’s bags are packed, ready for the coach station. My flat is spotless, as it always is after one of her stays. I cry all morning. I recover, only to unceremoniously burst into tears. Mum prays for me before we leave.

God sees your tears.

I’m crying whilst speaking to mum on the bus; not about anything especially sad. Mum worries the other passengers will think something is amiss. My make up runs. I check my yellow summer dress for foundation stains. Mum wells up. I don’t want to upset her but can’t stop. I’ll be weeping on and off for the rest of the day.

By the grace of God, this will only be a temporary separation. Yet in light of my current issues at work, the coming hiatus of my extra-curricular activities and the general isolation of Strasbourg- most of all over summer-it feels more painful than usual. I try to keep perspective, thinking of the despair of poor Habib and those who have it worse off. That only sets me off again.

You’ve always been a sensitive soul. Mum remarks, waiting at the coach stop at Étoile Bourse.

Her luggage has been stowed away but neither of us are ready for her to board. Assured by the driver we still have some time, we prolong our farewell. The engine starts. Mum takes her seat. Normally, I leave once she’s safely on board. This time I wait, straining to see her through the tinted windows.

She waves; giving me a big, reassuring smile. Tears streaming down my face, I turn aside melodramatically. I intend to wait until the coach pulls away. Mum, seeing my distress, signals for me to leave. Realising that it would be unfair to her to remain whilst in this state, I turn to go; somewhat relieved.

Later, I'll recall that I didn’t even cry this much on my first day of school. I didn’t cry at all.

What do you know. A few years shy of 40 and I still want my mum.

Soundtrack: No Freedom Without Sacrifice by Homecut.