April in Lockdown

The end of April marks the first full month in lockdown for several parts of Europe; particularly those that were slower to react to the pandemic. This sombre milestone has brought with it much psychological drain and I am sure I am not the only one.

Holy Week provides a respite from the gloom. Christians find parallels of suffering in the life and Passion of Christ; God amongst us. I come across a number of positive reflections of faith in mainstream media. In the context of COVID-19, there’s not the same wariness and cynicism that might accompany these op-eds.

In the lead up to Easter, there’s an inevitable increase in demand for goods. I end up making two trips, not having had the presence of mind to bring forward my shopping schedule. The supermarket queues are intimidatingly long and stock runs out early. I am also still awaiting a package from the UK that has been re-routed. After a long and futile wait at La Poste (still yet to arrive), I head to the closest supermarket. It’s another long queue in the unusually warm spring sun.

Inside, I see my former boss Lucia from The Human Rights Organisation. She’s one of the last people I’d expect -or want- to come across. It doesn’t help that I’m still in professional limbo.

We don’t make direct eye contact. I decide that I’ll make polite conversation if we do. If nothing else, I'm genuinely concerned for her family in Italy under lockdown. At the same time, I’m too tired and dehydrated to go out of my way to talk. I don’t know whether it’s the ‘right’ Christian response. I can say that it’s sincere.

Easter/Resurrection Weekend is an oasis of hope and spiritual introspection. Having gone vegetarian for Lent, I treat myself to a mixed meat grill; still with a healthy portion of veg. Not long after the holiday, my choir HRGS release their video for the medley demo we recorded late last year. I forward it to family and friends. Sis comments on the timeliness of the upbeat message. None of us could have planned it.

Easter Monday evening, President Macron announces a provisional date to relax some of the lockdown measures; Monday 11 May. If that infamous curve is sufficiently flattened, resumption will still only be tentative. Schools might open but tertiary academic institutions would remain closed, as would cafés, restaurants, bars and clubs.

During the Easter season, I’ve given myself a rare weekend off. Ish. The real world hits the Tuesday morning after.  The return to some sort of routine brings with it fresh anxiety over what lies ahead. The carpet of pink around cherry blossom trees outside my flat signal the end of one of my favourite seasonal transitions. It adds to the melancholy. Sigh.

Later that week, I meet some church sisters online for a cyber aperitif. They rather glibly speak of the possibility that internal borders in Europe will remain closed until autumn. They are, for some reason, surprised at my horrified reaction. I was aware that southern European borders might be closed for that length of time. That's understandable given the severity of the crisis in Spain, Italy and yes France. I’d hoped there might eventually be freer circulation in North Western Europe. Both from a personal and professional perspective, the idea of not being able to move beyond the French frontier for most of the year fills me with some dread.

After the call I pray. I phone my mother, in need of her stoicism. My mood nevertheless goes on a downward spiral. I feel more cut off geographically and psychologically as weeks go by. Cleaning my guest bathroom has become an act of faith. I don’t know if and when I’ll next have someone round to stay before I have to move on from Strasbourg. Whenever that might be.

The prolonged locked down is having contradictory effects on my psyche. On one hand, I feel the isolation more acutely and recognise my need for human contact in whatever form. And yet I find myself reluctant to speak on the phone.

When I do bump into people from my Strasbourg network, I feel caught off guard. One sunny Saturday afternoon, stepping out for my daily ramble before night fall, I run into a neighbour and then a member of my choir within the space of a short jaunt. It triggers a neurotic crisis over my French. I’m gabbling. I’m dressed in any old thing. I'm feeling less confident without make-up. Or rather, more exposed. I refuse to be a slave to cosmetics during lockdown. It seems pointless to apply make-up when my only trips are to the shops or a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ve all but abandoned it. However, judging from my (over)reaction on that particular occasion, I’m not as liberated as I thought.

(courtesy of Le Monde)

Out in the wider world, some are putting their faith in #11Mai. The population is growing restive, particularly in neighbourhoods where the majority don't have the luxury of working from home and/or live in cramped conditions. There are pockets of civil unrest, following an incident in which a policeman allegedly caused a motorcyclist to collide with his patrol car on purpose. Meanwhile, others scrutinise France’s own mismanagement of the crisis; namely the lack of responsiveness since at least the early January pandemic warnings. During his Easter Monday speech Macron positions himself with the public; somewhat indignant about the shortage of PPE. As if the country’s lack of preparedness for the crisis was a policy decision with which he had nothing to do with.

There are nonetheless those who are relieved to have a focal point on their calendar for deconfinement. On entering a newsagents, having gone through the meticulous social distancing requirements, I overhear presenters on a radio show prematurely celebrating an ‘end in sight’.  Guests interviewed on talk shows from their homes are already being asked what their post-11 May plans are.

They’re not the only ones counting their chickens. I note a number of non-essential businesses have re-opened. In France, wine shops and cheese makers might be considered 'essential'; a part of the national heritage. It's however more difficult to justify when such products can be acquired at the supermarket. I spot a (masked) optician, welcoming an (also masked) client into their empty and darkened premises. I note a café I used to visit on occasion has converted itself, rather dubiously, to get around current restrictions. Whether Turkish pastries count as indispensable at this time would be harder to defend, if some French patisseries weren't also circumventing the lockdown.  Other arguably essential services that opted to close up early on in the lockdown are cautiously opening their doors again, albeit for fewer hours.

(courtesy of HansLucas.com)

Whilst my French church are prudent in announcing a possible return to services offline in the summer, the main protestant church in my vicinity organises unofficial nightly services. I come across one such during an early evening walk. I plan to spend some time of quiet contemplation, alone in the pews. Should the urge to sing overtake me, as it has before, the acoustics are fantastic. To my slight dismay I see a handful of parishioners scattered around the premises. The vicar is in full regalia. I hover, wondering whether to enter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I slip into the back; half-expecting the authorities to shut down proceedings at any moment. A song is raised in Latin. Four-part acappella harmonies ricochet off the walls. In that blissful moment, my apprehension is suspended. I ask myself if this has been rehearsed. It’s rare in any setting to find that kind of spontaneous but accomplished musicality.

After grace, my quick exit is interrupted when the pastor gingerly heads towards the door. I can't resist asking him why he’s holding a service, considering the current prohibition.

After ironically making a great show of keeping a safe distance, he explains how he’s getting around the restrictions by way of a technicality.

Places of worship can still remain open, he reasons. There are of course people like yourself who might wander in. It’s an informal moment of prayer...

As much as I've benefited from this illicit gathering,  I won't take the risk of attending any more.

I hear some are growing weary of cyber-activity. I am not one of them. As I discover speaking to a few of my UK church family, some of us are welcoming the break from the usual, often hectic, Sunday routine.

Between the tears and mild panic attacks, there are plenty of informative webinars and online fellowship to keep my mind and soul occupied. I don’t mess with the daily devotionals, online prayer meetings or weekly socialist campaign updates. These are lifelines without which, I am convinced, soundness of mind would have gone out the window.

Soundtrack: Alewa by Santrofi, It Is What It Is by Thundercat.

And The Beat Goes On...and On

Cast members from Nous Pour Un Moment
(c) Elisabeth Carecchio

I've noticed a culture deficiency in my life. More like an ache. There are several appealing films released of late which I haven't found the time to see. It’s also a good while since I’ve been to the theatre. One of the few advantages to being in-between-jobs is that it affords me a substantial discounts.

If I don’t make the time I won’t find it. I set a couple of moments aside one week to scratch that itch. I see the superlative coming-of-age comedy-drama Un Vrai Bonhomme, just before the end of its run. A few days later, I attend the final performance of Nous Pour Un Moment (Us For A Moment); an adaptation of a piece by Norwegian playwright Arne Lygre at the Theatre National de Strasbourg. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I catch the eye of a former colleague. We were never close. I wasn't wholly convinced of goodwill on her part. Nevertheless, she also had her fair share of THRO work-related problems; so much so, she was still on extended sick leave by the time I’d left. The last I heard she’d taken early retirement.

The moment is a tad awkward. We greet each other. I smile; surprised but genuine. Neither of us are predisposed to make conversation however, even when I end up seated behind her and her other half.  

Nous Pour Un Moment is high concept. The set piece is comprised of plain walls that slide up, down and sideways. The floor is replaced by a pool of water. Protagonists are anonymised and interchangeable, characterised by their relationship to one another; a friend, an enemy, a stranger. Female actors take on male roles. A supposedly incidental character becomes the protagonist of the next scene.

It’s a visceral and engaging production. Lygre strikes a good balance between experimental and relatable. There’s plenty of (implied) sex and death. As in all good theatre and in life; the greatest narrative of all.

I’m a little lost at the start but soon catch up.  As with my cinematic excursion earlier that week, I’m relieved to discover I am able to follow the majority of the dialogue; enough to become immersed. If my linguistic progress is slower than I’d like, these moments at least give me some hope.

Too bad that at times, I’m still too easily discouraged. In the middle of a long overdue meet-up with Jeanne the following week, I dissolve into tears of frustration over La Langue de Molière. Underneath is another minor-existential crisis. I’ll be staring down my 40s in the not-too-distant future and I hate being in limbo. Despite her calmness, my state distresses Jeanne. We’re in Oh My Goodness! Café. Customers stare, then avert their gaze. She tries to encourage me.

But you make yourself understood…

That’s not good enough. I want more reassurance. Ironically, my language skills that night seem to be holding up pretty well. I crave the affirmation.

That evening Jeanne and I will see each other again at church. It’s the first day of a week of fasting and prayers. I need the spiritual nourishment but, rather selfishly, I’m not in a sociable mood. I try to keep to myself all evening. It’s not easy when we’re expected to pray in small groups. I’m evasive where possible and stay quiet otherwise. Praying in French sets off my linguistic neuroses. Prayer should be instinctive and intimate; hard to achieve if deciding whether my turn of phrase necessitates the subjunctive. For better or worse, I speak from the heart best via the medium of another colonial language.

My plans to skulk off into a corner are scuppered early on. My two prayer partners try unsuccessfully to draw me in. I respond in monosyllables; as polite as I can muster. I still participate but quietly, muttering fervent Anglophone prayers.

I feel a hand rest gently on my forearm. It’s Jeanne. Eyes closed, her prayers heartfelt. My tears fall freely again.

That week I’ll prioritise the prayer meetings. I’ll forego the last session of a workshop on Christian ethics I've attended at Temple Neuf. I’m conflicted at first but in the end, I have no regrets. The nightly meetings reflect the beauty of the Community of Faith. The sharing. The solidarity. The edification. The surrender of self to each other and ultimately, a Greater Power.

The last evening is reserved for testimonies. People recount stories of how God has healed bodies and family relations; helped them to forgive grave offences and of salvation both spiritual and physical. Each succinct account is followed by an accompanying prayer point, for those in the room- and beyond - who need similar Divine Intervention.

I leave discreetly as I have done all week. This time, earlier still. I have choir rehearsal. We’ve been asked to do a last minute performance that weekend. Our director is out of town and we’re left to our own devices. Practice was cancelled the previous week owing to low turn-out. Exhausted by Brexit-related stress at the time, I was glad for the break. However, there's been a long enough gap for me to miss it.

I’ve taken the initiative of preparing a simple song for us to learn. I put my own modest four-part spin on James Cleveland’s standard May The Lord God Bless You Real Good. I give the melodies to the contralti for a change and make the sopranos work a little bit harder. With much difficulty, I attempt a bass harmony.

I come to rehearsal well prepared. After a couple of irritable sessions fiddling with Audacity software, I’ve recorded all the harmonies for future reference. The lyrics are printed with an accompanying French translation.

The modest turnout is still better than expected. I have exactly the right number of lyric sheets. There are even a couple of male voices in the mix; not a foregone conclusion at any given practice.

A moment arrives when star soprano and stand-in director Nicole calls on volunteers. I put myself forward.

Pleasantly surprised, my fellow choristers are supportive and respond with enthusiasm. It’s a task getting everyone to put the bluesy inflection in the right place but they get the gist. They can always refer to my (slightly off-tempo) recordings.

It’s a fun-packed, laughter-filled session. I (almost) always enjoy the ambiance of the choir. Yet, because of my linguistic insecurity, I haven’t always felt at ease in my own skin. I'm finally starting to relax. I am on a high that evening. It’s not only because of the other choristers’ gamely attitude and encouragement, as grateful as I am. I am also pleased that, at last, they get to see a more playful and spontaneous aspect of my personality; less inhibited and self-aware. Less vain.

Soundtrack: Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.

...Don’t Stop, like the Hands of Time…

After an encouraging start to 2020, I wake up to foggy, overcast and frost-bitten New Year’s Day morning. I have a longer than customary Grasse Matinée having only gone to bed around 5am. Once dropped home by Katie earlier that morning, I shower, eat and exchange New Year salutations and prayers with mum on the phone. The hours vanish before I realise.

The sombre view from my bedroom window isn’t encouraging. I will myself out of bed, make some brunch and watch a mediocre instalment of Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year on Youtube. The word trivia couldn’t be more apt. The winning team triumph thanks to one member’s prodigious knowledge of the banal. I am somewhat grateful to be out of the loop. 

 To break the monotony of the day I venture out into the cold weather to treat myself to ice cream, cookies and half a muffin at the B Chef Café in town. I’ve decided to take a break from my continuous state of dieting over the festive period. It seems to have confused my metabolism to the point it has been even slower than usual. I can resume the good intentions later in January.

The B Chef has become one of my haunts of late. The wi-fi is more reliable than at Oh My Goodness! for a start. I also have a soft spot for the camp, relentlessly hard-working manager, Dénis. He holds down multiple jobs, including as bar manager in another establishment across town. He doesn’t even rest on Christmas day.

I’m all prepared with my New Year’s greeting but he’s not about. Maybe he’s taking a cat nap somewhere, as I hope. His no-nonsense mother is at the helm, instead.

An elderly gent won’t let me read or snack in peace, wishing me bon appetit at regular intervals and interrogating me about what I’m reading. His younger friend looks a tad embarrassed. At least it’s good language practice. When they leave, Dénis’ mum tells me to pay the codger no mind. He’s always like that.

Back home I catch up with writing buddy Pete on the phone. I become excessively irritated by his seemingly blasé approach to the NYE Watch Night tradition. Typical white privilege, I think. Takes everything for granted. I recognise I’m being over-bearing and legalistic. I apologise for getting wound-up. I wish I could say it doesn’t still mildly irritate me in the days to come. That’s something I definitely need to work on in this life season.

Later that evening, I settle down to a New Year’s day meal by candlelight watching the excellent biopic The Two Popes.

I stubbornly hold onto the 12 days of Christmas tradition, correcting anyone referring to it in past tense before 6 January. Others don’t show the same commitment. I notice that the Christmas music channel disappears from one of my preferred online radio stations as soon as the New Year hits. The decorations in the Rivetoile shopping centre don’t even make it to Epiphany. Although it would have been easier to dismantle mine during my weekly spring clean, I dutifully hold off until 6 January.

Within the first few days of the month, there are two choir-related socials to distract me from the winter blues. Our usual Friday night rehearsal is swapped for a meal organised by Pastor Richard, the choir’s founder. An email invitation is circulated but with no time specified. It takes place at a church close to where I live and yet, given the nature of the area, it’s still awkward to get to.

I arrive just as everyone is about to settle down to hors d’oeuvres. I sheepishly deposit the snacks I’ve brought. A surprising number of choristers past and present, as well as friends and family, are in attendance. Everyone loves free food, I suppose. Whilst helping ourselves to fingers foods and crisps, I accidentally bump into Pastor Richard. He makes a joke about my rear that it takes a few moments to register. It’s overheard by other guests.

That’s not kind. I reply, only half-joking. 

It’s delicate. Custom dictates that as my elder from a similar background, I show him respect. I get on well with his older daughter too. Although only loosely acquainted, she's a friendly soul whom I wouldn’t want to offend. There’s also the fact I’m not as quick off the mark in French as I’d be in English.

He responds along the lines of You should be proud of your ‘heritage’

But it bothers me.

I’m referring to his comment, not my anatomy (although the size of my behind does bother me).

Pastor Richard takes it to mean the latter.

Oh no, I like it! He exclaims.

Later, I’ll discuss my discomfort with fellow choristers.

The evening goes well enough. Some rice (from which I abstain) and meat stew is served up with a delicious vegetarian option. The conversation is cordial enough although I find myself struggling to overcome my ‘evening brain’. The words don’t flow as eloquently as I’d like.

Towards the end of the night, as dessert is served, Pastor Richard comes over to our table. He makes a beeline for me, commencing a conversation about my cultural background. It branches into discussions about West African language families and (according to him) a linguistic link between Yoruba and Hebrew, which I dispute. It segues into pre-historic African migration and genetic links with other ethnicities. I rather naively indulge the discussion, thinking it’s good language practice and hoping my misgivings are unfounded.

Pastor Richard’s wife signals to him, exasperated. We’re supposed to be wrapping up and heading home. I’m not sure if it’s our conversation that irks her, the late hour or both.

A couple of days later the choir meet again for a team building day. I join for the afternoon session, skipping out on the morning treasure hunt to go to church. On the way to our usual meeting place, I notice the carcass of a burnt out van.

Indoors, fellow chorister and choir administrator, Elisabeth shows us montages of the arson and vandalism that took place across Strasbourg on New Year's Eve. That would explain the incinerated van. It's a seasonal tradition. We watch, horrified and incredulous. 

At some point Elisabeth whispers,

I see the pastor has taken a shine to you.

Elisabeth admits she didn’t notice at first until others pointed it out. Other members in the vicinity nod their agreement. My fears confirmed, I feel profound embarrassment. As women so often do in these circumstances, I absorb the shame that should be that of the offending party.

I sensed he might be giving me undue attention, even in group settings. Yet I dismissed it, thinking-wishing-he just wanted to show off his English.

What an appalling example, I think. A supposedly married 'man of God' behaving in such an inappropriate way.

I tell my sisters-in-song of the cultural imperative to be respectful. I’ve tried to defuse the situation by calling Richard ‘uncle’ (which he doesn’t seem to like). Feisty soprano Leila tells me the direct approach is the only way to go.

Someone like that would appreciate it, she adds. Sensing my chagrin and taking pity, the girls vow to form a shield of protection around me to avoid future awkward encounters. Like bodyguards. I suggest it’s better I avoid any activities where Richard is likely to be involved. Elisabeth doesn't believe that's necessary. Just say hello and keep it moving, they advise. I’m grateful for their concern but quietly maintain avoidance is the best strategy. Mum agrees with me, when I share the dilemma with her over the phone that evening.

The rest of the afternoon doesn’t go much better. Choir director Kiasi divides us into teams to play a game that I eventually recognise as Dodge Ball. I work out the rules too late to sidestep being the first one out in the initial round. I turn down the chance to redeem my place and sit the rest of the game out. I feel less self-conscious as others are caught out. I manage to enjoy what turns out to be quite a thrilling round which our team wins, thanks to Leila the Legend. I mentally apply myself to doing better in round two, only to be summarily struck out within seconds.

If there were the sporting equivalent of tone-deaf then that would apply to me. This trivial incident triggers a deluge of humiliating sport-related childhood and adolescent memories.  One choir member, a notorious stirrer, offers me the ball to touch,

Just so you know what it’s like.

I roll my eyes and feel like telling her to stick it up the proverbial. Even if I weren’t so sensitive, it’s not as if we have that sort of rapport.

After another refreshment break and just before home time, some board games are suggested. We settle on Times Up. Hesitant to get involved straight away, I am eventually talked around. The rules sound convoluted but it’s a word game and, once again, I figure it’s good French practice.

Elisabeth offers to help me when it comes to my turn... In case there are problems with the language.

Surely, it’s not that bad, I retort. I know that her gesture is made in good faith but it feels like one more humiliation.

In the end, although not brilliant, I don’t do terribly. I’m better at guessing (give or take the odd grammatical error). When it’s my turn to give clues, I go blank sometimes under the pressure, berating myself later for using one word instead of another. The boyfriend of Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine mocks me when I read out the wrong clue.

I try and convince myself I’ve had a good time. Days later, when I’m still smarting from the whole incident, I concede that it was one HRGS activity I wish I’d sat out. Judging from some of the reactions of other choir members, I’m not the only one to find the whole experience underwhelming.

Maybe the combination of the failed team-building day and general January melancholy sparks off a bout of neurosis. I put a lot of the frustrations of the other day down to me still not being at ease speaking French. It bothers me that members of the choir think I’m shy. On a couple of occasions, one of the basses compliments me on being discreet but present. Each time I protest that it’s not always the case. I just come across as reserved in a French context.

True, in the scheme of things, such as the threat of yet another war in the Middle East, my hang ups are nothing at all.

Plus, when I have my post-structuralist social science hat on, I remind myself that identity is not necessarily fixed. That it’s constructed and negotiated in interaction with others. Still, it irritates and saddens me that so much of my personality is suppressed when I’m speaking French. On one hand, I know that I shouldn't care about a comment made by an obnoxious kid almost half my age; probably monolingual to boot. Yet I hate that my intelligence is called into question. I’m often not able to articulate my thoughts (which run a thousand paces ahead in any language) as smoothly or precisely.

The day after the team-building event, sis and I send each other comforting voice notes as she also tries to shake off New Year melancholia.

That evening, on the way home from a study session at B Café, a chance encounter gives me reason to hope. I’ve dilly-dallied and left the café later than I’d planned.

I accidentally press the wrong button on my MP3 player. It takes me back to the start of the mixtape I’m in the middle of. Whilst fiddling with the device to return to where I was, I overhear a conversation in American English. It sounds faith-related.

A young man is telling his interlocutors about a time that, for years, he sought clarity from God on a particular situation. I lean in as discreetly (!) as possible to make sure it’s not my imagination.

Feeling bolder to interrupt in English than I would in French, I ask if he's a Christian.

He answers in the affirmative. I apologise for the imposition, adding that the snippet of conversation I’ve heard has already been a source of encouragement. Thus sparks a brief but meaningful discussion with Jonah from Tennessee about how he came to be a missionary in Germany. His acquaintances fall silent, eventually standing aside. They look slightly put out. I can’t blame them.

After five years in Munich, Jonah still struggles with German. I share some of my own linguistic frustrations. It’s funny, I remark, how you can apparently be in the will of God and things still feel like an uphill struggle.

We part ways with a reassuring word.

This passing moment of spiritual solidarity is just what is needed to re-align my perspective.

Soundtrack: My Best of...2019 mixes.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The weekend following the HRGS recording session will also be musically-inclined. But first, I attend the long-awaited opening of the Afro-blend themed bar of Strasbourg BFF, Gael. Following months of uncertainty and construction hitches, Jabiru is open for business. The official launch party is scheduled in the new year. For now, it’s an informal gathering of choice acquaintances alongside passing clientele.

I’m one of the first to arrive.

 A partition made from traditional wax cloth opens into bright surroundings. Drink crates covered with more ornate wax cloth have been converted into seats. The walls are decorated with Asante Adinkra symbols alongside their French, English and German translations.

I comment on Gael’s weight loss. He’s gym-honed bod has diminished to simple leanness. I blame the pre-opening stress.

I fear I might be over-dressed for the occasion. A couple of male punters give me the eye, including an older gentleman whom I at first believe is Gael’s dad. Both refute it.

But I’m not black, says the older man. I point out that Gael is of mixed-heritage.

This does not dissuade the elderly lothario. I’m polite but try as much as possible to focus on the novel I'm reading, the Afro-blend snacks I ordered or speaking to Gael’s mature, pre-adolescent niece.

Aperitifs are scheduled for half-7 but I won’t hang around. I have choir practice that evening. I make an early exit feeling too conspicuous sitting on my own. There’s only so much Gael can entertain me in between taking orders. I settle the bill and promise I’ll be back very soon.

I’m a woman of my word. The next day I introduce Afropean acquaintance, Zainab to Jabiru. We met several months previously in one of those random, pleasant moments of happen-stance.

Zainab is impressed by the café's chic interior design and ambiance. I order a couple of helpings of a hard, caramelised snack that I've fallen in love with. She's less enthused.

I have plans for an early night ahead of a busy Sunday. Zainab nonetheless insists I join her for an evening of carols organised by a French Caribbean association. I’ve run out of excuses. It’s only a hop and a skip away.

We arrive at St Madeleine church tucked away in a secluded corner of the city. The main hall is buzzing with activity. Zainab introduces me to her acquaintances. 'She is anglophone' or 'she speaks English'. Between this needless (I hope) additional info and her regular correction of my French, I have the impression she's unconsciously embarrassed for-or by- me. We'll have to speak about it but not now.

The atmosphere is convivial.  It will be one of the most informal carol services I’ve attended. Snacks and vol-au-vents are circulated. Hymn books are distributed for those who wish to join in. A motley crew of singers gather on the makeshift stage. I spot one of the recent recruits to HRGS amongst them. We exchange les bises.

You’re a busy bee!

Most of those in attendance talk over the singing. I speak to a couple of Zainab's friends about the purported (not-always-so) friendly rivalry between their respective islands; Guadeloupe and Martinique. They assure me that it's mostly jest and deep down there's much solidarity, especially amongst the first wave of migrants to France.  I make a gamely effort to keep up with the singing, unfamiliar as I am with the vast majority of the selections. I’m nevertheless heartened by the unadulterated references to the Christian themes of the season. It’s a refreshing break from all the Black Friday, pre-festive commercialism. Advent is barely under way and it’s already feeling like my most authentic Christmas experience in Strasbourg. 

Wolfisheim Christmas market

There’s more French Yuletide cheer at church the following morning. A specially-invited troupe take over proceedings for their own interactive spin on the Nativity. It’s a bit chaotic as these ‘family services’ tend to be. On the other hand, my French church isn't given to much festive themed music. It's a welcome change.  I wasn’t well-acquainted with the francophone version of O Come All Ye Faithful, for instance. For the second time that weekend I find myself singing the French equivalent of one of my holiday favourites, Angels We Have Heard on High.

My first weekend of advent concludes with a HRGS gig at a modest Christmas market in Wolfisheim; a village in the Alsatian environs. It’s brass-monkey cold and we’re expected to perform outside. The venue resembles a cross between a fortress and a barn, transformed into an enchanted castle by the Christmas illumination. The performance is dodgy. We sounded better in rehearsals. Co-director Evan pitches us too high a couple of times, throwing off some of the choristers. As usual we have too few male singers present and performing outside brings with it challenges. Yet as is normally the case with HRGS, we enjoy ourselves all the same. More beautiful memories are made drinking our complimentary hot drinks and munching crepes under giant fairy lights.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

No Time to Play...Well, Maybe a Little

Downtown studios, Strasbourg.

Strasbourg-aka the Capital of Christmas-is in full festive swing from late November. The landscape is barely clear, if at all, of its majestic autumnal display.  Yet winter has made a head start with the biting temperatures. Across the city, various fixtures, lamp-posts and trees light up with some of the prettiest Christmas décor you’re likely to see.

I’m continuing my in-between job schedule of studying, searching for work and appointments with municipal employment agencies. Somehow I also find time for church activities, writing workshops, meet-ups with chums, telephone conferences on UK GE campaign strategy and, of course, choral events. After a tame start to the Rentrée on the performance front, the High Rock Gospel Singers’ diary has suddenly become quite active.

On the last Sunday of the month, the choir directors book an all-day session at a studio in an obscure location not too far from the central station. I’m still a relative recording novice. It’s been a decade or two since I was last in the booth. We gather in front of the cave-like establishment on a chilly weekend morning. I've hitched a lift with a kindly alto.  The choristers turn up in full force except, as usual, for the men. The idea is for this recording session to be a test run for the album. Instead of trying to knock out a track during an intense afternoon session, the administrative team thought it would be more productive if we take our time over the course of a day. It turns out to be a fruitful gamble.

To our astonishment, the studio is far more modern and inviting than its less than prepossessing exterior. (It's to discourage thieves, according to the proprietor) The spacious brick and wood-panelled surroundings would be an ideal setting for a making-of documentary. I expect the establishment to be presided over by a young-ish fellow of African-descent. Instead we’re greeted by an ageing Frenchman, not nearly as curmudgeonly as first impressions suggest.

The day begins with some relaxed warm-ups. We then proceed to record a Gospel medley – chosen for its relative ease and familiarity. I also happen to sing the opening solo. We begin by attempting to record the bulk of the track separately according to harmonies; sopranos and altos together, then tenors and the solitary bass on his own. We discover by chance however, that the sound is richer and more cohesive when the first three registers record in the same room. This aspect of the recording is far less painful than anticipated.

It’s time for lunch. I abstain from the specially-ordered sandwiches, hoarding mine for later. A baguette won’t go down well with my vocals.

It takes a while for me to unwind during my solo. Although I have a booth all to myself, I am overly-aware of the other choristers listening in the main mixing room. The directors sense tension in my voice. They give me some pointers to help me relax ‘Take all the time you need...try and be a vehicle for the lyrics...think of Whitney...’

Chief soprano and occasional choir director Nicole, gives me a measured but supportive pep talk. By the time other members start adding their two pence however, I’m overwhelmed and a tad peeved. I remain polite; maybe more so because it would be hard to get the nuance of my feelings across in French without sounding curt.

I mention my self-consciousness around the rest of the choir. The directors ask them to clear the room. I further suggest it would help me to relax if I sang whilst lying down. The engineer graciously adjusts the microphone and equipment. He adds some reverb to set the mood. After a few takes, just as I begin to get the hang of it, I’m summonsed to the mixing room. The choristers are called back in. The directors are happy with some of my rough drafts. Very rough to my mind. Left to my own devices I would do a couple more takes.

The rest of the choir are effusive with praise. My British-influenced unease with compliments rubs up against my vanity.

There’s more trial and error recording the medley intro. We experiment with various configurations. Finally, each register is whittled down to a handful of vocalists to ensure a better blend. It’s the first time in the day a hint of demoralisation sets in. Choir director, Kiasi is a little cranky. The team decide to cut their losses with the best take of the bunch.

It's been a long day. Just after 5pm, most of the choir are released into the late autumn evening. A few of us stay behind for the finishing flourishes. Kiasi and Evan record some killer ad-libs in a handful of takes; like a couple of seasoned pros. My improv goes down well. So well that Kiasi sings it back to me in a voicemail later that evening.

But it’s the same-ol, same-ol ad-lib I always do!

Before leaving we listen back to the days efforts, as we have been doing periodically. Nicole and the boys pick up on a quarter-tone’s difference between the intro and the main medley. It’s difficult to know how we missed it. We routinely checked for pitch.

A few weary expletives fly around. The engineer reassures us it can be adjusted in the final mix. We manage to wrap everything up by early evening. Despite some of the tuning issues, we’ve had a blast.

Soundtrack: Sempre by Marcos Valle, The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker

The worst of times…

A few weeks after La Rentrée my choir, the High Rock Gospel Singers, has its first performance of the term. Under the circumstances however, it’s an invitation we’d rather have not received.

A little boy has perished in a fire early September. We have been asked to sing at his memorial service in an isolated corner of Strasbourg, around the Hoenheim vicinity. 

On the night, there’s a mix-up with venues. The family decide to relocate the ceremony at the last minute. I find out by chance from some helpful parishioners, gathered at the old address in another isolated corner of Robertsau. I call Soprano and HRGS administrator Elisabeth. She sends her husband, Gilles round to pick me up when she realises her mistake.

En route, I try to find out more about the victim. I learn he was only 11.

What’s 11? Gilles ruminates You’ve barely started life.

We arrive in Hoenheim. Most of the choir are already on site. They’ve made a good showing (except for the males, of course). I’m feeling a little sheepish about my tardiness, even though I’m not at fault.  Elisabeth gives me an update. The choir has just been informed that the service is to take the form of an all-night vigil. We were expected on stage at 11pm. This is not feasible. Getting home at that time of night by public transport will be tough. Some members have work in the morning. A compromise of 9pm-ish has been reached. 

The sterile white interior of the venue is in contrast to its inviting peach-coloured exterior. The hall is virtually empty. So be it say Elisabeth and choir director, Kiasi. If we’re singing to a handful of people, we’re singing to a handful of people.

9pm comes and goes. Whilst waiting, I catch up with star soprano Nicole and ask after her baby. Kiasi takes me aside to give me hug and tell me I’ll be missed. I’m touched. He’s responding in person to the email I sent to the admin team, notifying them that my days in Strasbourg are numbered. I thought it went unanswered. 

Kiasi speaks at his normal machine-gun speed in English and French. Something about a missing or stolen bike. I think.  In any case, he’s been distracted- hence the radio silence. He asks about my future plans. I tell him of my reluctance to return to the UK straightaway. He suggests we meet up sometime before I go. I’m unbelievably chuffed, although a part of me suspects it might never happen.

A few more guests trickle in. Some well-mannered lads give all the ladies a bise on entering. I suspect this courtesy isn't totally motivated by politeness. We're an attractive choir. I oblige anyway.

A woman arrives in a wheelchair, silently weeping. An extended family member or neighbour, I assume.

It’s a fairly diverse crowd; the majority being Francophone African. Fellow soprano, Claire attempts to accurately guess the ethnicity of most of those in attendance. Ivorian she ventures. How do you know? I ask.

I’ve dated a few…Wait. Look at her, the one bleaching. Definitely Congolese!...

Shooting the breeze some more, I casually ask her to remind me of what she does for a living. I regret it. It becomes a pity-party about all the things she’s yet to achieve. Her career has stalled. She’s already writing herself off as an old maid at just 30. 

What's the point of starting a family at 40? she opines, looking sullen. 

Hold on. I’m 38.

Alas, this doesn’t stem the tide of insensitive comments. I'm not bloody well in the mood to be comforting a woman nearly a decade younger than me who she believes she's over the hill. Sitting to our left is Michelle-in her 50s, never married nor with any children. She listens patiently, not interjecting. I wonder what she makes of the discussion. I feel apologetic.

Claire wishes she started a family at 20. I reply that my mum had me at 19. It wasn’t a walk in the park by any stretch.

But at least by the time she was 40, you were grown.

It’s not as simple as that, I counter. Besides, I add, it’s different for our generation (well, mine kind of overlaps with hers). We have different economic challenges to the previous. It’s not as stable for us. People are having children later anyway. Look at Janet Jackson (admittedly, not ideal to have your first child at 50). There’s no point marrying for the sake of it…

Claire agrees begrudgingly but won’t be consoled. The conversation leaves me in a funk that weekend.

At around half-9, Kiasi speaks to one of the organisers. We perform our stirring rendition of Kum Bah Yah. We sit back down. From our seats we sing another one of my favourites from the repertoire; Hosanna, with a solo by Nicole I’ve never heard before. For the next hour or so, we’ll perform in this ad hoc fashion; intermittently preparing to leave with coats in hand, only to be asked to minister again. 

In between performances sweet, oil-saturated dumplings are passed around; akin to the Nigerian Poff-Poff to which I’m accustomed. I’m not a fan of doughnuts nor their international variations. I limit my intake to one and only because of genuine hunger.

Half-past ten. We’re hovering near the door ready to leave. We’re asked to wait around for some eulogies and prayers.  The first is theologically correct but rather clinical in the face of such suffering. Sometimes words fail where ordinary empathy would be best. Even Jesus wept. Rather than preach to the bereaved, weep with those who weep.

Be strong, my sister. The speaker addresses the woman in the wheelchair. 

I notice the framed picture of the victim. It breaks my heart all the more to see he was of African descent. Tragedy is tragedy. I have previously criticised ethnocentric approaches to collective mourning. And yet, I feel this loss more personally. My sentiments are encapsulated in the next address by Pastor Richard; one of the founders of HRGS. It is more lament than eulogy. His gravelly bass bellows about the loss to the community, the country of France (La Marianne!), as well as the African continent which, he reminds us, has already suffered so much.

He beseeches us not to give into the forces of hate; not to respond in kind to the rise of Right-wing extremism. The more he speaks, the more my stomach turns. The inference terrifies me. This story is tragic enough.

It’s finally time to go home. A kindly stranger is heading in my direction. She offers me a lift. Whilst she pops to the lavatory, I make conversation with the only other passenger.

Are you a friend of the family?

You could say that. I’m the ex-wife of the boy’s father.

I briefly assess this unassuming brunette. Uncharitably, I wonder if it was an immigration-related marriage of convenience.  

During the long-ish drive home, I seek more details from the ex, Sandrine. There’s so much of the story that doesn’t make sense. 

My dreaded suspicions are confirmed.  Arson.  The suspect was caught on CCTV, Sandrine explains. He’s well known in the neighbourhood for his affiliation with the Far Right. The driver, Laure, objects. Just because the victim happened to be brown, she quibbles, it doesn’t mean it’s a racist attack. She draws a dubious parallel with false accusations of Antisemitism. Sandrine insists to the contrary. The suspect's supremacist views were an open secret. Neither is it the first time that building has been subject to arson attempts. The cameras were installed for that purpose.

I ask if the child was left unattended and if not, how the rest of the family managed to escape.

Sandrine expounds. The boy's father, her ex-husband, was working an evening shift. His older son was away at university. The little boy slept on a fold-out bed in the lounge. The other children and their mother were asleep in adjacent rooms. The fire was started directly under where the child slept. The room was swiftly consumed due to the wooden flooring. By the time the rest of the family realised what was happening, there was only time to leap out of their first floor window to safety. His mother sustained severe injuries as a result of the jump.

Sorrow upon sorrow.

The fire occurred only days after the boy had celebrated his birthday, Sandrine adds. The same as Michael Jackson, I note, unsure if it's inappropriate. Sandrine confirms, apparently pleased I'm aware of this bit of trivia. Her own birthday happens to fall on the same date.

The boy had made a point of having a big party, to the initial disgruntlement of his parents. As a sickle cell sufferer, each birthday was a triumph to be commemorated. His mother and father worked hard to give him what he wanted. Sandrine was invited round. Her ex-husband’s new wife had bought her a cake especially. Normally, it would be Sandrine who’d extend an invitation to the family. On this occasion however, she was too preoccupied with moving house.  

I comment on the peculiarity of these relations.  It’s not typical for an ex to be on such good terms with her former husband and his new family; particularly when they had no children together.

Nothing about this story is of the every-day variety. It only compounds my immigration theory. I reason the family must be grateful to Sandrine for the part she played in helping the patriarch remain in France.

I’m finally deposited in front of my flat but not before the two women ask what I’m doing in Strasbourg. Sandrine mentions that she’s a French tutor. A few of her students also work for The Human Rights Organisation. Laure makes what’s supposedly a good-natured jibe about taking advantage of Sandrine’s services. It’s not the first time she’ll reference my wobbly French (even less reliable at that time of night, the height of fatigue).  From the little I hear, she speaks what sounds like fluid English.

In light of all that’s transpired that evening, I shouldn’t even notice Laure's slight. It stays with me nevertheless.

Indoors, I’m shaken by all that Sandrine has recounted. I pour my thoughts into a long, blow-by-blow voicemail to sis.

Summer Nights

Onwards and upwards.

Things are starting to wind down now summer is in full swing. The halls of The Organisation are becoming quieter as colleagues vanish on leave. Not yet the case for me. I’m still busy organising a few last minute activities before the summer lull truly kicks in. A rearrangement of personnel is making my life easier, I can’t lie. But that’s for another, later blog.

In early July my Strasbourg lifeline, The High Rock Gospel Singers, meet for the last time before La Rentrée in September. The effect of the summer hiatus is already felt amongst the already fickle membership. That Friday night, I arrive to find an empty rehearsal space. Not having a Whats App account, I'm usually one of the last to know if practice has been cancelled again. I send an enquiring text to one of the directors. On their way. Transport problems.

In the end, only four of us gather for unhealthy snacks and an impromptu singalong; me, fellow soprano Aurélie and choir directors Kiasi and Evan. At the behest of the latter, we end up singing makeshift tributes to some of our favourite 90s-00s pop/R&B and Gospel acts. Rihanna, Beyoncé/Destiny’s Child, Neyo (them), Justin Timberlake (me), Janet, Boyz II Men, Whitney, Brandy, Christina Aguilera (shared)… Well, it’s mostly three of us playing this variation of Karaoke whilst Aurélie searches songs on her phone with which she’s not familiar. Sometimes, our trio’s harmonies spontaneously blend in a most enchanting manner.

If there is any hint of discord, it’s more theological; by way of discussing a controversial, highly gifted former Gospel singer. Not for the first time I have the impression that Kiasi and Evan’s understanding of the Good News is highly customised. The lines blur between enjoying the benefits of God’s grace and simply cherry-picking palatable aspects of scripture whilst ignoring the tougher portions. Kiasi and I have had friendly disagreement over these matters before. Again, albeit rather more tentatively, I venture to give an alternative viewpoint. I’m hesitant to spoil the ambiance. I can’t quite square if it is cowardice or discernment but it doesn’t seem the right time or place to pick this battle. Tempted to fret whether I’ve made a good decision, I have to remind myself that it’s God’s job to convince, not mine. I scarcely have a hold on my own issues. I pray for my brothers and by Divine grace, try and work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

It won’t be the last time I cross paths with Kiasi before the long summer break.

Etoile Bourse, Bastille Day fireworks: courtesy of jds.fr

That weekend is Bastille Day - the French National Holiday. It falls on a Sunday. I forsake my usual evening of rest to catch the late night fireworks. I contemplate inviting some acquaintances but decide to go it alone. I quite like the idea of floating through the crowds unencumbered. Living in Alsace, it's become a statement of sorts for me to fly solo at these large scale events. It's a response to what I perceive as co-dependency amongst the Strasbourgeois. Even if they don't like their own company, it shouldn't mean I am averse to mine.

Although still in the Étoile Bourse vicinity, the event's layout is different compared to 2018. Large areas are sectioned off. The security is heavier and it's less obvious where the crowd should gather. Thankfully, I arrive early enough to be able to lose time searching for a sweet spot. I end up not far from where my journey on foot began.

Like last year, it's a worthy spectacle. I don't detect the sort of cost-cutting measures that have beset the London fireworks displays I used to frequent. The light dancing off the reflective surfaces of the Malraux Médiathèque are as stunning as the main show itself. I'm plugged into my music player and pick tunes on a whim. The combined effect of the audio and visual stimulation is quite a trippy experience. Amen to natural highs.

(c) Pascale Ronson

The following week I’m pleasantly surprised to see Kiasi on stage as the opening act and BV’s at a free open-air Gospel concert in Place Kleber. It’s a late starter for a school night but I’m grateful to have made the effort. I stumble across HRGS soprano, Michelle. Over the months we’ve fallen into a positive dynamic. She’s akin to my Caucasian godmother, at least in the choir’s contest. She’s compassionate, encouraging and makes me feel safe. We already have plans to reconnect that Friday night, now rehearsals are officially over for summer.

Amidst the crowd we spot choir members and affiliates, past and present, including Aurélie. She joins us later. The main act herself is HRGS alumna.

The DJ set is on fire if a little schizophonic. He doesn’t -or can’t -mix. No song is played for longer than a minute. He hops from Anderson .Paak back to early 20th Century Jazz standards and forward again to The Jackson 5, then to 90s neo-soul and R&B. It sounds more like his personal collection on shuffle. Fortunately for him, he has good taste. I make the most of the snippets to get my groove on. As usual, our little group are some of the few dancing souls amongst the typically rigid Alsatian audience. Michelle is catching some of the magic on her trusty digital camera.

Meanwhile Kiasi and co s'éclatent sur la scene. I notice Jeanne from church’s gifted housemate, Annalise on keys. Jeanne is somewhere in the mix but I won’t find this out until I’m already on the way home.

HRGS members in the crowd have the advantage of being familiar with much of the repertoire as well as the specific arrangements. The main act’s compositions are a bit too bluesy for my taste but it does not impede my enjoyment. I’m a woman of simple pleasures. A confluence of factors make this one of my most memorable nights out in Strasbourg. Good music, good weather, good company, good atmosphere, Good God.

The night bus calls and the gig isn’t ending any time very soon. I bid Michelle farewell and beg off.

Soundtrack: Money (single) by Michael Kiwanuka & Tom Misch, In My Element by Robert Glasper, The Blu James LP.