Ebb and Flow

My return to Strasbourg after my recent London trip has been the usual mix of ups and downs; both professionally and personally. I come back to the office to find a churlish email from one of my line managers.  The usually convivial 20-something hasn't addressed me like that before, although I have noticed subtle changes in her behaviour.

That same day I have a heart-to-heart with my main line manager, Sophie. There’s still no confirmation about whether our contracts will be renewed. She is optimistic nonetheless. There has been encouraging news, if yet to be made official. Over the coming days and weeks, she’ll tell me on a number of occasions that it’s a mere formality. We do agree however, that it's the height of unprofessionalism. This is The Human Rights Organisation after all. Charity begins at home. Obviously not.  It's as if the HR department is using the precarious financial situation as an excuse for shoddy admin.

The conversation segues into my genuine concerns about work. Psychologically, it’s been a battle of late to come into the office.

Sophie has already noted a change and wanted to approach me about it. This is an unexpected opportunity.

As is her wont, she gives both constructive critique about my performance and compassionate personal advice. I commend her managerial skills. If only it were always this way. I acknowledge my own errors whilst contextualising them in what I've found to be a non-conducive work environment. I outline some of the practical steps I’m taking to manage the situation, whilst remaining discreet about certain measures.  We bring the meeting to a close. She’s on half-day and I have some errands to run in town during the lunch hour.

Shortly afterwards, I see Sophie and senior manager, Lucia speaking intently in the corridor. I try to wave away any concern. It could just be coincidence. 

Coming back from my lunchtime errands, I bump into Sophie once more.

You’re still here?

I raise the spontaneous tête-à-tête with Lucia. My fleeting suspicions are confirmed, much to my consternation. Lucia was checking up on what was discussed.

This is exactly what I’m talking about! All this micro-management. I fume. Sophie tries to calm me down.

The following morning, I will myself out of bed. It’s Friday. It’s only my second day in the office that week and I’m already exhausted.  

Later that day, I’m reminded that sometimes God sends little lifelines when you desperately need them. 

I receive a call from the security team at the Magenta building. We have a good rapport but the ambiance at work recently has made me paranoid. I’m asked to pass by the security office when I have a moment. En route I bump into Yvonne, one of the lovely team members. She says I have nothing to worry about. She would know.

I am greeted by a wonderful surprise. A small but no less significant gesture of kindness from the team. It lifts my spirits beyond measure. I weep tears of gratitude, sending them an emotional email of thanks.  By chance I bump into another security team member that Saturday in town, after a disappointing cinematic excursion. I stop by an artisanal Turkish restaurant for some pide. One of the security guards, Laurence happens to be dining out with his youthful-looking mum. I attempt to bring her up to date on his thoughtful act but il m’a coiffée au Poteau.

...She's the one I was telling you about...

The following few weeks are suddenly busy. There are a number of significant meetings at work; some leaving me less reassured than others. 

My choir is performing as part of an event commemorating the end of slavery in France. There’s some free West Indian grub in it for us too. I’ve invited some Strasbourgeois acquaintances and a few colleagues, including the security team. I’m nervous about who will show up. Our performance will depend on an alchemy that can’t be guaranteed with a community choir.  It doesn’t help that several co-choristers are performing at a wedding that evening; including the director, Kiasi. I’m praying the others won’t disgrace me in front of my guests with a) a low turnout b) dodgy pitch. Thankfully, on the night the numbers are promising. Plus, star soprano and veteran member, Nicole is in the house. 

I am pleasantly surprised to see Yvonne in the audience with hubbie in tow. Seraphine from church also made the effort.

It’s not our best performance but neither is it terrible. Too bad that I fluff my solo. My singing comrades try to assuage my guilt/self-flagellation. I know I let the thought of guests in the audience get the better of me. I find it hard to sing in front of those I know. At least my new BFF, Gael has already left the building at that point. We catch-up briefly before I go on stage. It turns out one of his entourage used to sing with HRGS back in the day; a talented fellow at that, according to the veterans. Small world.

Gael and I will meet-up again the following weekend but not before another eventful seven days. 

The penultimate Thursday of May is officially the last day of mine and Sophie’s contract. A few minutes before 5pm, when we’ve given up on any updates that day and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to still access the building tomorrow, a confirmation from HR drops in our inboxes. 

Sophie manifests in the doorway.

Have you seen it?

I have. Just as I’d given up. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

I've received a stay of execution; at least until the end of my probation period. Hallelujah.

The following evening, I have an emotionally fraught and long overdue conversation with an old friend. It doesn’t end well. It was to be expected but I’m unnerved. Worse still, I find out late in the day that choir practice has been cancelled that night. Lord knows, I need the spiritual and emotional balm.

There’s no way I can stay indoors wallowing in my thoughts. I decide to attend the Friday night outreach with the street team. Fortunately, they have a session planned that evening. Better still, we’ll be joined again by the inspiring house church from Neudorf.

They’d make quite a fascinating subject for a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Each time I'm there, I  meet a new visitor from a different corner of the globe. This week it’s the turn of Kamir; a native of Afghanistan.  He converted from nominal Islam after fleeing to Luxembourg and meeting some life-filled Christians. He grew up in a multi-lingual environment, taught himself English back in Kabul and started learning German from scratch in his adopted home. He’s lived there just over a year. His agnostic girlfriend isn’t comfortable joining us so stays back at the house with a poorly church member. Kamir wants to join us for outreach to the Girls. Since he has no French, I and a few others help translate for him. Once we separate into our respective groups however, I’m the only other English-speaker.

I spend most of the night keeping Kamir company. There are five of us instead of the usual three (including a recently married young couple. The husband found God in prison). Group leader Sabrina doesn’t want us to overwhelm the Girls. Thus, Kamir and I stand at a distance for much of the evening.

In an effort to bond, Kamir begins talking about Africans and Nelson Mandela. I have less patience for these cultural missteps nowadays; especially living in France. On reflection, I could be more patient.

In one evening, Kamir goes from having a rather perplexed- at times sanctimonious- attitude towards the women, to one of understanding. On the other hand, it's a battle to have sympathy for the clients. I can wholly relate to that. I’m not saintly in that area either. Kamir can't get his head round the transactional and objectified approach to sex; orgasm without emotional connection.We catch sight of one louche-looking, overweight Caucasian male, sidling up to one of the Girls. He's a walking stereotype.

I had worried earlier that my presence was not only superfluous but an inconvenience. I have cause to change my mind by the end of the evening. Before the 15-strong outreach team gathers in town for a de-brief, we make one last stop. We meet two new West African girls; Christabel and Tess. Both are in their 20s. Tess came to France via Libya and Spain. I shudder at the thought. I ask whether they want to be prayed for. They accept. I probe further, asking them what they would do if they could get out of The Life. Christabel would like to be a seamstress. Tess was studying architecture in Delta State.

My heart is full. Perhaps it’s because we’re from the same part of the world. These beautiful women; Tess with her high, round cheekbones and Christabel whose dimples are so deep, she barely needs to smile. Strong women. Hope-filled women despite the lowered eyes and world-weariness.  I pray with everything in me, the Spirit taking over. Kamir's on standby. By the end we’re laughing and embracing each other.

The Museum of Modern & Contemporary Art (MAMCS), Strasbourg

The following day is the annual March for Jesus that takes place across France.

After a very variable late Spring we’re blessed with clement, even hot weather that Saturday. I spot many familiar faces in the crowd; both from church and the outreach group, including Kamir. The atmosphere is even more festive than last year.  We take over the heart of the City, trailing behind three floats carrying live musicians and vocalists. Pedestrians get their phones out. Drivers stop to stare. A veritable Carnival for Christ.

I am captivated by a young man from my church doing French Sign Language. He's not just signing the song lyrics, he's experiencing them in real time. He radiates so much unadulterated joy, I am moved to tears. These fleeting moments point to the Divine; the hope of something better and purer.

As chance would have it, we stop outside MAMCS which is where I happen to be meeting Gael. I take my leave.

I wait in the café tucked away in the corner of the building; another new discovery courtesy of Gael.

He’s held up by The March. I order some freshly-squeezed juice whilst I wait, overlooking a gorgeous view of Petite France; my favourite part of town. Gael arrives, pulling my chain about some annoying people crowding out the streets. Trusting sort that I am, I think he’s serious until he bursts into a sincere smile.

Soundtrack: Left My Heart by Ed Mount. Ventura by Anderson .Paak 

Sisterly Solidarity

Strasbourg is doing its fair bit to champion female empowerment in March. Beyond just acknowledging the international day of women on the 8th, there have been a number of commemorative events around town throughout the month. A few of those have been done in collaboration with THRO.

One evening, straight after work, I attend a panel discussion with six dynamic female academics. Each speaker gives an historical overview of the struggle for women to obtain the vote in their respective European countries of origin or domicile. Just as I arrive, an enthusiastic bespectacled woman approaches me, gabbling in French.

Are you Cecile Kyenge?

She is referring to the sole brown face on the panel. Kyenge is a Congolese MEP who became the first minister of African descent in her adopted Italy. I am surprisingly irate. Aside from a similarity in complexion, Kyenge and I look nothing alike. She has at least 15 years on me. She wears a cropped black afro. I have long-ish kinky twists with burgundy highlights. Nothing would link us besides our shared ethnicity.

There are other black women in Strasbourg, you know. I retort. I’m surprised I have the presence of mind. In French for that matter.

Oh no. That’s not what I meant. It’s just we’re expecting her…

Micro-aggressive cretin. I silently fume whilst locating a seat in the auditorium.

Inadvertent racism notwithstanding, it’s something of an honour to be associated with Cecile, even if unintentionally. She is an amazingly resilient and intelligent woman. Unlike the rest of the panel, her 10 minutes + is dedicated to her own experience with (dis)enfranchisement and entry into politics. An ophthalmologist by training, Kyenge’s political journey started rather late. She didn’t vote until the age of 30, having arrived in Italy from DRC at 18 years old and having to wait several years to obtain citizenship and the right to join the electorate. Much like her trailblazing British counterpart Diane Abbott, Kyenge has been subjected to eye-watering levels of abuse because of her gender and ethnicity. She has spent several years in and out of court bringing high profile offenders to justice and won a significant victory last year.

I’m duly inspired by the event (and grateful for the language practice). 

On a roll, I head to another feminism-related lunchtime book launch held at The Organisation the following day featuring one of the speakers from the previous night’s conference.

I’ve been impressed by the breadth of topics covered thus far. The conversations have been nuanced and not as polarising as I’d expected. I wear the feminist label with more boldness than I did in my younger years. However, I don’t subscribe unreservedly to what some feminists might call red line ideologies. I am wholly aware my views on certain issues would be considered too conservative for them.

Meanwhile, back in the office relations with Claudia have vastly improved. We’re conversing a lot more. Our confrontation a few weeks back looks increasingly like a blessing in disguise. I admit to having misjudged how to handle the stalemate beforehand. I should have tried earlier to extend the olive branch.

We speak about the politically unstable situation in her native Italy. I tell her of my admiration Cecile. Cosmopolitan Claudia is all too aware of -and embarrassed by-the treatment to which Kyenge was subjected.

Cecile Kyenge (courtesy of Libération)

The following week, one of my managers Lucia, calls me aside for a one-to-one. Another department big wig, Marie-Anne, will also be in attendance. This doesn’t sound good. I have very little to do with Marie-Anne in my day-to-day operations. At first, I try unsuccessfully not to fret. I go through the possibilities in my mind. I have tried to be the consummate professional. Will I be told off for using the photocopier for personal reasons? Sometimes listening to music whilst I work? I email mum and sis. I pray throughout the morning. By the time the mid-afternoon appointment rolls around, by the grace of God, I’ve attained some level of serenity.

Marie-Anne does most of the talking. There’s a somewhat formal preamble before she gets down to business. A customer service rep from the travel agency used by THRO has made unflattering comments about me. It proceeds a conversation the afternoon before when I called to discuss a flight related cock-up that has occurred involving two consultants only recently hired by the department. We speak for a few moments in French but I decide to switch to English to avoid any misunderstanding of content or tone. At some point the rep, Sebastien, becomes aggressive and unprofessional. I tell him in as collected but firm manner as I can muster that this behaviour is not acceptable. I acknowledge he’s under a lot of pressure, what with various travel-related industrial action making his life harder, but I also have a job to do. I confirm the details of the conversation by email, to which Sebastien responds in terse grammatically imperfect English. My supervisor Sophie is in copy. She later comments on his abrasiveness.

After Marie-Anne’s long introduction I have an opportunity to give my side of events. I do so dutifully and calmly, all the while shocked at the irony that Sebastien should complain about me.

Marie-Anne and Lucia ask some tendentious questions about my overall job satisfaction.

It’s just we noticed a few weeks ago you and Claudia closed the office door. You were talking for an awfully long time. Your body language suggested it was heated. We’ve never had someone in our team so fiery...’

Here we go.

That’s patently untrue. I’ve seen and heard enough to the contrary.

My efforts to self-efface as much as possible have not worked. My subtle attempts to avoid perpetuating any stereotypes regarding my gender and ethnicity have apparently been for naught. People are going to draw their conclusions regardless. Perhaps my paranoia about being too visible on the radar is justified.

I try to remain equanimous. I dodge leading questions about my relationship with Claudia.

We’re just very expressive people, I parry, We had some misunderstandings to clear up…

I’m not about to incriminate my colleague nor dredge up what is now ancient history.

The half an hour intervention feels almost twice as long. Marie-Anne concludes with yet another imprecation that we all get along. Sebastian was just stressed. We can’t afford to have bad relations with the Travel Agency since we depend on their services…

The department is comprised of nice people, she insists. I must feel at ease. I shouldn’t hesitate to ask questions.

I’m a little shell-shocked. On the plus side, it’s been great French practice.

Shortly afterwards, I discreetly tell Claudia about what has just transpired. She’s very surprised that Sebastien complained (as is Sophie, I'm later to discover). She’s heard far worse exchanges between THRO employees and the Travel Agency. I ask Claudia what she thought of my interaction with Sebastien. She was present at the time.

I’ve lived in the UK. She tactfully replies, I understand the British sense of "firm but fair". But it’s not always taken that way here.

She proffers a few more personal examples of culturally-related misunderstandings. I make a mental note of how to side-step them.

I become more and more convinced Sebastien took particular umbrage with my assertiveness because of my gender. If I were a man, he either wouldn’t have spoken to me in that manner or wouldn’t have thought it worthy of note that I objected.

Social attitudes will evidently take longer to change than a-month-per-year of awareness-raising can achieve.