Exodus: movement of Jah people

Change is a great topic for writing. A good amount of it is coming into my life, but it’s not yet the time to put the many thoughts and emotions into words.

I was born in Kingston, Jamaica, in the 1950s, but left there with my parents in the early 1960s. I’ve never lived there, since, in over 50 years. Now, I will be going back there to live. My wife has a new job and Kingston will be her base.

People have been asking me if I’m excited to be going back to Jamaica. I reply that it involves a complicated set of reactions, of which, excitement, in some way, features.

My father returned to Jamaica about 25 years ago, having taken early retirement and at about the same age as I am now. That strikes me as a strange parallel.

When my father ‘returned home’ in the mid-1980s, he was for the longest while referred to by the nickname ‘Britisher’ or ‘Englishman’. In Jamaican culture, nicknames often define a person. Whether my father felt defined or redefined, I’m not sure if he was ever really hurt or offended by this denial of his heritage. I may ask him in coming weeks.

Over the decades, I’ve been obliged to do one of the many types of code switching that characterizes the way humans cope. From being comfortable in my Jamaican patwa, I quickly had to realign my tongue and ears to the lilt of the Lon(do)ner. New phrases and reactions filled my upbringing. “Wha’ gwan?” had to make way for “Whassup?” “Gimme a patty an’ a coco bred!” had to be replaced by “Gisa piece a cod, some chips, vinegar an’ pickle!”

The fact that my spoken Jamaican language was probably frozen in the 1960s was never an issue. I didn’t need it much and how that form of speech developed through the trials and tribulations of that treasure of an island home, I only picked up from the lyrics of reggae music through the years. Maybe, I have a mind that develops speech like a Rasta: Marley, Tosh and Buju were my teachers.

There’s a lot involved in making the life you live work well. So, undoing or redoing that often involves a lot more. I can’t be like my 9 year old: she’s found an application to help her speak like a Jamaican. For her, that is the first order of business. Modern kids have aids we never had. I won’t break it to her that the speaking is not even the half of it. You have to think differently, too. That’ll take time.

Life is full of huge ironies. Well over a year ago, long before this move was in my consciousness, I found amongst my Dad’s papers our boarding passes from our trip from Jamaica to England in 1961. I asked his housekeeper to put it somewhere safe. She did, but couldn’t find it again. Too safe! Recently, she found the passes again. This time, I told her to keep them extra safe. It was almost as if I felt I’d need them to verify the trip and claim the miles. Who, today, knows about flying on BOAC?

It’s going to be an intriguing time ahead.

Childhood daze

I overheard some high schoolers’ discussions this morning, while we sat at separate tables and ate bagels.

One girl began telling her classmates: “My mom told me yesterday there were special elections and that I could vote. Well, everyone there was like in their 50s. It felt really strange. I decided to vote for a Republican on the ballot because there are some 200 people on the Council and they’re all Democrats, so I figured it would make no difference to have someone from another party.”

“But, the Council people are all criminals,” chimed in one listener.

“What did they do?” another asked.

“I dunno. I think they did a bunch of financial crimes.”

Images of Marion Barry swirled around my head.

A small voice inside my head said “Go and tell them that they are talking rubbish.” I chewed on my bagel and looked out at the sunlit sports fields. The voice continued: “You owe it to your generation and the future generations to get these soon-to be voting citizens wised up…” I chewed more intently.

I was not in the mood to solve this little set of ‘misunderstanding’.

You don’t have to know anything to vote. For the record, a mere 10 percent of eligible voters cast their ballot. I don’t know if any of the voters knew much about what they were doing. Better to vote on impulse? Better to vote on convictions Better to vote on prejudice? The results will never let us know.

None of this need be of much importance, other than the thought that in a world so replete with information and seemingly simple and fast ways for many to get at information, getting correct information remains as illusive as handfuls of mist. Maybe, too, the ‘right’ information is largely redundant.

 

Hold your corner

I was riveted to the TV screen on Sunday evening. The Augusta Masters golf tournament was coming to a momentous close. I had just got back home. My legs ached, after standing on a pool deck most of Saturday and Sunday afternoons, watching my fish-like third grader have a great set of swimming events. I knew what efforts she’d made in weeks of practice and I was pleased for her that it was paying off, as it should, with improved times and rankings. She won three of her four heats, and after each one stretched across the lane ropes to hug or shake hands with her nearest competitors–part of the etiquette of swimming. She, too, was tired, but had good reason to be so, and to feel happy.

On my TV screen, I could see the sun was getting lower in the sky at Augusta, as two professionals matched each other with stunning shots. Golf is strange in that you are often not playing head-to-head against your main rival, as different groups play the course. So it was that the men swinging for the lead were separated. But it was a little more dramatic because the one trailing could see the leader play. The earlier to play, Australian Adam Scott (25), thought he’d taken the lead for good with his last shot and went to sign his card. He then sat in the scoring tent and watched the TV screen there, seeing his nearest rival, the Argentine Angel Cabrera (43), match his score.

The two were then headed for a play-off, the final 18th hole again, then another hard hole, if needed, then back to the 18th, and so on till a winner emerged. The light was now fading, as sunset loomed. The two men continued to match each other, shot for shot, from the tee to the green, Cabrera nearly winning with a putt at the 18th. But, they remained tied. Again, matching shots from the tee. Again, Cabrera nearly took the lead with a long birdie putt, missing by what looked like a finger nail’s distance. Finally, Scott lined up his birdie putt that would seal the victory. The ball rolled truly, then fell into the hole. Match done! The winner did his victory dance, then quickly turned to hug his playing partner. That embrace was a strange sight at the end of a competition that is often tense and singular.

I know that keen competitors understand what it is to lose a close contest, but most athletes are encouraged to show graciousness and humility in victory. Defeat is the more common outcome. Winning is to be savoured for its rarity but also for what it makes you to remember, albeit fleetingly: that winning is a hair’s breath away from losing. You are also made keenly aware of how few chances you may have to get the success that everyone seems to be chasing. I was thrilled for Scott, who had lost what had seemed like a sure win at last year’s British Open (at Royal Lytham & St Annes) in gut-wrenching fashion, by giving away his four shot lead on the last four holes. Drip, drip, drip…drop to your knees. He had been made memorable by that literal collapse near the finish. Now, he had the more comforting memorable moment that comes with victory.

Those images of joy with humility, mixed with those displays of grief, from two golf tournaments, came to me this morning as I thought about the horrific events last Monday, when bombs exploded near the finish line at the Boston Marathon. No one at Augusta or Lytham could have imagined the end of their sporting events as they eventually turned out. Their sense of tragedy was confined to those they saw coming to the last hole at the close of the event. Similarly, in Boston, those running or watching could not have imagined the end of the race becoming anything more than the place where the sense of elation or grief or relief or humility would all combine. Instead, those sensations swelled up for reasons other than a sporting event. Callous, wanton attempts to destroy life. Inhuman efforts to discard the simple, hard work, and attempts to do something that takes courage, dedication, selflessness. Hugs of joy and humility, just because someone was alive; that they had finished their run, but had not had their lives violently finished. People collapsed on their knees, in grief, not because they had to suffer defeat, but because they could see alongside themselves some dead or dying or maimed.  All the wrong reasons!

Athletes (often defined for their physical abilities), are also incredibly strong mentally. In the same way that we learn how to give our all, so we also learn to show grace and humility to our fellow competitors. We also learn to dig deep into our minds to find the strength to go on, to do it again, to try to get it right, to try to do it better, especially when it seems that ‘all hope in gone’ or ‘when we cannot take it anymore’. Now, is a good time to find the inner athlete in ourselves. Stay strong physically. Stand tall mentally. Hug those who seem to have lost, while we have won.

Trying to see I to I

Sunday morning in the church yard. Glaring sunlight. A couple of my fellow parishioners were seated on a bench; the man was wearing dark glasses. I started a conversation with the man, who told me how he was letting his transition lenses adjust to the sunlight. Minutes later, I was in conversation with a female parishioner, who also was having issues with her transition lenses. I thought I would connect these two fellow parishioners. I did not know that in addition to transition lenses for light/darkness (the man), there were transition lenses for distance/size (the woman). They got talking, waving their spectacles around. I took a few steps backward and let them get on with it.

I thought about how we see the world around us, and in this set of actual events, I realised how our eyes could be forced to see things in clearness or in different shades of darkness (should I say greyness?). I thought about how the woman’s glasses allowed her to see objects near or far, with differing degrees of clarity, but also a different sense of how close they were to her: I reflected on the safety warning sometimes seen on car mirrors–’objects in (the) mirror are closer than they appear’.

With the physical world, and our actual sight, we are obliged to recognize how light and distance affect our perception. But, in the emotional world, or the world of human relations, how good are we at recognizing how the ‘light’ that is shone on a subject or a person or event, or our ‘distance’ from a person or event, affect our perception?

In recent weeks, the world of political debate in the US has become interesting for reasons that have much to do with proximity to issues. Discussions about gun control have taken on a different air, as parents of elementary school children, slain by a gunman who entered their school, have brought their personal grief to the debate. The issues have become emotionally charged for them and many parents. The topic ‘has come home’, in some sense.

Similarly, a rapidly rising tide of US Senators have stated openly how their views on the matter of same-sex marriage have changed favourably. I some cases, this was clearly because someone in their family is now at risk of being disadvantaged by policies that would oppose such alliances. (However, see some deeper analysis on this surge in support.) I asked myself, “Does it have to get that close to home for views to change?” I wanted to ask the question with as much neutrality as I could muster.  I thought about racial issues, and whether people could not understand discrimination well until they were directly affected. I thought about poverty. What do you understand or feel if you have never had to dive into a dumpster? I’m not buying the notion that you must have ‘suffered’ a situation to understand what it means. But, I understand that such may be the case for some, many.

This same Sunday morning, a friend and I had a long conversation, that began over something that might have seemed very slight, almost inconsequential. A request for consideration went unheeded. The consequence? A slight. Now, hurt and pain. Withdrawal. Distance. Our discussion went on. The seemingly inconsequential, at the outset, was now much larger and more serious. I listened and urged my friend to give the other person a chance to see and hear how she felt. If they were to get eye to eye would that help?

Is anyone developing transition ‘lenses’ for our emotions?

While we ponder, a song to help us along (lyrics included). 

 

Do you have the right app-titude?

Modern workers need to have something new: I like to call it ‘the right app-titude’. New technologies have changed many aspects of how they do their jobs, but the creation of apps (applications) and the widening use of smartphones means that customers and clients expect more than just a smile and the delivery of good service. Many businesses now try to connect with their customers by having apps, which allow browsing of merchandise, provide a range of useful information, provide the ability to shop, perhaps without the need for immediate access to the usual forms of payments.

Starbucks (and I hope they don’t mind my using their logo) offer a customer card, but it also has an app which is an electronic version of the card and more, and offers many things to the casual or regular drinker and snacker. By loading the card with funds, you can buy your drinks, etc. by using the card or scanning your app in front of a bar code reader. You can reload the card, as needed, directly or via the app. Buying with the card/app makes you eligible for free refills of hot or cold drinks. You get offers of free music downloads and other offers. Easy enough? Tempting enough? Yes. Except that, I did not know all of this when I downloaded the app. My older daughter brought some of this to my attention, after I complained about not being able to find my actual Starbucks card and being miffed about either having to buy another card or just pay without getting a card and feeling that I was losing out on benefits.

So, when I went for a cool drink in Starbucks yesterday, I made the point to the barista that he and his colleagues need to do the modern version of up-selling (you know, the way that something extra is offered whenever you make your order–”A donut with that coffee?”). He got the point quickly and made sure I knew what the do. Ask customers if they have the card, and the app, and if they want to use one or either, etc. It may seem onerous or out of the norm, but the customers usually want things to be simpler and faster and apps offer that. Guess what? Sales may rise, too.

Last night, I was happy to try to download the free music that had been offered on my card. I see that I may soon be eligible for a free brew. Loyal or not, customers get a buzz out of getting something extra for the money they spend, not just the buzz from sipping on that caffeine loaded liquid.

It’s not much but…

“So, what’s up? No posts for over a week!” I would not call that a needy plea, but that’s what a reader gave me in person, this morning.

Excuses? None needed. Ideas flow as they do and sometimes they don’t form enough to make a paragraph. But, if that’s the case, should I just push out the ideas as they are: few words, broken sentences, unfinished paragraphs? Some writers make a living doing just that.

Satire, yourself. I had too much fun over the weekend, lunching with some Jamaican friends. Every few minutes we’d get back to joking about ourselves, especially how we speak. Why, then, I asked, don’t we do much satire, instead of just jokes? One explanation given was that we’re very sensitive to being ridiculed, but so are most people. Another is that we take such ridicule very personally, which makes it especially hurtful, so is better avoided. It’s certainly not out of deference to those in leadership or so-called ‘high positions’. If anything, Jamaicans are as good at being crabs in a barrel as anyone. But, beyond cartoons, why is it that satire is not a well-developed art in Jamaican culture? Or is so subtle that I miss it?

Being fifty, feeling nifty?

Saturday, midmorning, and my inner juices are now flowing at a normal rate. I had a lie in, till 9 a.m. Whoo-hoo! I stretched. I splashed cold water on my face. I did a little thinking about a few things, while I nibbled on a simple sandwich for my breakfast. I sat in my pajamas. Oooh, the decadence!

My third-grader had been invited to a sleep over last night, and I dropped her off around 7 p.m., after she’d finished her swimming practice. She and her friend were all bubbles most of the week, as they excited each other about the night of fun they would add. As we drove, my daughter recounted how many sleepovers she’d had–not many, but that helped to make them special. I wasn’t especially concerned, but I wanted to be sure that when I left that I had not done so with no adult in the house. That didn’t seem to me to be  something very special, but part of what being a ‘responsible parent’ was all about. I saw my daughter’s friend roll her eyes as I walked in, saying I wanted to check they were not going to be home alone. I joked with the babysitter as she told me the girls were going to head to Mickey D’s. Shock. Horror. I wanted to take my daughter home immediately . I teased her that I should have brought some alfalfa sandwiches to make sure that her delicate diet was not going to topple over. She helped push me out the door and ran off to play.

Yesterday, before I had done that schlepping, while on my way from the golf course, I saw (what looked like) a middle-aged woman, doing some yoga stretches in her front yard. That’s what the arrival of a really warm day does to you, I thought. Younger neighbours, I saw, were jogging on the path that ran through her neighbourhood. Go, girl! We’ve learned that less is more. Being older has some benefits. Wisdom, is one of them.

I’d spent three hours practising my golf swing then playing nine holes with a Spanish friend, also in his fifties and retired–his wife had suggested he needed to improve his English, so he’s now enrolled in classes till around 11 a.m. each morning. We were, thus, reduced to playing golf at a near sprint as we squeezed our play into the two hours we had before having to make our respective school pick-up runs. I could feel the ache in my legs from walking–the course is hilly–and was sweaty–the temperature had risen to around 60 F. My friend apologized that he had to make the putt and run. I nodded in understanding, as I took loaded my clubs into my car. I was tired. I had in my head visions of a slow warm-down in the exercise room and a sauna: not as random as you may think, because these were available in a house that was being considered as a new home.

My wife had forwarded to me during the week details of a weekly golf tournament for men over 50: the start times were all between 8:30 and 9 a.m. No doubt, enough participants are available to make these jaunts work. I’d seen them, cruising in their carts, hitting balls from the forward tees, laughing and drinking beer and swapping money at each hole. What a life! 

I just hung up the phone after speaking to the dad where my daughter’s had her night out–he’s a lawyer, new to the art of being a stay-at-home. I explained to him, while we were making arrangements for pick-up, that today is my day for having nothing much on my agenda: “Welcome to the world of being retired,” I told him. He replied that he was still trying to figure that out. I saw a new career opening ahead.

I am not in the having-it-all mould anymore–honestly, I can’t recall when I last tried it. In the same way that you cannot focus well on hitting your driver while you are thinking about how to sink the putt, I’m happy focusing on how to chew the small mouthful of food on my fork, rather than the whole plate.

I joked yesterday with my daughter about how life would be if we were born like adults and became like children as we aged, needing to be taken care of by those stronger and more able than we are. Not as weird as I first thought. Life is not meant to speed up as you age. I do not believe that 50 is the new 30, let alone the new 40. It’s the fifties. Like it or lump it! I’m fifty and I know it!