On loyalty and friendship

It's been a while, lately all manner of thoughts have been occupying my mind. This weekend made me think more about  the bounds of friendship and what we owe ourselves and our friends. Science has said that we make fewer and fewer "real" friends as we grow older and for me this has always been true. I still prefer the company of dogs over humans but that's more to do with me than anything else. What does being a friend really mean?

The dogs I live with are protective, loyal and affectionate, at least to a point. They will defend me to their last breath, even at the expense of themselves. To them, I am one of the people who provide food, a warm, snuggly bed and lovies, regular hated baths, car rides and illicit treats usually consisting of half my breakfast. The dogs have comforted me when my life felt like it was falling apart, run joyfully with me because it was the best thing in the world. Stoically endured my awful singing, danced around the living room with me and laid reading in bed for countless hours. Baked cookies and cakes at 2 a.m. and listened while I ranted to rants about the latest boyfriend. They take me as they find me, giving seemingly unconditional love. Who knows what really goes through their heads?

Now here's the thing, I have friends, good, treasured friends, who will do those things with me too. My friends have been my support through many long years, laughed with me, cried with me, held my hand or I've held theirs. We've had good times, bad times and every time in-between. And that got me thinking, what's the difference then? Not that I'm comparing my friends to dogs! I'm asking about relationships and the boundaries.

I have the expectation that my friends care for me, that they are honest and loyal in their dealings with me and about me, as I try to be with them. But here's the fundamental difference. I expect that my friends will be honest with me. Oh, not for silly things, does this dress make my ass look fat, though really I'd prefer if they were upfront about that too. Equivocation is not always a bad thing. That's what good friends do. But I also don't mean blind, unquestioning loyalty or rose tinted glasses.

If I'm screwing up, or behaving badly or hurting people or generally being a shit, I expect someone will tell me to my face. My friends to be fair, aren't the unquestioning type. We push each other along, yes they will defend me but they'll also be the first people to admit that we all have flaws. If mine get too overbearing they usually aren't silent and I'd like to hope that I've done the same for them.  Once upon a time a good friend sit me down and tell me, "you are out of control, I love you but I don't like you very much right now and I can't cope with you. You need to find someone else to help you because I can't." At the time I was in the throes of one of the worst bouts of depression I'd ever had and was barely hanging on. It was a salutory slap and in this time of political correctness, when we've all be told we must be more sensitive and aware, my friend was practicing self preservation despite herself. It was hard and at the time I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. But almost twenty years later I understand. Sometimes you have to let people go in order to help them and you can't save everybody. In my case it was an acquaintance, who happened to have been around and had gone through a similar experience months earlier who caught me. During  a long walk around the block we had a frank conversation. And he got me the help I needed in the form of a really good psychiatrist who gave me the room to breathe again. And to apologise to my other friend for putting her in the position.

We've all had that situation, where someone comes and says, 'oh my god that person has been so awful to me, this is what happened'...or some such. Do we close our ears and refuse to listen because we are loyal and would prefer not to hear anything about our friend? Or do we acknowledge that though we may not have experienced that aspect of our friend  admit that the other person has the right to their opinion? Do we continue, despite all evidence to the contrary, continue to defend the person or refuse to acknowledge that in fact there is a problem, all under the guise of "loyalty". Is it because we cannot face that our judgement might be flawed? Or that we refuse to see people as they are? Pollyanna complex? Do we say something to them? Do we confront them with our knowledge and ask for an explanation? Or do we stick our fingers in our ears and go la la la la?

To me it is one thing to be a supportive, loyal friend, or to make the decision to continue to be someone's friend, but it's another thing to be wilfully blind and continue to make excuses for someone because of "friendship". Someone asked me in a training session once, "would you continue to be that person's friend if you knew they'd raped someone and it was covered up and they were allowed to go on doing what they do". Ask yourself that, it will tell you a lot about who you are.  People are allowed to make mistakes, to screw up or to just have a bad moment, there is no such thing as perfection. It is what we do after that defines us.

Reflections from a small island...(apologies to Andrea Levy)

In order to quiet my brain, which is still working overtime to process the morass that which is Trinidad, I spent most of this morning sorting fabric ends. People who sew will tell you how easy it is to become overrun by ends, swatches and those itty bits you keep, "just in case". They are everywhere and they don't go away! It took me way back, as a very small child, I was left in the company of my great grandparents, my mother's paternal grandparents, when my mother went back out to work after having me. Between them, my granny and various uncles I was "baby sat' right up until nursery school and through every other time in-between.

My great granny, granny and mother all sewed. But it is from my great granny that I first learned to hold fabric at the sewing machine and sew a seam. I must have been around 4 at the time and I'm guessing it was a pretty wonky seam. It was one of the old Singer foot treadle machines, someone in the family still has it. I was fascinated by the ornate gold detailing on the black, cast iron frame, elegant lines and the fact that pumping your feet made the needle go up and down. Mesmerising to a child looking for something to do. And I think it must be from her that I get my ability to put pieces of fabric together to make them pleasing to the eye, yet make something durable. She wasted not a scrap, the big pieces went into making patchwork sheets for the bed, she made rag rugs and every so often, I got a dress for my doll. I never thought about it as learning how to sew, it was like cooking, you just did it.

My generation was pushed to go to school, to learn, to get a "good job" so that we wouldn't have to work as long and as hard as my forbearers. But the thing is, in my long work life, I've worked longer hours than my agriculture worker great grandparents, and sometimes I wonder, for what. Why work with your hands when you could push a pen and collect a regular paycheque was their thinking. For them that represented security, and it's not necessarily a bad thing. But I've tried that and don't much like it. My gypsy soul seems to need not to wear shoes, lipstick and "good clothes" all the time. Or to deal with people, to stroke egos or constantly be on call. So here I am, at the sewing machine, playing with fabric, and much to my surprise, turning out things people like. That they like enough to purchase! It's a great feeling when you make something and people look at it and go, hmmm. And I think back to those first early tries at holding fabric while my great granny pedalled slowly enough for a child to be able to guide the fabric but not get little fingers caught in the needle. I was just one of of her innumerable great grandchildren, but I lived in the same house and as a result, occupied her time. Having had fourteen kids of her own she must have wanted a break but I guess for whatever reason, she tolerated me.

And here I am, staring back in time as I methodically sort, label and cut, marvelling at the colours, patterns and textures under my fingers. Seeing all kinds of possibilities in each piece, ruthlessly pruning the pieces that just did not work, no matter how pretty. Sometimes you just have to say, not for me thanks. This process, where creating your life is still better than regretting old choices or bewailing the failed state of a country. Being free to accept that you tried it one way but perhaps you need to go your own way. And tomorrow there will be another finished thing that you send out into the world, as you hope it gives someone as much pleasure as you got from making it. And for those moments, you are free.

Peaceful Easy Feeling

It's a bright sunny day, that bright, crisp, clear Caribbean blue that makes your eyes hurt if you stare upwards for too long. Inside the relative coolness of the house, the dogs are lying around asleep with the Eagles crooning in the background. It's the kind of morning that makes you want to drop everything, grab your surfboard and head to the beach, or call up some friends and sit around someplace shady with a hamper of nice things to eat and cool wine to wash it down. Life at the slow and easy pace.

Except, except, not many people can just drop and head out mid-week. There are bills to be paid, children to service, employers to satisfy, no time for navel gazing, maybe the weekend! And I can't surf anyway.

Insulated against the vicissitudes of life in the microcosm of home, the garden outside the window beguiling with cheery bright flowers bobbing in the breeze. Florid green grass begging for bare feet is insidious, why leave when you can stay here and enjoy this it seems to ask. The temptation is to avoid outside for so many reasons. All too soon reality and life will intrude. But for now, Glen Frey's California twang, easy on the ear, "and I got a peaceful easy feeling, And I know you won't let me down 'cause I'm already standing on the ground".....

Time flies...

Wow! It's been a year since I've checked in. Two years ago in packing up the house that I'd lived in for eleven years I shed many possessions that had accumulated almost without awareness that they were there. It was a large house, much bigger than required for one woman, one dog and an itinerant lover. It was a house that consumed huge amounts of time and effort to clean, to occupy and in fact, to like. There always seemed to be an echo, of an unhappy past that resonated through the walls, a dark brushstroke that ran through the rest of a picture made up of mostly depression blues and dark shades with the occasional splash of passionate red and happy pink and yellow.

At night, the sometimes dead still quiet was interrupted by gunshots from adjoining neighbourhoods, or loud music, or raucous behaviour from the other tenants. We crouched silently hoping that whatever trouble, would go somewhere else. But on occasion we too were visited by trouble, pipes that broke flooding the house, break-ins...it all became a huge chore.

In deciding to change my life, it became apparent that change meant physical location too. In liberating myself from a hated job, I also had to separate myself from the past, the memories and bad energy of that house and move on. Again.

In moving, many things got left on the pavement for the trash men, many things were gifted to friends and even strangers, things were weeded down, and then sorted again. It all had to shrink to fit into two rooms and a little. Ruthlessly I winnowed, to the point where too ruthless. But maybe, not ruthless enough. Because it still all seems like a lot.

Two years later my dog has gone across the rainbow bridge, of all that I've left behind, his loss is the greatest. I'm finding that there are less and less things that I wish to hold on to. Strange, those dearly held things that end up residing in boxes, collecting dust. I'm reminded of helping friends to clear out houses after the death of a loved one, of doing the same, emptying a house after my parents were gone. What to keep, what to let go. going through boxes of old photographs, letters and other precious things. That have no meaning to anyone but ourselves, or sometimes a few who know what they hold. And realising that the detritus of our lives is left for other people to clear.

Stranger too, letting go of people, reconnecting with people, not holding on to people. After years of taking care of people, dropping my life to make myself available, hoping to fit in somewhere,  it's as though I'm allowing myself to be free again.

And in doing so, sowing the seeds for whatever is next. And so the adventure begins again....

Saying goodbye

This blog was started as a result of numerous conversations that took place between the Bookman, Adele, Elspeth and me. The Bookman, who I guest blogged at, suggested that I start my own, since there was so much to talk about.

People come into your life and sometimes they stay, and sometimes they leave, the paint on your heart or make you so ill you never want to see them again. People. Who can understand them. But this is not a blog about random people. For the last six months or so, Death has wielded his scythe and cut a large swath through the people who have, at some point, populated my life.

That's life, you come two certainties, you come into this world and you leave this world. My sincerest wish is that Elspeth is dancing in somewhere beautiful, surrounded by the people who waited to welcome her into the next life...because she could no longer be a part of this one. Elspeth could be many things, Pollyanna, defender of alternative truths, optimist friend...she truly had a different view and approached life from the pragmatic point that by golly, we're just going to have to live it best we can. Her generosity of spirit led to the creation of a space that even though it's been closed now for five years, is still THE PLACE.

This is where we went to talk, it was the shop that we gathered in to share our lives, good, bad and indifferent. It was the shop that Elspeth had, a little quirky, a little intellectual, populated by a troupe of wacky players which for a long while, included me as I pasted my life back together, all presided over by her effervescent spirit and quick wit. We argued, we loved, relationships were made and broken in that shop. In creating her space, Elspeth gave voice to the different people and for this, we shall all be profoundly grateful.

But all good things must end and so it was. One day she acknowledged that she had lived that dream and it was time to move on to other dreams and to carve out a new reality. And she did so her own inimitable style, stamping her signature all over the corporate world. She blossomed and grew, but under it all, she was still Elspeth, a little quirky, a little optimistic and more practical than you would have thought.

And through out all the years that we walked the journey, still drinking countless cups of coffee, marathon phone conversations, Sunday afternoons at her house, talking, laughing....always with love. She will be missed by many, and remembered fondly by even more. The circle of life completed. Hippy, dippy, sometimes a little trippy, she will always be forever Elspeth. I love you and miss you my wonderful friend. Thank you for everything.

Gandhi, Martin Luther King and me

It is the current fashion to throw "inspirational" quotations from famous people around in lieu of actually taking action. Before you get upset and tell me that the devil makes work for idle hands before flouncing off to read some more worthy blog, take a moment and think about it. We see these quotations up everywhere, on coffee mugs, office signs, training manuals, bumper stickers and most importantly, social media memes. Most people don't even know who the "famous one" is, but they repeat the quote, nodding and marveling at the worthiness of it. 

One of my favourites is attributed to the Mahatma M. K. Gandhi " you must be the change you wish to see in the world". How often have you seen that one? People use it on their email signature, instant messaging app id, one notable placement, the back of a bathroom door in London, England. Considering that Gandhi-ji has been deceased for more than sixty years, it's quite legacy that stuff he said several generations ago still has currency.  Gandhi died almost before my mother was born, and yet, in my family, he was spoken about as if he were someone we knew.  His untimely death remained fresh in the minds of my maternal grandparents and he was considered a hero for his Quit India Movement, which by the way, was anything but non-violent. 

Those words have long been attributed to Gandhi, it even sounds like something he might have said in a sage-like moment. As far as anyone can tell from hours of research, he never actually said them. What he said, probably most went something like this, " if we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him..... We need not wait to see what others do." Big difference huh. It's easy to SAY things, much harder to change yourself. 

And then there is Martin Luther King. Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech remains one of the most inspirational, motivational talks in recent history. Recorded for posterity it is a little harder to bastardise into a bumper sticker. Dr. King said a lot of things, some of them right, some of them a little off base but he was a man who to all intents and purposes stood for the courage of his convictions.  

The interesting thing about these two gentlemen and others like them, their words relate specifically to their circumstances and the times in which they lived. http://www.gandhi-manibhavan.org/gandhicomesalive/speech6.htm. Their lives remain a symbol of purpose to many people throughout the world. These two men are considered exceptional and have earned their place in history, even as we continue to distill it down to cute little bumper stickers while blithely continuing on, business as usual. 

Perhaps it's easier to paste on a bumper sticker or click "like" on Facebook but these are not actions, they are activities. Unless you plan to change your behaviour to make a change in the world, shut up and move along. Don't say it if you don't mean it because then it's just a bunch of words. No one says that you have to go out and start a revolution, but revolutions have been started as simply as women banging pots in the road and marching for food. Human beings are the only species who pay to live on this planet and yet we treat it with scant respect. And yet, all change starts with one person. To paraphrase Dr. King, "faith is taking the first step, even when you don't see the whole staircase".  

The Mystic Masseur Redux

All apologies to V.S. Naipaul

The irritating nasal voice, amplified courtesy of the "mic" aka, the loudspeaker system that traversed the back roads and alley ways of the sprawling hamlet of Chowhan in the Republica de Estupido, heralded the latest political salvo from one of the three parties competing for the seat. One night! Three political meetings! Come and hear us! Then degenerating into, "Dan is the man", "the political Goddess" and on and on. All punctuated by the ear splitting, window shaking, boom boom of the larger music trucks playing songs of exhortation while slowly trawling the neighbourhoods, designed of course to ensure that babies and by extension their parents got no respite, the old and infirm begging for deliverance and the rest,  well, either get with the programme or get out of Dodge my friend.

One could be forgiven for thinking it was an election on national scale. And perhaps it will be a harbinger of things to come. But the scale and proportion seemed somewhat distorted as under a full moon, the werewolves, vampires and fey came out in their guise of "normal" people. Actually, that's just the author being fanciful, though perhaps not.  The narrow streets were crowded, folk irritated by their stressful day at work, crawling along streets chock a block with bodies, vehicles and the noise level was that of a Carnival fete. The ancestors shrank back into the shadows and waited for it all to subside.

Loud were the protestations, exhortations and exhalations. Who was bad, who was badder, who was useless and who was dishonest. Politics makes for strange bedfellows. Consider this, party #1 - in existence since independence, party # 2 - a breakaway from the party that defeated party #1 four elections ago, party #3 - a breakaway/rogue (depending on whom you listen to) from party #2.

Mudslinging, finger pointing, accusatory piccong, ah, Naipaul would have had a field day. His novel, The Mystic Masseur, published in 1957, chronicled the exploits and evolution of Ganesh Ramsumair into G. Ramsay Muir. Sadly, it would appear we have learnt little in the fifty-six years since it was published. Trade the American town car for a green Hummer, printed vinyl banners for bills and ad spiffy power point presentations and voila, G. Ramsay Muir lives! In several guises! Take your pick! Vote for me and I'll set you free!

We must like it so eh. And the good folk of Chowhan will in another week decide who their chosen one will be, the rest of the goodly Republic will murmur and talk behind their hands until fete season rolls around again, and we forget the storm in a teacup, business as usual.

Hot enough for you?

It is that kind of hot, not the humid, stuffy, cloying kind of heat that comes in the rainy season. That heat makes you sweat but you grin and bear it knowing that when it rains, the heat goes. This is dry season hot, where the hills are brown and crunchy, as though someone deep fried them overnight. The green is faded and the plants flower in desperation, as though giving it their all to prove that they are still alive.

This heat makes you drink copious quantities of water that leave you unsatisfied, makes you think twice about going out to get lunch and three times about lighting the stove. The sun is merciless and you risk getting a tan from slinking out to close the gate or go to the store. The breeze when it stirs swishes around bringing temporary respite.

The temptation to fight the dog to lie on the cool tiles of the bathroom is strong, but he eyes you somewhat quizzically and you settle for a space in front the fan that circulates what else, hot air. Your brain chugs along, enervated, so that you drowse lazily,  loath to move unless you have to. Good for all those people who paddled furiously at this morning's Dragon Boat meet, they have much more will power than the rest of us.

The hillsides have burnt this dry season. After three years of mostly wet dry seasons this year it is truly, well dry. The choking smoke as the flames lick across miles of hill are a constant reminder of how easily things burn. And when the rains do come, so will the floods from the run off of the denuded hillsides.  But until then, we watch as the heat shimmers across the way and think longingly of cool fruit pops, cold drinks and deep, shady rivers.

Confessions of a Coffeewallah

Most mornings, driving to work is an experience in the fine art of defensiveness. The traffic, the irate drivers, the ever present  vehicle with mounted flashing light and siren wailing - essentially bullying their way through. It all adds up to stress on the go. Even those of us sans children look forward to school vacations where the traffic falls off, sometimes to even manageable levels.

On those few mornings, when there is the possibility of paying attention to more than just the road, I sneak glances at the buildings and image what it must be like to occupy some of them. I wonder about the people who inhabit them. Are they  happy? What are they like? What is there history? I love a good story and many of the houses that line a particular street are older, and like most older folk, they look like they have many to tell.

Two women who greatly influenced my life died this week. One was much heralded and much vilified depending on whom you spoke to. That would be Margaret Thatcher. Baroness Thatcher came to power in the UK about the time I was heading off to High School, it was the end of the 70's and I, an impressionable young person seeking my own identity, separate from that of my mother and grandmother before her. My mother was already a professional women, though I somehow doubt she saw herself that way. Unlike many other other mother's at my primary school, mine worked, if she had not, we would have starved so it was never an issue of if I would get a job, it was a certainty. Just the same way that I was expected to pass exams and attend university before acquiring some worthy profession. We were women hear us roar and all that.

Ms, the groundbreaking magazine touting working womanhood featured the business suit for women on its front cover. A boxy, somewhat ugly creation with a large bow added on for it to be less threatening. Looking back now it seems rather funny. And there came Mrs Thatcher, a ballsy woman with two kids who strode like a colossus among the men. Heady days. You did not have to like Mrs Thatcher's politics but you could admire her sheer gall. That generation of women understood duty, determination and were not apologetic about their choices. Thirty some years later, people are still rabidly divided on the Thatcher legacy but one must consider, she was a product of her environment and the choices she made were the result of those experiences.  But women like Mrs Thatcher lowered the glass ceiling for my generation of women, and for this we are all eternally grateful.

The other woman who influenced my life was much less famous but no less celebrated by the people who knew her. My aunt Enid was not my family at all, she was the aunt of the X-man but for the time that I knew her she was extremely kind to me. Auntie Enid was what used to be called a spinster, she never married but lived with her sister and family. She too was a professional woman who worked within the public service. To the end Enid was always immaculately turned out with beautifully done hair. She and Mrs Thatcher were of the same generation so her indomitable spirit was no surprise.

Auntie Enid always made me feel special, that was her gift. I knew how much she cared about me when she subtly took sides one day against her beloved nephew. In her own way she too was a ground breaker and our conversations in the car on the way to the hairdresser were always interesting, we shared many things including a love of cooking. She made the most sublime brownies and her Sunday lunches were legend.  Auntie, gave me a sense of family at a time when I needed one, she will be sorely missed by all.

But I digress, we were talking about the stories houses tell. There is a particular one, the style is like those of the estate houses built in the forties, chocolate bar bricks, sweeping porch, long stairway to the upper floor. Sloping galvanised roof to facilitate rain run off but to remain cool during those long, hot Caribbean days that toast your brain in the shade. This house has been on the corner of French and Robert Streets for a long time, I wonder at the things it has seen. A gentrified neighbourhood on the Woodbrook estate that turned to a bustling business area as the city crept ever outwards to encompass the surrounding neighbourhoods. The building has been a family home, a pre-school, at one time some or other business occupied the downstairs while the upstairs retained its mysterious facade. The house looks truly lived in from the outside.

Like a fading older lady she now sits somewhat abandoned, no signs of life as I drive by. The roses in the garden look a little beaten up and faded, as though they too are tired. The surrounding buildings are being done over, the latest hip colours, burnt orange, dark purple, iguana green and yet she retains her gentility with dirty white walls and green trim...fortunately the blue flirtation that the owners tried previously went away. Perhaps her day has passed and like many of her contemporaries she will make way for a spiffy new office building or yet another blah concrete box or perhaps someone will admire her fine bones and re-make her into something new. Only time will tell. But every morning as I drive by, I salute her for standing another day a reminder of things past and lessons learnt.

Life's perfect moments

As a writer you often forage your own life for material, anything is fair game despite what we tell you. While it is true that fiction is often the result of fevered imaginations, those musings come from taking perfectly ordinary events and building a framework around them.  But really, life is, mostly, more bizarre, entertaining, whichever adjective you find that fits than fiction. 

Last week a "perfect moment' came when spending an evening with an old friend. As we stood together in balmy night gazing up at the crushed velvet sky, he motioned over the roof of his house. And there, shyly peeping over the rim of the Maraval Hills, were a diaphanous group of clouds, reflecting the light of the rising full moon. In the dark, stillness broken only by the sound of the crickets and the occasional passing car, we were enclosed in the loveliness of the moment, watching and waiting as the moon, like a lover, shed its cloud cloak and rose to its fullness, suspended against the starry sky. No need for words, surrounded in the moment.

Lately though, has anyone noticed that our quality of communication is diminishing. Instant messaging, emails etc while giving the appearance of being in touch with the "peeps" have made communication more impersonal, removed. We miss the nuance of actual speech, through tone, intonation and body language. And though, more people are using "apps", like Facetime, Tango and Skype to speak to each other, it's just not the same because it is easier to hide who you really are behind the mask of who we want you to see. And so, the quality of our relationships also diminishes. We have more methods of communication and yet we do less actual communicating.  

Ask yourself this, how many times do you find yourself re-reading an email? Those of us who remember actual letters can also tell you about the time it took to construct one, the painstaking putting together of ideas, experiences and events so that the person on the other end felt like a part of your life. Now we dash off emails to document every waking moment, pictures etc but do we revisit them or even remember them? Do we go back and read them over and over savouring the telling the way we did with letters? Mostly, no, who has the time right?  

Ever notice we spend less time with our family and friends because we're "too busy"? But doing what exactly? Our grandparents had less time saving appliances, no internet, less transport options, a whole lot of lesses actually and yet they seemed to have more time. Perhaps because they were less concerned with filling their every waking moment with "meaningful activity" and more concerned with building a life.   

Several years ago, a workaholic boss of mine decided, somewhat abruptly, that she was going to turn her not inconsiderable energies upon herself. A parent had died and she realised that her life was passing her by inexorably. So she went from 2:00 am emails and leaving the office late every night and weekends, to taking a yoga class, planning a cruise with several friends and eventually, a significant other. After several years of small, significant changes, making memories as she calls it, we noticed that she had become less edgy, her life didn't revolve around the office, it revolved around her.  

So in giving myself the gift of a perfect moment, will hit post and then go cuddle with the dog who patiently waits next to the chair. His soft fur feels like silk beneath my fingers and it is soothing. Meditative petting leading to a long gusty sigh, he is happy and me too. 

As the world turns

Sometimes, in making a decision to change our lives we forget the most important thing, to change. In moving on, we must let go, turn the page or whatever cliched phrase that we choose to insert, to really have meaningful change in our lives. Often, we go weeks or months wondering why nothing seems to be working the way we think it should, or we get frustrated because it's like banging your head against a brick wall.  Because we have clung to the very things that we wanted to leave behind. The lesson when delivered, is usually so obvious that we feel dumb. 

Case in point. In turning my back on a lifelong career, even though I didn't really see it as a career, more a series of jobs that made me proficient at a lot of seemingly useful things, I was ready to move on to something new. Except that some baggage managed to travel with me. 

I forgot the change part. Change is hard, it requires thought and effort on my part, which I'm exceptionally capable of...but usually only apply to my work. And so, in taking up the new course, I threw myself into it, loading up on responsibility, the whole nine yards. And was heading down the road for what I was so trying to leave behind. 

And then, a series of happenings held up the stop sign. What! Wait! Not again! Because you see, in moving on, I hadn't really let go of some stuff that had to go. Opening the newspaper today was the biggest reminder. A random advertisement. The department that I'd spent the better part of a decade building, honing, mentoring and supporting was being advertised. Every single position. We were all gone. Time marches on and things change. Seeing that, knowing the sacrifices, the long hours that cannot be retrieved, the acid reflux disease that still lingers, the lost relationships, missed occasions, all for what? 

In the end it was not ours, we invested heavily my bunch and me. And in the end we were shoved out, unwanted and mostly unappreciated. We've now all gone our separate ways and are a footnote, found on documents or things we worked on. While we left our footprint, that too will soon be gone, swallowed up by the new. And that's ok, because that's life. But it is to remember that we have a life, to live it best we can. 

So today, in moving on, my gypsy soul rejoices at the possibilities, they are endless and they stretch before me. As long as I am brave enough to reach for them and remember the lessons. 

A love affair in 200 words or less

Its a love affair, the kind that makes you hunker down in the sheets, be resentful when the phone rings or you have to get up to walk the dog. With my lover, I have travelled to exotic locations, had adventures, both in and out of the bedroom....met a whole lot of people. Some days am left breathless by the endless possibilities this affair presents. It is starting to take over my life. My former loves are probably getting pretty resentful. 

Consider that one of the things I'm referring to is an inanimate object that I spend way too much quality time with, a MacBook Pro and the other is my best buddy who, coincidentally cannot speak though he conveys disapproval pretty clearly. Having discovered that mostly people annoy me, my most meaningful, long standing relationships other than a handful of really good friends (who are very smart, fun people), have been with said dog and of late, an Amazon Kindle. 

Having been an avid reader ever since my parents first plunked my sulky, anti-social behind down on my little blue rocking chair and handed me a book, my various living abodes have been overrun by shelves and shelves filled with rows of delicious books. I am the kind of person who reads, re-reads and generally gets good value. Books are my escape and I have been known to lug them everywhere. Looking at kids today, thumbs poised over gaming consoles killing the latest alien or whatever, I can only feel sorry for them, because how boring is that. 

Technology has become my friend again, now I can walk around with many books, flip back and forwards between them anywhere! WOW. In my limited time off, I hustle the housework, resenting each moment I spend cleaning the bathroom before I can get back to my latest download. No need to wait for trips to the bookstore anymore, once the WiFi is up and money on the credit card, whoosh. Printed books are still wonderful, you can after all drop them and not have to worry too much about breakage, you can read them when the power goes and they don't require WiFi but, they do sometimes require reading glasses. And to be honest, bookstores are still fun places. 

And so my lover beckons, am off to resume my adventures. What will it be this morning? Wizards and vampires? Murder mysteries or the latest Man Booker award winner? 

What a life

What do cleaning, swimming in the ocean, petting a dog, Bono and Chris Martin have in common? You'd be hard pressed to answer that question unless you've dipped into this blog over the five years that it has sporadically appeared. The answer is, nothing really, except that they have all featured side by side here. 

According to the Mayan Calendar, 2012 was supposed to be it, the year we all went out with a Big Bang. And the wags keep asking, how do we know that the world didn't already end and we just not notice. Huh, right? Other than HOW we get our news, not too much has changed in the news. Economic crisies, scandals, elections, crime, uprisings, protests, manmade and natural disasters...the list is not so different than it's been in the last century. For all our scientific and other advances, on the surface, humankind still appears to be actively courting the fate of the dinosaurs, except, they had a less active role in their decimation. As has proven before, nature has a way of evening up the score and we wait to see what she throws up this time. Or maybe the Mayans just ran out of space on that piece of rock the calendar was carved on eh. 

And as we move through the second decade of this century the real difference seems to be more a lack of hope, a jadedness...for all the self help books, Dr. Phil and finding peace within ourselves, blah, blah blah, it would also appear that the only people benefitting are those who collect the cash. When the next best thing happens like clockwork every 6 months, what is there really to inspire awe and wonder? Is the hype really worth it and why do we feel so empty after we've acquired the next best thing. Why do we feel restless and dissatisfied, craving, the next thing. Is it really just great marketing or is it a hole in our collective souls? 

A significant piece of history went almost unnoticed last week. The unmanned Voyager mission has indeed, boldly gone where no man has gone before. Voyager I is poised to enter the interstellar highway, in doing so it has become the little probe that can. Launched in 1977, the Voyager programme has run ever since, quietly gathering data about the space outside our little cocoon. It is indeed a wondrous thing because it is so much bigger than we know. If there is anybody else out there, Voyager may well be the first piece of man they meet. Think about that. 

To borrow from the evergreen Noel Gallagher, " Someday you might find your hero
Some say you might lose your mind..................Keep on chasing down that rainbow
You'll never know what you might find, Over the sunset on the horizon".  Somehow the words seem to fit, coming from a man who's now lived about half his life, experienced the highs and lows, seemingly understanding what is important to him. Maybe that tiger you want to take for a ride isn't the next phone or gadget, it's life.

Finding a Duck Girl

One day back in Trinidad and Tobago and cynicism takes over. All over the news, reports of corrupt practices, Section 34, murder; you might wonder why Batman does not come and save us all. The heat has not helped, each day has dawned clear, typical picture book perfect Caribbean, blue skies, thin streams of clouds. Missing from the picture is the relentless humidity that causes one's clothes to stick and make up to run long before lunchtime.

It becomes easier to be cynical and jaded, to not find hope or see any possibility that anything will change in the any time soon. Because people in authority are saying, "oh forget about that and time to move on". Never mind the incident that they refer to strikes at the heart of our structures. Instructive to note, for once the people are speaking.

What does this have to do with ducks? Not a thing unless one is thinking of the ubiquitous curried item usually served up with roti and rum to a population who will wine till they die.  No no, this is much better, a tiny store, perched on the edge of a busy street where one could more commonly buy barbecued wings or illegal DVD's. The Duck Girl is chock full of curios run by a free spirit called Jade Drakes. Perhaps now the name of the store becomes clear. Drakes are the male duck.

Stuffed into every conceivable corner are handmade things, or found things which have been repurposed with love and a great deal of artistry. Presiding over the space is the creator herself, sitting at her bench sewing away at another apron or fashioning clever earrings. Handmade books, necklaces, sun reflectors, all manner of wonderful things that invite you to pick them up, caress them, ask about them and best of all, take them home.  The store is more of a happening than a retail centre. Jade will chat, show you her things, talk about creating.....you cannot help yourself. Only the most mean spirited will not wish to stay and enjoy the beauty in small things.

It's easy to be angry, or to forget the things that make a place special. Having lived away from this place for 14 years the artist has returned. Hoping that her dream will meet with success. That people will love her things enough to buy them and give them good homes. That her expressions will be received and appreciated. And so they should. Because they are made with such hope and goodwill. Something we all could use.

The Hulk

In the closing fight at the end of the Avengers, Bruce Banner turns to Steve Rogers  aka Captain America and says to him, "that's my secret, i'm always angry". Welcome to the club! For weeks I've avoiding writing, afraid that if I started putting things down it would become a huge vomit, purging the bile that threatens to choke me day after day. 

It has been an endless litany of hearing, things are bad everywhere, blah, blah, blah. Sure they are, nobody is denying that, all you have to do is surf the internet or read a newspaper. And now that I've started to write this, there is no desire to continue, what would be the point? Another session of raving about incompetence or stupidity. How does this change anything? 

Having spent a lifetime trying to change things, fight for causes etc, what use has it all been? Sure things were accomplished, sure there have been huge bright, shiny moments, but firetruck it's tiring! And for what? So here's the thing Trinidad and Tobago, from here on in, go with whichever deity you pick. Because enough is enough. Finding it too hard to come up with redeeming factors...I don't care who the reigning Government is, you're all the same. Throwing in my towel, will find somewhere that my contribution will be less meaningless. 

Nose, meet face

Cutting subsidies

At yesterday's  RBC Financial (Caribbean)'s Breakfast Seminar on "The Trinidad and Tobago Economy: Risks, Opportunities and Outlook", two financial experts indicated that the Trinidad and Tobago Government look towards cutting down various subsidies by the State in order to address economic issues. Well it's only a matter of time really. 


For fifty years, since the discovery of oil and later, the sale of natural gas, successive political parties have used the Treasury to induce a welfare state in order to manipulate a voting public. We've had life pretty sweet with subsidised power, gas, free education....the list is quite long. It is instructive to note that Singapore, a mangrove ridden country with few natural resources went from third world to first world nation status in their fifty years of independence. We, on the other hand, invented a musical instrument. 


Not that we seem to be in any way averse to getting handouts mind you. We have a huge sense of entitlement, Trinidadians are the first to bleat when anything is taken away, never mind the reasoning. Older people still blame the late Dr. Eric Williams who was alleged to say, "money is no problem". Considering that he never actually said the words, and we've had at least 3 generations who only know of him as a historical figure, this is pretty weak reasoning to continue that school of thought. 


The global financial landscape has changed, the world moves in real time due to ever growing access to information and communications. These days all kinds of people are accessing the power of the internet, it is now keep up if you want to compete. Survival of the most cunning and media savvy. And so to the subsidies. There are many reasons for and against. 


The current business climate in the country can charitably be described as stagnant. For the last two years we have had negative growth, an oxymoron really, how can you use negative and growth in the same sentence? The Central Bank Governor has gone through great verbal gymnastics not say that we are in a recession, except that everything he's said points to just that.  The Business community, some of the most risk averse people around, have said they are not surprised by his pronouncements. 


The question then begs to be asked, if you are not surprised, what are you doing to ensure that your business is positioned correctly? How are you engaging the Government to offer meaningful suggestions on tackling the problems? How are you treating with your customers and staff to ensure that they continue to support you? So far there seems to be little evidence of this kind of thinking  but I'm always willing to be corrected. 


And then there's the Government themselves. Have they clearly articulated plans with attached implementation dates for mechanisms that will stimulate the economy? What about the much talked about Public Sector reform to enable better access to government services? One such mechanism, ttBizLink has been around for more than a year, slowly coming on, one  painful module at a time. 

There is no doubt that subsidies will have to go, but this will be brutal unless carefully timetabled. Government will have to operate more efficiently, businesses will have to streamline their processes, become leaner, effective and the people of Trinidad and Tobago might finally wake up and realise that, no, God is not a Trini. The irony in this is there are many Trinidadians doing ground breaking things, in science, literature, art, and tourism, but they're mostly doing it on their own, against punishing odds. 

Sadly, until there is collective recognition that we need to change; to respect people's time, intellectual property, boundaries, we as a nation will constantly be stuck in a rut. We cannot continue to go along as if life is one big fete. So while the country collectively waits to see the outcome of the next Cabinet re-shuffle, the second in as many years, there will be obligatory "celebration" this week of Indian Arrival Day. Here's a novel thought, perhaps we need less public holidays, less "celebrations" and more concentrated effort. 

Reform this not that

Things that make you want to scream.


Calling Government Ministries for information -


Phone rings, person answers : Hello


You: Good morning, have I reached the (insert relevant dept here)? 


GE: yeah.


You: I am trying to obtain information on (insert subject)


GE:  Nah, hold on, is not here you want, is X dept. 


Alternatively: The person you need to speak to not here, call back later. Phone is hung up. 


Or: the phone just rings and rings and rings until it cuts off.


Trying to get your contract gratuity?


HR file is pulled, paperwork is checked to make sure contract is signed. Assumption and resumption of duty letters, sick leave, leave entitlement etc all in order. File is then sent to Accounts for computation. 


Accounts then checks back the dates and figures, computes what 20% of that is, minus tax.


File then travels to Internal Audit to be audited, because clearly Accounts cannot be trusted to compute correctly.


If all goes well and the planets align, file is then sent to higher powers to be signed off on. HR then forwards file to Ministry of Finance for payment.


Keep in mind, there is no set time for this process to happen in most Ministries. 


So File arrives at Min of Finance, Pensions Division. It goes to, surprise, surprise, COMPUTATIONS. So they can make sure that everything is all computed. 


From there it goes to Auditor General, to be audited, again.


Then approvals, so that someone can say, yes, please pay.


Finally, it goes to ACCOUNTS, for a cheque to be issued.


How long does this process take? Anywhere from six months to three years!


Hopefully in the meantime you will have gotten another job, and called every week to check on the status of your file. (see above)


Actually, talk to most Trinidadians and they'll tell you their version of "Dealing with Government". Now that's not to say that there haven't been improvements, they have. Sadly, the improvements are always outweighed by unpleasant people, tedious processes, time consuming waits and apathy. There are filing cabinets full of plans that will never get implemented, studies that are ignored, professionals whose opinions are sought and then ignored. In the end, the people who work, expect results or want change give up, ground down by relentless indifference or incompetence of those who have a vested interest in maintaing the status quo.  And that is what makes losers out of all of us. 

The Hunger Games Trini Style

Tomorrow, thousands of Trinidadian and Tobagonian children, between the ages of ten to twelve will go through an ancient rite of passage. This ordeal is so intense, that it can be likened to Suzanne Collins'  Hunger Games novel, they anticipate it for years before, parents wait with dread. As in the books, those who can afford it, prepare, hundreds of hours of extra lessons, coaching, giving up your life for that one day that will define the next seven years, those that can't, well do your best.  


Sounds pretty barbaric doesn't it? While these children do not have to kill anyone to survive, their self esteem, peace of mind and their very childhood, is marked with a stress that is at best unfair, and at worst, draconian. I am referring to the SEA, the exam that marks the passage from elementary school to high school. This is the test that "places" you, hopefully, into a school of your (parents) choice. 


Short summary of the circumstances. In Trinidad and Tobago, you do not necessarily attend school in and around your neighbourhood. Theoretically, parents can sign their kids up to go to primary/elementary school anywhere in the country.  The reality is that most parents either pick a school close to their workplace or on the basis that it will provide the best preparation for the SEA Exam. Children are often forced to get up in the wee hours of the morning, get ready for school, then sit in traffic with their parents or sometimes on their own using public transport to get to school. Now if this were 1912 that would be one thing, but it is 2012! This is reinforced when they get to high school age. Parents then pick schools based on stellar academic performance, perceived teaching standards etc. All laudable, but children are taught from a very early age that if you don't get into one of the "prestige" schools, you're literally screwed. A failure, at age 11 plus. That's the short story anyway. 


Now there is nothing wrong with testing, tests measure your knowledge and can form a basis for assessment. However, they should never be the only assessment tool. Though life can be changed by the outcome of one day, you didn't commit a crime so for something like this,why should your life be predicated on the result of one day. Why, you ask, would any parent willingly put their children through something like that? Why would any right thinking parent want to subject their child to untold stress and strain? Why aren't parents calling for real education reform? Universal teaching standards? Continuous assessment? Zoning of schools so children can form bonds within their communities? Why aren't parents concerned that all children receive the best education possible? But it appears that we are that selfish. 


As a country that says we are committed to achieving first world ideals we continue to be loath to put them into practice. Before you call me a liar, read any of the daily newspapers, follow social media or talk to anybody in a rum shop. Whether it is educational reform or our seeming ability to use a walkover instead of running across the road, we complain and moan about the same things over and over, even when the fixes are obvious and even easy.  What is even stranger, parents themselves have been through this horror and perpetuate it. Many of us have been to non-prestige schools and have not only survived but in fact gone on to be productive, successful adults. So why do we choose to keep our children enslaved? Is it to feed our egos that our little darling is "prestigious"? Is it really worth it? And if that's the case, then the taxpayer should not foot the bill, you should. Because ALL schools should offer at the very least, a high standard of education. Trinidad and Tobago has been the wealthiest country in the Caribbean for most of the 50 years we have been independent. So why is it so hard for us to accept that at least our children are truly deserving of better? Is it that we need our own version of Katniss Everdeen, a rebellion fueled by children? 


Meanwhile, in deference to all my friends who are parents with SEA aged children, and to the rest of the nations hope, Good luck to you all. May the odds be ever in your favour. 

Something for the soul

Today, it is overcast, a watery sun is determinedly peeping out despite being continually  obliterated by grey clouds.  Today is a Miles Davis in the Blue Note years kind of day. Smoky, smooth, mellow and just a little sad. Miles on the horn, miles to go before the task is done. Miles makes me want to drink dark, rich coffee, taste, slightly bitter. Deep chocolate cake with just a hint of pepper, luscious and decadent, mouth feel. No, not a granola or oats kind of day. 

Change for the people

An old friend arrived from England this week, it is his third trip here in as many months. He is not here to visit with family, or see friends, nor is he here for a relaxing vacation. Sadly, he's had to make multiple visits because of attempts by a stranger to fraudulently sell a property that belongs to him. His journey navigating through the waters of bureaucracy has been an education for us all. 


The first salvo started late last year, the phone rang and his voice which had been a daily part of life for many years before he left, crackled across the miles. It was a long, convoluted story that stood out for the bold facedness of the perpetrator and the incompetence in the existing system that makes it easy for this type of crime to occur.  He'd called me because he needed information and having to call long distance, was racking up huge phone bills with little to show for it.  I won't go into the details, they are long and painful involving many trips to government offices, the police, the court etc. He has once again had to take time off from work to come here and sit and wait while his court dates are moved arbitrarily. His employer, though understanding, is getting less tolerant. 


Listening to him there is a sense of shame. For what seems like a lifetime I worked in an organisation that had responsibility for engineering change in the Public Service. In the end, my reason for leaving was that we were committed to talking about change, writing many papers on change management but we didn't in fact want to change anything. A former boss, one day in frustration said to me, to change things, you have to change things. He too, was defeated by the prevailing attitudes and now lives outside of this country. Several of my thinking colleagues, in the end also ground down by the effort and seeing first hand what was possible if someone only had the balls to try, have also fled to places where they feel their contributions would be better appreciated. And lately, I've been understanding that axiom more and more. 


It makes my friend's antipathy to living here real. He asks every time we speak why I live here and do I really think that I can change anything. And the answer is, no. 
One consistent irritation in my long working career has been long it takes to get things done, get information or even get someone to answer the phone. Having spent a week trying to get through to  a government agency, where the phone just rings until the system cuts you off, there is a sense that several generations will have to die before any meaningful change occurs. My friend's trip yesterday underlines the sense of frustration, he had to go to four offices to get one transaction complete. None of the offices were located close to each other requiring driving from one town to another. All I can do is listen and buy him another drink. 


Because as long as we believe that: God is a Trini, that we have oil and gas money flowing, that we can continue throw our hands in the air and say "what yuh go do" while continuing to accept the status quo, we as a country will be stuck right where we are.