I’m sitting in a girlfriends kitchen listening to Radio Four Woman’s Hour. The rain is clearing up and the temperature is beginning to rise. While she is away on holiday, we’re looking after her two dogs who sit next to me forlornly hoping for an illicit snack before reluctantly giving up and heading back out to explore the garden again. It’s a normal Monday morning. Nothing unremarkable in its rhythm or pattern.
I tune into the radio conversation, this segment is talking about bullying and I stop to fully listen. One of the guests is a psychotherapist and she is describing how she is struggling to manage a current bullying situation she is experiencing. Her words are so simple and so heart rendering, she is lost trying to work out, logically, rationally, how to deal with the pain and confusion she feels. I recognise her confusion and relate to her bewilderment. In my experience, bullying comes from an emotional place. The bully is trying to assuage an internal need for power, control, acceptance or is driven by insecurity. The bullied, when they realise they are being bullied, take flight, fight or are frozen in fear.
At 5 yrs old, I sit on the school bus trying to work out how to be first off when the bus grinds to its stop in our village. I can then sprint home before James, that tubby, ginger-headed, bigger boy catches me and makes good on his taunts to “bash my face in”. It takes about four months for the slow anger inside to build to a crescendo and one memorable moment when I get off the bus and turn to face him, shrugging my satchel off my shoulders and standing square up to him. Children of all ages crowd around us chanting “Fight! Fight”! James lifts his fists, does a wee dance on his toes and bobs me squarely on the nose, upon which blood spurts out and I start to cry. Everyone runs off and I wander home looking for comfort and care. But I make friends because of my courage and James leaves me alone after this.
In High school, I discover how evil and vindictive the female form can be; enduring 4 years of prolonged bullying, name calling and nastiness. I don’t respond, I hang out with the non-cool girls who take comfort in the fact that they’re not the ones being picked on. Just as before, there is no sympathy at home, instead a mistaken belief that bullying toughens you up. Ironically not having familial support, care or back up has a greater impact on my fortitude than the bullying does.
Many years later and as a senior professional in a FTSE10 organisation, I experience insidious, manipulative bullying from my Executive Director. To begin with he starts ignoring my ideas and suggestions in meetings, occasionally belittling these when he can, then he starts to forget to ask me to attend meetings and when challenged makes some excuses before repeating this behaviour again. I go on holiday and he reorganises my department and reduces my budget while I’m gone. When I return I ask to speak with him to resolve these difficulties and he questions my values not my skills or knowledge. He hires in another layer to stop me reporting into him. At this point other senior colleagues are starting to notice his behaviour. I speak to the acting Executive HR Director, believing her to be a friend as well as colleague- she says all the right things but does nothing and the bullying continues. Subsequently, I speak to the CEO’s senior aide yet still it continues. By this point I’m a shadow of myself, now too frightened to speak up, seeing plots and scenarios that don’t exist, second guessing potential situations, focusing everything through the narrow filter of ego; not being good enough, strong enough, clever enough, smart enough. My confidence is shot to pieces. In addition I’m now dealing with a new, bumbling, inept boss, who needs me to help him navigate and interpret the political waters and the new business strategy. I dread getting up, showing up; hiding my strain from my team who need motivation and encouragement. I attempt to shrug off my worries that my, by now sub-standard, contributions make no difference. I am frozen by fear. A rabbit caught in headlights too blinding, proving to all I’m worthless, useless, inept, unworthy.
I hit the burnout wall like a fly sizzling in an electric flytrap. 
Recovery, without chemicals, is a long, slow, laborious slog. I tap, meditate, deep breathe, chant, star-jump, go on long walks, talk with my therapist and Craig and even decide this is the best time to do my NLP Masters certificate! I swallow industrial quantities of brain sharp, fish-oil capsules, start a course of healing homeopathy and sob as the Reiki master works on my feet. Over time my suicidal thoughts subside but the well of tears is deep and they flow unchecked, unwanted, unbidden, slowly providing healing and solace. I journal furiously, pen barely touching the page as the words I’ve not been able to speak out in months, flow like a torrent that cannot be dammed. I begin to come out of my cocoon, agree to go to Spain with some work based girlfriends so I can practice integration, care and support again and while there, allow myself to acknowledge that the persistent ulcer that’s been in my mouth for these past few months now needs specialist attention.
At this point I know that prolonged bullying has put a huge stress on my body. Being chronically stressed because of the bullying triggers my inability to sleep which in turn fires my adrenaline. This is when a chain reaction is triggered releasing the stress hormone, cortisol, from my adrenal gland. Now my limbic system is shouting Fire, Fire! and the neurological response comes out to save the day. The limbic system runs my emotions, memory and instinctual survival reactions. So my amygdala is constantly helping me to feel frightened and scared and is reinforcing my sense of danger while my hippocampus is reminding me of all those previous times and situations when I faced something similar and the reaction I chose which saved me. Round and round this cycle goes, only my memories of bullying were when I was young and fighting or fleeing was the right decision. Now, I’m a grown-up in a job I love/d and I’m frozen.
Faced with so much stress, fear, emotion, my body eventually reacts and shuts down. Ironically unable to speak out, to right the wrong, to fix the problem, the part of me that has been most stuck manifests itself in cancer of the mouth.
And I’m relieved.
Cancer gives me a societally acceptable excuse for my absence from work. Whereas before I’m ashamed of my burnout and my inability to stand up to the bullying, with a mouth cancer diagnosis, ironically I can talk again.
And an addendum to this story; on Christmas Eve, 19 days after my cancer surgery, my new Executive Director sends me a letter telling me they are cutting my salary by 50%. The organisation does not recognise two consecutive illnesses.
Sometimes, it takes time to realise that no job, is ever worth it. Sometimes, it’s just so blindingly obvious, it hurts.
But in the intervening 4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.
Sadly, my conclusion is that there is little joy in the hearts of the elders. Conversations are formed of complaints and injustices, of things going wrong, not done right, criticisms, finger pointing, blame. Not one person offers an opinion or thought focused on solving issues or making things better, not one seems grateful to be there, to be able to stand in line. This negativity is like a poison filled boil; it’s toxic in its ability to swallow folks into the swamp of disapproval and distrust. Since when does growing older mean growing grumpy?
Here in Barbados many still cling to their history of slavery and servitude as a cloak of context and rationale for all slights and ills. It’s been explained to me that this history justifies why women view other women not as sisters but as competition; and culturally why men don’t feel they have the same responsibilities for contributing to family life. I don’t know if any of this is true but what is interesting is that when I ask about culture and patterns of behaviour – trying to understand why things work the way they do – quite often the response is to go back 200 years. I even had one lady tell me she feels the pain of her slave ancestors every day. If folks always live in the past, how can they bear responsibility for the here and now, for what’s going to go on in the future?
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
I’ve been stuck in my bubble, wallowing in its silence and peace. A less stressful, slower life beat. An opportunity to pause, to breathe, to observe. I focus on family, I make good on my promises. I am grateful and fortunate yet at the same time still unfulfilled.
He knows these words are not to be used in everyday conversation but it seems to be a right of passage of teenagedom to ‘talk dirty’ in front of your friends. I stand on the cliff top this evening watching him learn to surf with a bunch of school friends and the winds carry a clear bell tone of colour which causes an inward wince. Occasionally, he will use a colloquialism for a body part or sexual act and always I try to ignore it, so the word loses its power.
All good communicators know it’s harder to write headlines for the Redtops than the Broadsheets, to appeal to the working man as well as his middle manager. But it’s a lazy communicator who chooses to appeal just to the masses, as the herd mentality will never create a long-term sustainable solution; they become too preoccupied with belonging. Great ideas and solutions come from thinking differently and speaking out; even if people disagree with a decision or view, if it’s explained well and understood, there is a better chance of bringing people together and of their working for the greater good. Understanding your audience and communicating thoughts and ideas to those who may not be of your political persuasion, education or social class is a real skill. Done well, it can shift thinking and perception.
Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man. I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking. It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened. This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter. I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being. That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience. These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.
As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening – not judging, shouting nor fixing. By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.
A deception sustained for short bursts of time – enough time for visitors to get off and back on the plane. Real Barbados is much more complex and far more interesting. An island currently experiencing a seismic shift in its culture and attitudes, where hard decisions need to be made to create sustainable changes so as to reinvigorate a flagging economy and shift antiquated working practices.
We drank rum punch on the Jolly Roger even though I was teetotal and could barely stand at the end of the day. It was here I had my first encounter with flying cockroaches who seemed to wait until I was in the shower before they would helicopter in and attempt to land in my hair ( I still go weak kneed when I see one). And it was here I was first bitten by mosquitos and directly applied the juice from the aloe plant to the bite. Flying to Barbados was the first time I had been on a plane, the first time I had been out of the UK.
It was at the beach by the Hilton Barbados that he first stuck his toes into soft warm sand and paddled waist deep in the warm salty sea water. It was Barbados that helped the sea seduce my child, where he first awkwardly jiggled his hips to soca music and where he first felt sun so hot that his skin now goes berry brown instead of Scottish raspberry red.
A title is everything and nothing. What counts and demonstrates the mark of the wo/man are their behaviours and actions. Words come easy but it’s their meaning and associated results which make the difference.
The people in Manchester and London who turn out in their thousands, stand in brave defiance of any act of terrorism. They choose to not be cowed in the face of mad extremism. They turn up, young and old, girls and boys, men, women and gender neutral, gay, straight. Christian’s, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus. Atheists – no matter how they define themselves – they stand together across our country. Remarkably so many enjoying the concert in Manchester tonight are the ones who got away two weeks ago.
