At 7.05 on Tuesday, Roscoe and I leave the house in a flurry of panic, raised voices and general chaos. I don’t like being responsible this early in the morning; it’s against my better nature to nurture someone who is even more morning challenged than I am. Normally this is Craig’s job but he’s in Grenada at some ‘highfalutin’ political event. So here I am, cortisol pumped and determined to get the child to the school bus on time. On the way, I stop to help an elderly local lady who, it transpires, is thumbing a lift on behalf of her daughter and grandchildren. After waiting for three generations to get into the car, we hurtle down the hill making the bus with a pipsqueak of a second to spare.
Sandra, the hitch-hiking grandma, discovers I am headed for the South Coast, necessitating a drive through Bridgetown, so she decides to ‘visit town’, and on the way we have a very lively discussion about the state of Barbados and the changes it’s going through. I find out about her views on the upcoming elections and what she thinks about the sewage troubles and its impact on tourism on the South Coast. She is very forthcoming about “the problems with the youth” and challenges of finding employment for older workers. I am sorry to have her leave the car – she is a lively, informative and entertaining car companion.
I travel another 20 minutes through heavy traffic before thankfully finding a space in a rapidly filling car park. It’s 7.45am and I’m opposite the offices of the Barbados Association of Retired Persons (BARP). I’m here to apply for my BARP card. To my dismay, the queue is already approximately 50 people long and I hustle to find my spot in the line. When the doors open at 0800 there is a surprising amount of queue jumping and tussle, with quite a few colourful words being ‘Bajaned’ about. It doesn’t take me too long to find myself in the blissful air-conditioned office where pandemonium and chaos ensue due to lack of signage, helpful staff and multiple confusing queuing lines. It takes some time to find my place, conform to the process and pay my money. 
But in the intervening 4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.
Older folks care less about conforming or holding back their opinions and they are clear about their sense of right and wrong, so if there is anyone daft enough to try and step out of line, they run the risk of an elderly lynch mob, sharp of tongue and elbow. And to wile away the time they chat and gossip, not caring a jot about what others may think. I bury my head in my book, my ears sharp and my mouth closed. And just like my earlier conversation, I learn much of the elder perspective of Barbados. 
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?
If only this was an affliction solely attributable to the elders of Barbados. But in my experience, this happens across many cultures, countries, organisations. In the UK we used to have a well-known television character – Victor Meldrew – who made an entire comedy show out of his ability to whinge and whine. It was very funny because it was so sharply drawn from reality. But what causes this slide into the pit of complaint and distrust? I think it’s about our ability, aptitude and attitude towards change.
We all know that the passing of time creates change – it’s an irrefutable fact. Not one of us stands unmarked as we grow and age. Our individual and collective consciousness towards what’s gone before is a vast mine of knowledge and data, of what’s worked and what hasn’t and what patterns of actions and behaviour have subsequently been formed as a result. The secret is to know when these hold us back, when they are merely interesting observations from the past or if they may have a bearing on what’s yet to come. I have sat with senior executives who try to bend employee survey results to fit in with their view of the world and how the organisation used to be; and on one memorable occasion, when working with the CEO and his Executive team on the culture and values of the organisation, I listened to my Executive Director inform me of what these would be, based on his experience in the civil service, not on the evidence presented in front of him.
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?
Listening to my BARP compatriots belly aching about the ills and wrongs wakes me up. We all need to consciously move away from a tendency to complain or pass negative judgement or look back to the “good old days”. If this becomes our default button, we need to button our mouths until something more constructive comes out. We too were once young, making mistakes and hopefully learning from them. Surely as upcoming elders of society we must role-model problem solving, constructive thinking, compassion, understanding, curiousity and passion for life. We are the life survivors. It is our collective responsibility to seek out and support others looking for positive alternatives in a changing world.
And while I may be a card carrying BARP member, with multiple store discounts now available, I’ve no intention of retiring. My knowledge and skills are helpful in shaping the world of tomorrow. I’m here to make a difference, and my age and cultural history have nothing to do with the value I offer and the change I create.
Did anyone watch the 
The ugly truth is I’ve enabled this child to be solely focused on his pleasure and play. His contribution to the smooth running of the household is negligible. He is my adored little prince and up to this week I’ve been pressed into service running around picking up the dirty clothes, making the sleepover beds, changing the sleepover beds as different friends come and stay, making vat-sized quantities of pasta and crepes; washing, drying and putting away dishes only to do it all over again about 30 minutes later as teenage boys seem to have bottomless hungry stomachs. The Lesner article and Jo’s challenge conjure up a massive magnifying glass that makes me squirm. For although he is much-loved and adored, I am raising a lazy boy-man that no women in her right mind would ever want to become shackled to. A boy-man with latent but emerging social stereotypical thinking about the role of women. I have to take responsibility as a Mother to make sure my son goes out into the world as a fully functioning, contributing and supportive adult. A male able to positively contribute to society with little prejudice and judgement, who sees alternative genders as equal. A man who is sensitive to the needs of others and willing to co-partner, co-parent, co-create.
However, his burgeoning interest in girls means we need to step up our efforts to have him recognise that women are so much more than visual distractions in a day full of “boring” academia. It’s difficult in a place like Barbados where daily wear consists of few scraps of cloth and much shaking of booty. Here, local girls are queens of sexual suggestion and promise. Their role model, Rihanna, is much admired and adored.
This was the time when as a young girl, I could open the cupboard and be greeted by the images of semi-naked/bikini clad girls on my Dads beer cans. Where I would beg the babysitter to let me stay up to watch Miss World, broadcast on the BBC. This was the time when a grope was a way of saying “I fancy you” and standing on a crowded underground tube train could engender the indelible feeling of hand on thigh, bum or even boob with no chance of reprisal. My first ever communications role was for an automotive company which produced ‘tasteful’ naked girly calendars to rival Pirelli and they expected us to distribute these without a bat of an eye or blush of cheek.
So I’m emboldened and heartened by the ‘Me too’ movement. With clearer sight of right and wrong both men and women have more visible guidelines for what is appropriate and inappropriate in today’s workplace. Flirting is fine as long as both parties are mutually interested, both now know where the line is and the potential consequences of crossing it. However, I fear that old habits can be hard to break and the male power and ego dynamic which lurks in so many large corporations means it is likely to take a generation and several prosecutions until the message is rammed home. In no circumstances should a lewd suggestion or hand be placed on an unwilling subordinate. In no circumstances should any woman be made to feel lesser, inferior, because of a mistaken misogynistic, outdated male view-point.
The people of the world, no matter where they’re located, are beginning to hear and see that society is changing and its possible to take a stand. And the brave women who speak their truths need to be supported and listened to for they are today’s pioneers and change catalysts, shining beacons of worth and courage.
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.
In fact on our wedding day, the only words she uttered in my direction were to tell me to get the band to turn the sound down as she couldn’t hear herself speak to her friends! But saying nothing is almost easier than stepping up to the plate. So I admire May Fulton’s honesty although it’s obvious to me now that it wasn’t personal; no woman would ever have been good enough for her wee boy.
The temple itself is a nine sided building designed to represent unity of all faiths. Its golden brick gleams in the sunlight and the green 44ft diameter dome stretches 130ft into the blue cloudless sky. After a leisurely wander around the temple, we sit in the well manicured garden, shaded by a large tree. I fuss around with eats and drinks all the while thinking Craig is quietly subsumed by the serenity and peace of the place. Below us a group of school children are listening intently to their lessons, the sound of the African lilt coming from the teaching nuns is being carried upwards in the light breeze. Craig jolts me out of my revere with a meaningful speech about there only being seven Baha’i temples in the world. That’s one for every continent so we’re sitting in a most special place in Africa, a place where all faiths and beliefs come together under the larger concept of humanity. He says some other lovely things and by the end of his discourse I’ve agreed to make a lifetime commitment and I’m wearing a stunning diamond on the 3rd finger of my left hand. Of course we hug and kiss and then look up to face an irate nun, angrily admonishing us for such a public display of affection in a holy place. We apologise and listen to a long lecture about the sanctity of innocence and the need to avoid encouraging the virginal young minds down the hill into wanton ‘harlotedness’