I have a confession. Something that many of my old teams and bosses would agree on; I’m not a great ‘completer finisher’. I’m the one with the best intentions; the memory reminders of birthdays and the corresponding cards that don’t get sent; the business ideas which are researched, modified, written and then never put to fruition; the one who starts a project, gets bored and is distracted by the next shiny thing. I’m the person who is awarded certificates but rarely diplomas because there is always something else new to study, who half-reads books and then their final pages because there is always a new book waiting to be cannibalised.
There are lots of us out there. Most of us know we have this problem so we put strategies in place to try to stay on track to see our initially exciting task through to the end. By then we are probably crying with boredom tears and dragging our feet out of bed in the morning. It gets done but it can be a bit slapdash and made merry towards its conclusion (unless you have OCD, but that’s another story). Our reward for sticking with it is our system being flooded by intense feelings of satisfaction and relief.
Folks like me are best suited to working in change as the change within the change is what keeps us motivated.
I know all this so when I gamely announce I’m cutting all sugar on October 1 for a month, I have bought the journal, downloaded the app, cleaned out the fridge reorganising its now healthy contents and hidden all the temptations. During week 1 I am evangelical; studiously reading labels in the supermarkets and taking 3 times as long to do the weekly shop. Craig eats more green stuff in a week than he’s done for the past 3 months. Week 2, I’m batch cooking on Sunday and feeling very virtuous. This is the week where I join a health studio and start going to classes back to back, working through the associated aches and pains of a body that somewhere in its muscle memory knows it’s just a fad so to go with it until another distraction comes along.
Week 3 and the 19th of October is designated international Day at school. The day where you bring in the taste of home for other parents, teachers and pupils to sample. Generally the preceding day is intense as you connect with your memories of comfort and home as you stir and shake, smell, touch and taste your offerings.
Scotland, like Barbados, is rooted in sugar. We’re not known for our salads and vegetables. We like our sweets, stews and starch.
Correspondingly, I make Tattie scones, Macaroon Bars, Tablet and Fairy cakes. The latter being my concession to belonging to the UK as I have brought pre-prepared iced Union Jack flags back to the island.
I boil the potatoes for the scones and the Macaroon bars. I am not tempted by the kilo of icing sugar mixed with potato that makes the fondant. I am stoic when melting my favourite dark chocolate and oven roasting the desiccated coconut. But when you put it all together and they come out of the freezer looking so tasty, one tiny piece in the mouth doesn’t count. Surely?
By now I am boiling the sugar, condensed milk and vanilla essence for my Tablet. I’m using a new recipe which guarantees success; after all why use the recipe handed down from generation to generation when there is something new to try?
I follow these new steps to the letter, measuring each ingredient carefully, completing each step as instructed (this is not normal behaviour given my more ‘instinctive’ approach to cooking). It doesn’t look the same but I gamely pour it into the baking pan to set. But it doesn’t. I have to taste it. This doesn’t count either as it’s a necessity and not a need. Least that’s what I tell myself. Of course it takes several tastes before I finally accept that its gritty and I have to start all over again. This time I use the family recipe and it all goes to plan. Apart from I obviously have to taste test it to make sure. One square is not enough to convince me. It takes several squares before confirming it’s a good enough offering.
My system is now flooded with sugar as I move onto making the Fairy Cakes. Now as a wee girl, the reward for helping my Nana do her twice weekly baking, is to get to lick the spoon or clean the bowl. Every time I bake, which is not often as my boys are not big into cakes, I connect with Nana as I swipe my finger round the uncooked mix, popping it into my mouth and thinking of her soft, large, floury, welcoming arms. An entire bowl of uncooked fairy cake mix is now shouting at me; “Love me. Enjoy me. Eat me”.
I have no willpower. I go to bed wired from my sugar cacophony, convincing myself that it’s just been a blip day.
My blips and slips continue over the next couple of weeks. Yesterday I ate a Mars bar, drank a rum sour and enjoyed a piece of rum cake. To my mind once you’ve sinned once, you might as well make it a day of sinning rather than a mouthful.
I also know it doesn’t matter. For I am lucky enough to wake up today. And it’s November 1.
Salad anyone?
I subscribe to Seth Godin’s blog and his musings and jottings arrive in my email box with impressive regularity. I like the way he views the world. He is concise and thought provoking- a real change catalyser.
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.
It’s a warning and a blessing to still be here and to be able to hug, hold and communicate with friends and loved ones. Over the passage of time, memories smooth out some of the trauma and daily gratitude often slips from the conscious to the subconscious, only popping to the fore when reminders snake up. This is how it should be, it’s how the system helps repair the self.
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?
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.
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.
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.
