Here we are in sunny Belfast.
Volunteering was something I knew I wanted to do when I moved. In Peckham I had been volunteering with the Dulwich Helpline* as a volunteer befriender. My 'befriend', Nancy, was a 90 year-old Jamaican lady who'd lived in SouthEast London for the best part of 60 years. Being befriends with Nancy was a treat. When she was feeling up to it, it was a joy to take her out and about; when she wasn't feeling up to it, it was a joy to hear her laugh as she defeated me at Ludo. She did not mess about. Some days, really low days, it was enough to just sit quietly together with a cup of tea. I never knew what was going to greet me at Nancy's: 'Come in, baby, come in', or 'I'm dying, baby, I'm dying'.
Some days I couldn't be bothered. It was cold. Or raining. Or I was hungover. But I was always glad I went: Apart from the occasional stroll in the park and a trouncing at Ludo, hanging out with Nancy provided me with an incredible opportunity to see into a totally different community, a totally different experience of the world. Nancy's days gave mine perspective (and, I hope, vice-versa).
Understanding the day to day experience of an elderly, disabled, single immigrant living on a government allowance is something which, try as they might, cannot be conveyed in an AgeUK brochure or an ad for energy providers. It's a lonely, stale-smelling, grotty place. People bustle in and out, drop-off your lunch, see that you're taking your medications. They'll help you into bed, wash your laundry. People will collect your shopping and put your bins out. They're generally kind. But they're not your friends. You're not sharing experiences with them - they have a uniform, or a badge, and they haven't chosen you.
Knowing Nancy has, I think, greatly broadened my horizons. But it also broke my heart a bit. She was upset when I told her, a month or so beforehand, that I was moving. She'd just had a postcard from me from France with a picture of Al & I on the front. She was astonished that this was possible (so was I - touchnote people, download it now), and wondered if I'd gotten famous for something while she wasn't watching. She shook her head when I told her. 'You're moving? To Ireland?' she asked. 'Ah', she said, 'you love him. That's good.' I couldn't deny it.
But as I left from my last visit with her, she sobbed. And there's nothing, but nothing, to make you feel like the world's biggest asshole like closing the door behind to you a soundtrack of an old lady's tears, your face wet against the breeze as you wipe away you own. Befriends.
So, like I said: I knew I wanted to find a volunteering opportunity in my next homeplace. The tears, the being beaten at boardgames - what's not to like? HomeStart was a charity I'd heard of before, and I was keen to work with a family. That way, I figured, I'd get to hang with some grown-ups and a kid or two. I don't know many grown-ups in Belfast, and I sure as hell don't know any kids, so win.
I'd been in touch with the co-ordinator and signed up to attend the training, which started on my first day in Belfast. Yes, after such a giant ride, I could have totally gotten away with staying in bed the whole day, but to be honest, it was nice to have a sense of purpose that first morning. My biggest worry with this move is about being able to generate an income to keep me in gloves and stockings (both of which I will need in spades) and sunny holidays (which I will also need in spades), so perhaps some discipline & a routine are a good foot to put forward. (Ok, maybe making an income isn't my biggest worry, maybe my biggest worry is the weather...)
So off to training. It's a 10 minute ride away (ha!) and I cruise down the street with no luggage. It feels like I'm flying. The training is 8 weeks long, and as it's the first day, we're all on our best behaviour. In the break time, I'm loitering by the back of the room with my cuppa, gazing out the window. The trainer comes back in and I ask her, peering down on an Israeli flag a couple of streets away, 'Is that, a, ah...' (scratches head - who/why in Belfast would hang an Israeli flag?) 'a synagogue? Is this a Jewish neighbourhood?'
No. It's not. Cue: Cultural Faux Pas the First. Nope, it's not a synagogue. And the trainer attempts to explain this to me, very gently. 'No', she says, 'in Northern Ireland, some people hang Israeli flags, and, ah, some people, hang, well, the other flags.'
It takes me a minute to catch on. I'm thinking to myself, 'Jewish people?'
No. And then it dawns on me. I now know that there's a well-documented allegiance in Northern Ireland between republicans and Palestine and unionists and Israel. When you think about it, the relationship seems obvious, though flying the flag of another nation from your house seems, to me, a pretty high level of commitment, no?
Anyway, clearly, I hadn't thought about it. It was awkward. For both of us, I think. In my very first post on this blog, I readily conceded that my understanding of Northern Ireland was, at best, naive, and I think this well illustrates that point. But while she was lovely about it, the trainer, she kind of seemed awkward about it, too, like I said: as though she were cringing a little, at the inexplicability of it.
I have much to learn, and hey: it was probably good to get that first faux pas out there nice and early. I'm confident there'll be many more!
*If you want to do something totes amazeballz like volunteer - with people old or young - but are having trouble getting started, I'd be glad to help if I can. There are loads of opportunities out there, but they sometimes hide. Let me know if you want a hand finding the one for you.
Cherryvale Playing Fields, about 2 minutes from mine. Lovely. |
In many respects, I started my Belfast days as I will likely go on: On Thursday morning I attended my first day of training to be a HomeStart volunteer in East and South Belfast, good, and made my first culturally inept faux pas, less good.
Volunteering was something I knew I wanted to do when I moved. In Peckham I had been volunteering with the Dulwich Helpline* as a volunteer befriender. My 'befriend', Nancy, was a 90 year-old Jamaican lady who'd lived in SouthEast London for the best part of 60 years. Being befriends with Nancy was a treat. When she was feeling up to it, it was a joy to take her out and about; when she wasn't feeling up to it, it was a joy to hear her laugh as she defeated me at Ludo. She did not mess about. Some days, really low days, it was enough to just sit quietly together with a cup of tea. I never knew what was going to greet me at Nancy's: 'Come in, baby, come in', or 'I'm dying, baby, I'm dying'.
Some days I couldn't be bothered. It was cold. Or raining. Or I was hungover. But I was always glad I went: Apart from the occasional stroll in the park and a trouncing at Ludo, hanging out with Nancy provided me with an incredible opportunity to see into a totally different community, a totally different experience of the world. Nancy's days gave mine perspective (and, I hope, vice-versa).
Understanding the day to day experience of an elderly, disabled, single immigrant living on a government allowance is something which, try as they might, cannot be conveyed in an AgeUK brochure or an ad for energy providers. It's a lonely, stale-smelling, grotty place. People bustle in and out, drop-off your lunch, see that you're taking your medications. They'll help you into bed, wash your laundry. People will collect your shopping and put your bins out. They're generally kind. But they're not your friends. You're not sharing experiences with them - they have a uniform, or a badge, and they haven't chosen you.
Knowing Nancy has, I think, greatly broadened my horizons. But it also broke my heart a bit. She was upset when I told her, a month or so beforehand, that I was moving. She'd just had a postcard from me from France with a picture of Al & I on the front. She was astonished that this was possible (so was I - touchnote people, download it now), and wondered if I'd gotten famous for something while she wasn't watching. She shook her head when I told her. 'You're moving? To Ireland?' she asked. 'Ah', she said, 'you love him. That's good.' I couldn't deny it.
But as I left from my last visit with her, she sobbed. And there's nothing, but nothing, to make you feel like the world's biggest asshole like closing the door behind to you a soundtrack of an old lady's tears, your face wet against the breeze as you wipe away you own. Befriends.
So, like I said: I knew I wanted to find a volunteering opportunity in my next homeplace. The tears, the being beaten at boardgames - what's not to like? HomeStart was a charity I'd heard of before, and I was keen to work with a family. That way, I figured, I'd get to hang with some grown-ups and a kid or two. I don't know many grown-ups in Belfast, and I sure as hell don't know any kids, so win.
I'd been in touch with the co-ordinator and signed up to attend the training, which started on my first day in Belfast. Yes, after such a giant ride, I could have totally gotten away with staying in bed the whole day, but to be honest, it was nice to have a sense of purpose that first morning. My biggest worry with this move is about being able to generate an income to keep me in gloves and stockings (both of which I will need in spades) and sunny holidays (which I will also need in spades), so perhaps some discipline & a routine are a good foot to put forward. (Ok, maybe making an income isn't my biggest worry, maybe my biggest worry is the weather...)
So off to training. It's a 10 minute ride away (ha!) and I cruise down the street with no luggage. It feels like I'm flying. The training is 8 weeks long, and as it's the first day, we're all on our best behaviour. In the break time, I'm loitering by the back of the room with my cuppa, gazing out the window. The trainer comes back in and I ask her, peering down on an Israeli flag a couple of streets away, 'Is that, a, ah...' (scratches head - who/why in Belfast would hang an Israeli flag?) 'a synagogue? Is this a Jewish neighbourhood?'
No. It's not. Cue: Cultural Faux Pas the First. Nope, it's not a synagogue. And the trainer attempts to explain this to me, very gently. 'No', she says, 'in Northern Ireland, some people hang Israeli flags, and, ah, some people, hang, well, the other flags.'
It takes me a minute to catch on. I'm thinking to myself, 'Jewish people?'
No. And then it dawns on me. I now know that there's a well-documented allegiance in Northern Ireland between republicans and Palestine and unionists and Israel. When you think about it, the relationship seems obvious, though flying the flag of another nation from your house seems, to me, a pretty high level of commitment, no?
Anyway, clearly, I hadn't thought about it. It was awkward. For both of us, I think. In my very first post on this blog, I readily conceded that my understanding of Northern Ireland was, at best, naive, and I think this well illustrates that point. But while she was lovely about it, the trainer, she kind of seemed awkward about it, too, like I said: as though she were cringing a little, at the inexplicability of it.
I have much to learn, and hey: it was probably good to get that first faux pas out there nice and early. I'm confident there'll be many more!
*If you want to do something totes amazeballz like volunteer - with people old or young - but are having trouble getting started, I'd be glad to help if I can. There are loads of opportunities out there, but they sometimes hide. Let me know if you want a hand finding the one for you.