Showing Prejudice

Yesterday, I did something that I'm not proud of. In fact I'm ashamed of myself today. I commented on social media. "That's nothing to be ashamed of," you think, "we all do it," but I assumed things I couldn't possibly know and was mean about a human being with a certainty he didn't deserve.

I am talking about the clip of the expert on the BBC where his children wander in. It is so delightful to watch that it has more viral infection power than pandas going down a slide and who didn't love them? I have probably watched the clip 127 times now and feel guilty for being so mean and prejudiced.

When I first saw it I couldn't understand why people thought it was so funny. (Actually, I now find it sad   rather than funny)). At first I saw a cold man bat away his small child with the back of his hand and a young, terrified woman drag the children out of the room. My prejudice kicked in and I assumed that the woman was a Nanny (because she seemed much younger than him). I assumed that the push with the back of the hand was a repressed slap and I commented on him, personally. I said that he was a horrible person who would be beating his children and sacking the Nanny later. Social media allowed my to make my initial comment in a way I never would to his face. It might not be quite as bad as people who make death threats to celebrities because they made a comment about Brexit but I am still thoroughly ashamed of myself this morning.

The truth is I know nothing about this man. He is a human being who was just trying to do his best, as we all are.

Having watched again I notice that there are several things my prejudice allowed me to miss.
1. He's on live TV.
2. He's using a webcam in his bedroom. Looking at a blank screen will always make you seem cold.
3. He has staged the room to look like an office. As someone who often has books on my bed I'm fairly certain they are never left neatly stacked and carefully chosen like that.
4. He's on live TV.
5. He's dressed up in a suit for an interview in his bedroom.
6. Because he's in a suit and has slicked his hair back for live TV he appears older.
7. His daughter is delightful, waving a spoon and not in the least bit scared of him.
8. He smiles, awkwardly as he pushes her away. There is panic but not anger in his eyes.
9. He is terrified.
10. He's on live TV.
11. The baby in the walker is cute and also not scared to go into the room.
12. The woman is nimble and quick and brilliant at not showing her face.
13. They are on live TV.
14. Even with her level of agility the woman may not be younger than him even if she isn't she could still be his wife.
15. Wives (and even dedicated Nannies) could rush to get the children off live TV. The fear could come from the situation and not what the man might do.
16. We've all run over a toddler with a baby in a walker and we've all grabbed a child a bit too roughly in times of stress.
17. He apologises a lot. Much more than a super confident child-beating man might.
18. He's on live TV.
19. The woman has super powers and can reach further than stretch-Armstrong (I realise I am showing my age).
20. He's an American academic in Asia, doing a live interview on his webcam from his bedroom, hoping to further his reputation. He probably has tens of thousands worth of dollars in student fee debt and is still apologising.

I would like to publicly apologise to him. I shouldn't have said he was a horrible man. I hope my comments and others like them don't affect his career prospects if he is really a great person just trying to do his best. I will delete my comment from social media and try not to make mean comments about people in future.

Hysteria

Occasionally, people I know get disappointed. "I was sure you were going to blog about that," they frown.  It happened this morning.  There had been so much to write about yesterday that most of it stayed in my head.  It was one of those days: everyone thought that our conversation was blogworthy. The colleagues queued up to tell me of their displeasure; re-told stories adding details they would be sad not to read about.  Sometimes they embellished the tale just to make certain that I knew how entertaining a blog it would make.  Of course, they were right and I really should have made an effort, describing each funny incident with the accuracy they deserved.

Funny things happen in schools all the time.  The staffroom is a sitcom waiting to happen but not one of those terrible ones that try to make teachers seem cool and have amusing friendships or relationships with pupils, or those that are obviously written by people who had a bad time at school or have some axe to grind against their children's teachers.  What the world needs is a sitcom that is just set in a staffroom, where children are almost incidental and it is the relationship between teachers that is interesting.  Teachers often have a reputation of being a bit boring, mainly because they are always talking about their work, never switching off and quoting data, targets and acronyms at anyone who will listen.  However, in the staffroom there are moments when the conversation moves to more amusing subjects.  (Note to my headteacher:  Don't panic! I'm not planning to write it......yet)

Silly hysterics can burst forth at any time.  For example, the caretaker can come through to the staffroom wearing his rubber gloves, asking the male teacher if he has a moment. The women will burst into hysterical cackles as the men walk out together, the teacher with his hands clasped over his butt. When the teacher returns the women cry, "That was quick," and the teacher explains that it doesn't take long to look at the biggest poo, ever in the reception children's toilets.


Teachers of the menopausal variety often have wardrobe malfunctions.  Remembering how to dress yourself and cope with all those acronyms never goes too well.  Odd shoes, tights with holes in and yokes poking out of the back of dresses are quite normal.  Particularly at times of stress.  Yesterday I think I had all of these and when confessing that the yoke of my dress had been out all morning the conversation turned to the tags you get on tops and dresses to hang them up.  "They always end up round your boobs," I said.  That's when things started to get even sillier, as we wondered if that's what they were for.  Some of us felt that we would need considerably more support and others noticed how long their straps were and thought that they weren't yet at the stage of needing to keep their breasts off their knees.
Ends of school days can feel very long.  Sometimes, after the clubs have finished and children have gone home teachers gather in the staffroom to mark books, eat the remains of the cake or biscuits that miraculously appear most days and to wait to find out what new acronyms they have to learn.
During these waits the hysteria reaches fever pitch.  The laughter becomes uncontrollable and teachers worry that the 'small lady', who isn't at all small might hear.  While they wait they try to describe the lady and realise that they would be hopeless in describing a criminal to the police.  They are all agreed on the green flower broach. The next day will still have hysteria but it will be the tired variety.

Well, who is Mrs E Foreman?

Following yesterday's blog about how terrible some companies are about dealing with bereavement I thought it was time to name and shame. A friend, who is dealing with these things for a relative said that she is keeping a spreadsheet and rating companies on different aspects of their service, including the inappropriateness of their hold music. This is a spreadsheet I need in my life and was wondering if her experiences would match to ours. Maybe, if we all published our spreadsheets then the companies would develop compassion.

This blog is dedicated to the TV liscensing people.

In theory, this shouldn't have been a difficult one. I went online and updated the details via their website. Nothing had changed except removing one named person. I was relieved because I hadn't even had to speak to someone who couldn't say the word 'dead' or pronounce 'condolences '. Two days later my mum received a letter. Actually, she didn't. They sent a letter to Mrs E Foreman confirming the change of name.

Mum decided that a quick phone call would clear the matter up. A rude gum chewing lad told her that they didn't make mistakes and the conversation ended with some shouting. Mum being egged on by her friend in the kitchen telling her to, "Go girl, you let him have it!"
After calming down and checking that I didn't know Mrs Foreman, naming her as the widow as a bit of a joke she decided to try again the next day.

Again, she was met with a total refusal to accept that a mistake had been made. She explained everything and the person on the other end would say, "could you hold the line a minute while I look into that?" disappear for 5 minutes and then ask all the same questions again. This happened several times before he finally admitted defeat and passed her onto his supervisor. The Supervisor came on the phone.
"Hello, Mrs Foreman. How can I help you today?"
You or I would be banging our heads on the kitchen table by this point but mum remained calm and explained it all again.
"So, who is Mrs Foreman?" asked the supervisor.
"Well, I don't know, do I?" said Mum.
"Does anyone else live in the house?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Mum looked round for a bit and thought she might have resolved the problem.
"Well, there's the dog but I don't think she answers to the name of Mrs Foreman. Hold on. Let me try. 'Here Mrs Forman!'"
The dog looked quizzically at her.
"No, I'm sorry it's not the dog. Anyway her first name is Sam, so the E wouldn't fit."
"That's puzzling," replied the supervisor employing every one of her skills that she learnt on her 'how to speak to the bereaved' course.
She continued to ask questions that she had answered before. Things like how she paid for the licence and where and how she bought the very first one.
Mum pointed out that was over 50 years ago and that it really didn't matter anyway. They just needed to change the name and for their own purposes find out how such a stupid mistake could have happened.

They are going to look into it and call her back. If you know Mrs Foreman then maybe you could ring them and let them know, although I wonder if they received a note from the computer to change it and fed up with its silicone annonimity has decided to call itself Electronic Foreman.

I need to speak to the account holder

Just over twenty six years ago I was sent home from work because during my lunch break I'd turned into a sobbing bowl of jelly. My father in law had died. I had been fine, that is sad but really fine, not perfectly fine, up until that point. His death was a shock and my mother-in-law, the Long Suffering Husband and his sister could barely function. The funeral arrangements were made, as if we were wading through treacle but it was all over in little more than a week and our jobs were to try to get on with life as best as we could. The LSH continued swimming through treacle, his sister couldn't look at him without crying because of the family resemblance and his mum's heart broke. I organised things. I spoke to the banks and utility companies, listened and made cake.  It was one lunchtime, on the phone to someone like British Gas that tipped me over the edge.

"I'm ringing to let you know that my father in law has died."

"Oh, right."

I felt myself tensing up. This was the thirtieth such call I'd made in the last few lunchtimes and I was beginning to wonder if anyone working in any of these places had an ounce of humanity.

I explained that although the bill had been in his name my mother in law was still living in the property and so would like the title and first initial to be changed. 

"I'm sorry, I can only speak to the account holder," said the gum chewing imbecile on the other end.

The conversation continued. I struggled to stay calm for a further five minuets, explaining carefully that I was just trying to find out if they needed me to send a death certificate to change the name but nothing else did. The twit continued to insist on speaking to the account holder.

"Good luck with that, then," I erupted. "Unless you've got some kind of special clairvoyant powers then you can't speak to him because he is dead, gone, passed away, deceased, no more, dead, dead, DEAD!" I admit that I was shouting and by now sobbing.

When my mother in law died, nine years later I thought things had improved slightly. There were bereavement officers to talk to, who seemed to at least understand the word 'died''.

It turns out that many companies are no better. 

My mum, being brilliant and strong, has been trying to deal with much of this stuff herself and had had a bank's bereavement officer insist that they can only tell the account holder what direct debits were held (so she doesn't accidentally have her phone cut off). The TV licensing people have managed to change the name on the account to a completely different name. When mum rang them they insisted they were right and demanded to know who the person was. The conversation became quite heated with a refusal on their part to admit to a mistake. 

I try to see things from the other point of view. I know these people have jobs to do. Probably not ones that they like very much but I wish they could do it with a bit more compassion.

Skiving

Being back at work after a bereavement is tricky.

The organising doesn't stop, you don't suddenly start eating properly or sleeping normally (whatever that looks like) just because you are back at work. You still have a lump in your throat, wish you didn't have to talk to anyone and find yourself staring off into space and losing all track of time.

Your colleagues don't know what to say to you and your day vacillates between feeling and wanting to be ignored.

When you work in a school you imagine it might be easier. Children just go on being how they are, you kid yourself that you'll just be able to put on your professional hat and get on with it. Unfortunately, with teaching comes an unrealistic expectation to be constantly brilliant and when you know that's not happening the guilt sets in.  You know a couple of children aren't doing what you've asked them to but you just let them do nothing because, well, you have staring into space to do. You know that you could get a great performance out of a class if you got off your chair and leapt around the room a bit but you don't because leaping goes with sleeping. The level of general chatter is doing your head in and you know you should stop it but the lump in your throat seems to prevent you from saying anything.

The pressure to be in work, when you teach, is enormous. Teachers don't take time off, most save up sickness for the holidays. Caught between the guilt of a less than perfect lesson and leaving the classes without you the first one wins. There is also an unspoken expectation that you will be there.

If you live in the town you work and take time off then you can't risk being seen in case you are judged.


"Miss, where were you last week?"
I was caught off-guard. This wasn't a question I'd prepared myself for.
"Oh, err, I, errr, um."
"Because we were saying that you're never off sick. You come in even when you've lost your voice."
"Ha, ha, yes I do, don't I?"
"So?"
"I.....errr..... couldn't be here."
"Because I saw you. Coming out of the road at the top."
Another child suddenly became interested in the conversation.
"Were you sick."
"No, not really."
"Ummm. You were faking it." He turns round to the rest of the class to announce that I was just skiving last week. The class divides into two clear groups: those that thought I was cool and wanted to fist bump and the shocked, breath holding goody-goodies. I've never been in the cool group before.
"Hey Miss, have you got something in your eye?"

I don't know what to say

"I don't know what to say," is the sentence I've heard most often this week.

It's difficult to know how to react around someone whose parent has recently died. Offering someone your condolences sounds so formal and doesn't give any clues to what you are actually meant to do or say. The word must be from Latin: my musician's Italian gives me a clue because I know con means with and dolorosa is sorrowfully. How do you give someone your with-sorrows?

My mum and sister have a full time job of providing tea and cake for visitors who don't know what to say.

I have been distracted by a concert. The youth orchestra that was my Dad's idea and we started together seventeen years ago (17 - how is that possible?) had been booked to do a concert for the Mayor's charities. The Mayor had been very specific about how the audience should dress. It was to be black tie for the men and he knew how us 'ladies liked to dress up.' Our orchestra committee were confused about this because none of the females liked to dress up. Our secretary wanted a Minion costume but we had to rule it out because it had no mouth hole and we needed her to play bass clarinet. My dad suggested I dress as Charlie Chaplin and our percussion director wear a bunny girl outfit like Bridget Jones wore in the film. It turns out that ladies who like to dress up wear dresses are too tight, often with centre splits that show their pants,  witches capes, long gloves and ostriches draped around their necks. When dad was ill he was still talking about the concert and when he died, although the whole orchestra were devastated, we all knew he wouldn't have wanted it to be cancelled. It was difficult. The Mayor asked if he could say something about him and dedicate the concert to him and we agreed that the end of the concert would be better than at the beginning.

The Mayor didn't really know what to say either. The orchestra had played brilliantly, not forgetting anything that we had worked so hard on, the soloists were amazing and even I held it together. He told the orchestra how lucky they had been to be able to play a 'proper' concert for people who were dressed up and he went on to try to say something about dad but words appeared to fail him.

I understand how difficult it is. The day before the concert, I was worried about whether I could be with people. I made my apologies to my mum and my aunts, leaving them to drink more tea and eat more cake, to pop into school to see if I could be with "normal" people. They were a little offended until I explained that by normal I meant not grieving, although it's probably true that none of my family can be described as normal. This experiment started well: I was coping and then I suddenly felt a bit wobbly so I scuttled off to my friend's room. While we were chatting the two male teachers who share a name came in, carrying a box of paper. I looked at them; they froze, gave each other sideways looks and tried to back out of the room. They were hoping to put their paper in her bin, although I'm not sure why. They still hadn't acknowledged my presence out loud and realised as they were backing out of the room that they probably should do.
"Oh hi Julia," they said, as if they had just seen me. "Err, sorry about your dad."
"Err yes, sorry."
"I wasn't going to say anything but err sorry."
They backed to the edge of the door, turned and ran.
My friend and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
It had cheered me up enormously and made me realise that I could cope being around people, especially those that didn't know what to say.

In fact, the most comfort I've had has come from the people who've said nothing. The Long Suffering Husband who sat with me in silence in the dark, made hot water without asking, brought crumpets because he's worked out that's all I'm eating. My son, who gives the best hugs. My daughter who didn't take her eyes off me during the whole concert.

The orchestra committee, who organised everything and sent rude messages about people called Richard. The orchestra who make me so proud. My friends who bought expensive concert tickets and stood with me at the start and during the reception, protecting me like live patronuses from the dementors.

Maybe that is how you are meant to do condoling: just to be together with your grief. You probably don't need to say anything.

Norm's Passage

When your parent dies, you imagine that so many things will be difficult.  You think about all the people you will have to tell and how sad it will be.  You know that people will ask you how you are and imagine the standard response will be' fine', as in 'perfectly fine but not really.' That's what I thought, anyway.  I thought I'd be too sad to carry on with much but what I really feel is lucky and proud. So lucky to have had a wonderful man as my father and champion and proud that so many other people felt the same way about him without me ever feeling as though he put others first.

Everyone has such lovely things to say. As I type that I think it's weird because no one would say nasty things.  Can you imagine ringing up someone and saying, "I'm sorry to tell you I've got bad news," and the person replying with, "Good, I never liked him anyway."? 

You imagine that you'll not be able to laugh but I'm chuckling at idea.

There has been genuine admiration for my dad.  When someone tells your daughter that they are sorry to hear about her grandad because he was 'one sick guy,' you know that he has made an impression through several generations. (I got the translated version). 

I was concerned that I might find some things people said a bit too sugary sweet but instead they feel genuine and he never minded people saying nice things about him.  Compliments didn't make him squirm in the way they do me.  

One person I rang said, "What a loss to the town.  So many people will want to come to the funeral, you'll have to hire the Royal Albert Hall.  He's done so much for us.  They should honour him somehow.  They should name a street after him.  He's done so much more than any fat man has done.  I mean, honestly, fancy just being remembered for being fat!"

Relating the conversation back to the rest of the family we smiled.  It made us happy.  For a while we talked about the possible names for a street.  We played with alliteration and rhymes for all his names, including his middle name, which he hated. Then my mum won.

"Norm's Passage," she said.  "People could go up Norm's Passage or meet in Norm's Passage."

We laughed. He would have enjoyed the joke.