Poornima Manco

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The impossibility of saying anything even remotely comprehensible…… by Michael-Eric Schwaabe

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One of my favourite pastimes and one that I had significant opportunities for indulging in as a younger man, was sitting round a table nursing a pint of beer (real ale please) and solving all the world’s problems in conversation with one or two good friends. We usually had everything solved by the third pint, which in turn, opened the way for a celebratory fourth thus reaching my upper limit, especially if I wanted to function well enough to navigate back home. Which describes a particular conceit of mine; in that the world’s problems are solvable. This was an odd thing to be doing and perhaps a greater reflection of the cultural privilege that a white Western man enjoys – although I could not have framed it in quite that way at the time. The conversations were usually between men and, since they only rarely extended to include women, they beg the question (which I could blissfully disregard at the time, although the alcohol-based mental lubrication may have helped somewhat): how are you going to solve anything if fifty per cent of humanity isn’t even represented? Or even, as was definitely the case for this young man in his twenties, I really didn’t control very much at all and actually still don’t. It’s not like I could set global transport policies, or make State planning decisions, or initiate a comprehensive waste recycling scheme – to mention just a few.

That’s not to say that nothing good has come of this particular pastime – on the contrary, some problems did get solved as a direct result. But many fewer than the number and grandeur of those mental palaces I constructed. Worse still, my ability to effectively capture the problem in words seems to be failing. Every time I try to nail something down the issue either slips through my metaphors or my preamble becomes so overly top-heavy that I’ve lost my audience before we can really get started. As there’s less beer involved too, this may underlie part of the difficulty. These days it’s usually my wife who will cut me off leaving just my progeny who occasionally has the patience to put up with her father when he goes off on one of his overbearing rants. But the problem remains – defining issues has become considerably more difficult for me. The thought builds, I try to speak, and in that precise moment a multitude of other issues occur to me demanding my urgent attention, all of which have a direct bearing on the relevance of the issue, and I then feel the need to systematically explore each one. Little wonder perhaps that my family’s switch from good natured tolerance to extreme exasperation sits on a hairpin trigger. Worse still is when I try to write, because most of the time, the effort involved in setting thoughts on paper (computer screen nowadays), it’s like swimming uphill through a sea of mental treacle.

Why are words so damn difficult? Each word is a box inside of which sits the idea of what it is you want to say. Except it’s not really your idea. A “cup of tea” clearly means a mug-shaped vessel made of some kind of porcelain containing about 250ml of recently poured boiling water over brown tea leaves, usually held in a porous paper sachet or bag, with about 30ml of added cold milk. Except it doesn’t, to people who don’t like milk in their tea, or who prefer green tea, or insist on a cup and saucer, or it might even mean a cup filled with tea leaves. Ultimately, you won’t know what the other person understands unless you ask, and if you have to ask about every little thing then life can become quite exhausting. So most people prefer to rely on a form of shorthand and assume that their “cup of tea” is exactly what they imagine it to be. How easy it is to be fooled into a false sense of security, as anybody who has ever had the experience of being asked for “hot tea” by an American. Of course it’s hot, dammit, otherwise it wouldn’t be tea! All this confusion arises from three little words. What these words, these boxes surrounding ideas, these forms of mental shorthand really represent is a social construct – a “cup of tea” is like this because, well because everybody else around me who is like me thinks that this, and only this, is a cup of tea.

This social construct is my identity, and the brilliant thing is that I have many which express themselves in all the different roles I assume every day, as a parent, a husband, a friend, at work or while playing around. Here’s the rub – certain identities carry consequences, whether I like them or not, and I may not even be consciously aware of them. Things such as national origin, religious affiliation, as well as gender, ethnicity, degree of privilege, all define the boundaries – that is – the outer limits of what I’m prepared to accept that each word box will surround. And this has a real bearing on solving all the world’s problems, even when lubricated by my favourite beer. For example, I tend to assume that governments are benign structures mandated to help improve their citizens’ lives. Clearly, most governments are neither benign, nor do their officers feel in any way compelled to act in accordance with enacting or enforcing fundamental human rights principles. So, sitting in the pub, enjoyable though that may be and the odd exception aside, is not the most direct route to solving the world’s problems.

So this is my understanding: fixing anything requires us to understand that everything is a social construct that has been collectively invented by people who share the same identity. So if something is broken, or a problem, a big part of understanding the issue is understanding where the boundaries of our word boxes have been set. Commonly referred to as the paradigm, but that is only a particular word box which contains the idea of a commonly understood idea (I hope you begin to understand why I often feel like I’m swimming uphill through a sea of treacle).

When you are in the forest you can’t see the wood for the trees – what is required is a different perspective. And that means seeking out those who have a different identity, persuading them to share their understanding and taking the time to learn.

Anybody fancy a beer?

 

Michael in his own words:
For several years, my day job was largely (though not entirely) based on my skills in both the English and French languages – which I found highly amusing as these were, PE aside, the things I was worst in at school. The skills of caring, attention to detail, and customer focus I need for my current day job were essentially acquired through the example given to me by my parents, and most significantly my mother. Married with one lovely child, I live in London. I used to ride motorcycles, but development work and a Masters got in the way, leading to the occasional blog at: http://www.conversareblog.net/.

I aspire to do so again.

 

So what’s in a name?

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A famous cricketer in India, Yuvraj Singh, gets married to his sweetheart, Hazel Keech, a model and actress. During the wedding ceremony, Hazel’s name is changed to Gurbasant Kaur, by the Sikh priest performing the ceremony. He is the ‘Guru” of the family, and both Yuvraj and his mother, follow his instructions to a T. As does the new bride obviously.

From Hazel to Gurbasant, what is in a name after all? A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet Shakespeare claimed. Yet, let’s examine this a little closely. Our names are the repositories of our identities. Our histories, our backgrounds, our cultures are all tied in with our names. Is it quite so easy to discard them and don new ones?

As most little girls would attest, the first sign of a crush is to link one’s name with the object of one’s affection. Signatures are practised with flair. Surnames are dropped with nary a thought. But this is all play. When it comes to the actual doing, post marriage, many women choose to keep their original surnames. The reasons could be professional or personal. It’s a name they are used to, have had their entire lives, have earned their degrees on, and refuse to compromise on, at that juncture.

Years ago, my mother had a run in with an American boss’ wife. In correspondence, she had unwittingly referred to her by her husband’s surname. The lady was livid, and insisted that this was rectified immediately. My mother was confused. In India, in the 80’s most women donned their husband’s name after marriage. This current trend of double barrelling names or even keeping the maiden name did not exist. When we discussed this at the dinner table that night, we wondered if the lady was some kind of a bra burning feminazi. In actual fact she was just a qualified professional who refused to be pigeon holed by her husband’s name or accomplishments.

Later, in the nineties, a cousin of mine called off an engagement, and settled on staying single because, not only had the future husband and in laws demanded that she become a stay at home wife, but had also insisted that she change her name to his. This was a doctor who had put several years of study to gain her qualifications, only to have her attainments and her career be subsumed by his. She wasn’t having any of it.

Contrastingly, a school friend did what Hazel has done, and took on a new name- first and last- to please her husband who did not much care for her original name. She seemed happy with her decision, and to this day, doesn’t see why it should have been a big deal at all.

When I got married in the late nineties, I did what most good Indian brides did back then, and adopted my husband’s last name. Would I do it today? Maybe. Maybe not. I was still discovering who I was back then. Today, I am farther along in that journey, and am comfortable with the name I have. It has become a part of my identity.

Would I have changed my first name? Not a chance. It’s a name that was picked out lovingly by my mother. It’s an unusual name, and much as it has been a pain in the rear, career wise, and living in the West, with it getting mangled beyond recognition, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Which brings us full circle to Hazel. Hazel, who had an ugly altercation with some bank officials a while ago. They refused to recognise her name as Indian, and release her monies to her. Who argued, leered and embarrassed her to the extent that she took to Twitter to lambast them. Would Gurbasant have had the same problems? Maybe their Guru was exorcising those demons by christening her with a more Indian than Indian name. Or maybe he was just exercising his clout. Either way, Hazel, going forward will be Gurbasant Kaur, and more power to her.

Critics will carp that a woman’s surname was never hers to begin with. It was her father’s and then his father’s before that. Quite when this tradition of taking on a man’s name began, I do not know. What I do know is that whatever one chooses to do with one’s name- keep it, take on another, change it by deed poll- it should be one’s own decision.

What lies in a name is a lot more than meets the eye. And I doubt very much that we’d like a rose to be called a cauliflower.

Who am I?

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The most rudimentary of questions. Yet the answer escapes most of us. Try and define yourself. Not describe, define. Who are you? Stripped down to the most elemental level. Are you brave? Are you a coward? Are you brutish or sophisticated? Are you conservative or liberal? Are you religious or an atheist? Who are you?

The answer is a complex one. And I’ll wager, not one you are expecting. The answer is: I do not know. I do not know how brave I am, till I am in a situation that requires courage. At that point, will I choose to save my skin or save another’s? I think I am sophisticated, till you put me in an unfamiliar milieu, and the social shorthand fails me. Then I appear brutish, unrefined and uncouth. I think I am liberal till my daughter brings home a boyfriend from the wrong side of the tracks, and all at once, every bit of my socialism flies out of the window. I think I am religious, yet I laugh at the barbaric rituals and stone gods of the ostensibly primitive.

Any of this sound familiar?

We are all complex, multi layered, multi dimensional wonders of evolution. We are all a work in progress. What I am in this moment, I will not be in the next. Nor will you. Our experiences, our joys, our sorrows contribute to our own unique signatures.

Fundamentally though, we all believe that we are good people. From the terrorist who bombs a hundred people in a square, giving up his life for a cause, to the politician who bombs a country, in pursuit of a higher good. We believe we are good. But are we?

These moral complexities are the shifting sands that govern human nature.

Who am I? The song from Les Misérables where Jean Valjean questions his moral core is perhaps the best way to end this rambling, philosophical blog post. Who am I? I am me.