Friday, 19 April 2019

Where are you from?


At 6.45am each weekday morning, Mrs GOM and I find ourselves in the sports hall at a local secondary school attending a Dawn Breakers HIIT* class.  It’s my attempt to keep in some form of shape.  Unfortunately, that shape is usually bent double, gasping for breath and trying not to lose the previous night’s supper, but nevertheless, it’s a great way to start each day and has benefitted me hugely (although my Chiropractor would likely disagree).

Not only does the class serve to improve my fitness, but it’s an excellent way to meet others and there is a great sense of community amongst the group that I attend.  We come from an array of backgrounds and we’re all different ages, shapes and sizes – united by the common goal of improving our health.  We complete a six-week programme that sees us having our photos taken on the first day of the course, for comparison with photos from the mid- and end-points.  As we lined up to have the first day’s photo taken, I found myself behind the newest member of the group, Joni, and introduced myself and Mrs GOM.  After a short exchange, Joni asked where I was from.
  “Oh, we’re local,” I said.  “About three streets up the road from here.”
Adopting a look that suggested she was dealing with a simpleton, Joni tried again.
  “But, I thought I heard a New Zealand accent.”
Huge kudos to Joni for a) rephrasing the question so that I’d understand it, and b) correctly detecting the provenance of my dulcet tones.  I mumbled some absurd justification for misunderstanding the question; about having lived here for nearly 30 years and that my accent had softened.  What I realised immediately though, was that it was the first time I had been asked that question and responded as though I was a local, rather than the immigrant that I am.

I have always identified as a New Zealander and I always will.  It’s a heritage of which I’m proud.  I come from a beautiful country where people are largely open, friendly and welcoming.  I only left for a three-month holiday in 1990 and fully expected to return; circumstances and choices meant I did not.  Equally, and with all those years under my belt, I also identify as a Brit, and now, as Joni can attest, call England home.  I was made to feel welcome here when I arrived and continue to feel a part of the wider community.  I suspect that may have a lot to do with being an English speaking, white, middle-class, male, so my integration into society was without the challenges that other ethnic and social groups face.

We can do so much to make others more comfortable and feel a part of our communities.  When I was 10, my family was invited to a wedding by the owner of our corner store, an Indian immigrant.  His daughter was getting married and the wedding was a grand affair, held at the Lower Hutt Town Hall and there were hundreds of guests.  Dressed trestle tables were lined along one wall of the hall, groaning with food.  As we were queueing with the other guests for the wedding feast, the bride’s father came to us and took my mother by the arm.
  “Not those tables Mother of GOM.  These ones,” he said, escorting her and the rest of us to another part of the room.  “I think you might prefer the cold buffet,” he said.

On the row of tables before us stood steaming curries, samosas, rice and other Indian delicacies.  My mother, noting that he’d said ‘cold buffet’ questioned the presence of the hot food.
  “This table’s for you whiteys,” he said with an absence of malice and a cheeky grin.  “They’ve gone easy on the spices.”
The gesture was unexpected and hugely considerate.  His arrangements had led to adjustments to the traditional Indian fare, to make it more agreeable to the palates of those unaccustomed to spicy foods.
  “Perhaps for the children,” my mother responded somewhat magnanimously.  “We’re thrilled to be invited, and I would rather share what you are having.”  Our guest lost his smile and concern etched his face.
  “Really?” he said.  “It may be a little hotter than you’re used to.”
  “I’m sure it will be fine,” my mother assured him.
It was not.  I was dispatched to find her the iced water.

Our host saw that my mother’s attempt to enjoy the full experience had left her somewhat flushed and he brought her a lassi, a sweet yoghurt drink.  “This will help,” he said, handing it to her and she accepted it gratefully.
With over 400 guests to consider, our host was particularly attentive to us, to ensure that we felt comfortable.

Despite his best efforts though, he couldn’t cater to the will of a bored and stubborn 10-year-old.  I had decided that hunger was the preferred alternative to the exotic spread before me and failed to take the opportunity to indulge in what I now know to be delicious cuisine.  I leveraged my age, pleaded boredom and was allowed to head to my Grandmother’s who lived nearby, where I had one of her delicious white bread, single-slice-of-ham sandwiches and a pickled onion.

Mr Patel and his family had welcomed us into their community, and we were blessed to experience a part of their culture and feel the warmth of their generosity.  My mother’s attempt to fully embrace the experience, whilst misguided from a culinary perspective, demonstrated a willingness to accept difference.  The wedding serves to highlight that we are richer as a community by engaging with other cultures when the opportunity presents itself – we get to see a different side of life, which can be enriching.  What it also shows is that we are not compelled to adopt the culture (just as surely as I didn’t in my partiality to Nana’s ham sandwich), but if we do, we may expand what we like and enjoy, as the plethora of Indian restaurants in this country will evidence.  We are still very much permitted to continue our own practices, but we can be open to difference.  Whilst at it, why not invite others to experience ours, without having an expectation that they will adopt our way of life?

We have more to gain and very little to lose by accepting others, no matter their background or status.  In the main, immigrants contribute positively to the economic fortunes of their adopted countries and if ever you need to find an argument to support that case, I present as my first witness, the United States of America.

We lived in the US for a couple of years and had the chance to meet a wide variety of people.  What was telling was how many of them described their ethnicity by prefixing their nationality with that of their ancestors, “I’m Italian-American, I’m Irish-American, I’m Polish-American.”  I’ve yet to hear anyone say, “I’m American-American”, although that would not be a bad thing, but you get the picture; so many of them identify with their immigrant past.  Even the current President, who some might term the “racist-in-chief”, is of immigrant stock.  Mary Anne McLeod Trump had Gaelic as her first language and hailed from the Outer Hebrides.  Curiously, Wikipedia suggests that she “was the mother of Donald Trump”; presumably she disowned him.

But I digress…  Wherever we go, be it to another country or community, we will meet and face others who have the capacity to welcome or not.  When faced with the former, we have the choice to accept or spurn the invitation.  Like my mother, my preference is to accept with grace; there’s usually the equivalent of tea and biscuits that comes with it, and now that I’m working out regularly, I can wander ‘off-plan’ and indulge a little.

But when we’re faced with the opposite, when the welcome is absent, and you’re greeted with disdain, hostility or worse, the choices are very much more difficult – do we tolerate or fight what we experience?  It’s a decision I am fortunate not to have faced and, I hope, it’s not a choice I have ever caused others to make.  What I need to do more of though, is support others that do have to make the choice, to stand up and be heard when I witness that failure to welcome.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but frankly, I find that a terrifying prospect even though I’ve got the benefit of a privileged background.  If there’s a part of the body that the HIIT class can’t help with, it’s the moral backbone.  It’s something that I need to strengthen, to become more of an advocate for others that could use a hand.

We improve whenever we do something regularly and consistently.  Just as regular exercise serves to improve health and strengthen the body, it is the same for developing moral courage.  We should extend ourselves by leaving our comfort zones, by calling out when we hear a slight, by supporting those that deserve better, and as we do, we make wherever we choose to call home a much better place for all of us to live.


Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
18 April 2019

* High intensity interval training

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