The Curse and Connection of Community
In the West Indian community where I grew up, The Federation of Grown-Ups (FGU) were like military operatives. They scrutinised our body language for the smallest signs of transgression. If caught, the adult on duty might issue a CDW — Cease & Desist Warning. Those feeling less generous, would radio for back-up.
Indeed, any adult within a ten-mile radius felt empowered to conduct ‘drive-by parentings.’ On an errand to anywhere, it would not be unusual for an adult to tell me to go back home because I looked as if I was up to no good. It would not have occurred to me to find this strange since every adult’s mantra was:
“I Don’t Know What You’re Doing, or Thinking of Doing, but Whatever It Is, You’d Better Stop.”
Kids fought back by honing and perfecting innocent expressions. On rare occasions, a stellar facsimile of innocence made it over enemy lines.
As a child, then, community for me meant constraint, surveillance and restrictions.
College Capers
The collegiate community of business school was freeing. Filled with gregarious and fun-loving characters, I made friends while avoiding absolute affiliations with any one group. This strategy didn’t seem to harm my personal portfolio; if anything, it aided acceptance. Even in a climate of conspicuous affability, eagerness to please was a smell to be wafted away like burnt toast. This conceit suited me fine.
The exception to my self-imposed rule, was the eclectic group of us who came together on Friday evenings to play badminton. This rag-tag bunch of individuals were not sought out by the cool crowd, nor did they value the currency of such approval. None the poorer for it, we gathered for the love of the game, the buzz of competition and post-match banter. Anything more than this was not expected Monday to Thursday.
As graduation loomed, my throat constricted at the talk of annual reunions, and the promises to be exacted on behalf of future selves. When passing over my contact details, I didn’t resort to using disappearing ink, but a digit or two may have been transposed. If anyone had asked me to repeat my phone number in a group setting, exposure was guaranteed.
Rush Hour Races and The Workplace
My daily commute to work in the City of London, was always a rushed, Lemming-like affair. Crisp synchronicity was mandatory so as not to trip and perish under the well-polished Oxfords and sharp stilettos of my fellow commuters. Although, I liked to think someone would eventually call for an ambulance — as they stepped over you. But I aimed never to find out as I quick-stepped my way in sturdy and grippy running shoes. If proximity of person without intimacy was the modus operandi of my new urban environment, I was there for it.
The workplace conducted its affairs a little differently. Organised fun was optional, but somehow also required. And if my colleagues and I had developed more sophisticated ways of not smelling like burnt toast, the scent of management approval clung to our silk shirts and pinstriped suits. In that corporate community of affected camaraderie, I tried to approximate something resembling a team player.“Drinks after work, Mel?” Disinclination often had to fight a “No” into submission.
Whether at our desks, or during group jollies, Management with a capital ‘M’ was the group we all jostled to impress. It was not until a mid-year psychometric test, I discovered I had the ability, and indeed wanted, to be a big M. According to the Myers Briggs Personality Type indicator, I was an Extroverted-Introvert, a natural leader who excelled in roles that required organisation, planning and decision-making. My personality type was decisive, goal-oriented and enjoyed challenges.
My first team proved it to be so much more than that.
It was an exquisite shared experience of playing chicken with impossible deadlines, pulling off corporate coups, and then celebrating those wins… together. The thrill of inspiring a team, a community of people, to do their best work was a high like no other. We grew and learned from each other. It was an intoxicating dance which would go on to shape my career for over forty years.
Country Chronicles and Children
When my soon-to-be husband and I moved to a small village in the countryside, it tested all my acquired powers in communal prowess. Neighbours tripped over ours and each other’s business with pride, making a fishbowl seem palatial. My throat developed a migraine at what we’d done as the walls of green pastures and conviviality closed in.
As in most things, though, there were upsides to such closeness. Like our postman knowing a parcel was urgent and, therefore, not sending it back to a city depot which was miles away. He knew I didn’t drive. How he also knew the parcel was urgent and time-sensitive was a question I left unexplored. Nervous introductions were also unnecessary on our first sojourn to the local pub. The regulars (and non-regulars) already knew all there was to know. In a quiz to find out who knew more about us, I was sure we’d lose.
Some time in, the walls of grudging familiarity did start to give way — crumbling and then caving in entirely when we had children.
This close-knit community wrapped themselves around our cubs as ferociously as mother bears do. The first time our youngest walked to the village shop on her own was a testament to their love. En route, she was quizzed at least three times about her exciting new errand. The vicar, a neighbour, and the village shop owners all satisfied themselves as to her mission and intent that afternoon. It would not have occurred to my child to find this strange. These casual enquiries were followed up with formal phone calls to the house… just to make sure.
Over nearly 20 years, initial claustrophobia morphed into a cozy community comfort blanket — the warmth of which I would be grateful for again on the sudden death of my husband.
Closing the Community Circle
Back in the city, with a family now grown or flown, I sat in a favourite coffee shop musing on community. It was the weekend of the Lord Mayor’s Procession and street fair. Before, my preparations for this event involved making sure I had enough food and water in the house so as not to venture out into these festivities. Now, I felt a part of something watching the stall holders, float makers and the general busyness of everyone getting ready. A sense of belonging and community I had not expected to find in a city.
Being said, on early morning walks, I don’t stop to pass that time of day with the other usual early-morning suspects. The extroverted side of my nature flourishes still only because of the sustenance I get from sometimes being in a community of one. Albeit a community of one who now has a deep appreciation of what community brings to the table.
I see now my claustrophobic childhood community were mama bears disguised as patrol cops and fun slayers. They were our parents’ eyes and ears whose arms stretched to accommodate us when we were out of parental reach. They were a fierce federation of caregivers.
And like then, it matters not in my communal city years later we are not related by blood. In many ways, this makes our coming together perhaps more special, since we are not forced into intimacy by genetic necessity.
So, that weekend, I left my bunker and processed with the procession and strolled through street fairs. At one point, I hovered discretely around a lone child. This act of surveillance, to ensure his parents or caregivers were within arms length, felt oddly familiar, yet in stark contrast to my childhood perception of restriction and oppression. It would not have occurred to me to find this act of ’drive-by parenting’ strange. It was simply a natural part of my adult responsibility as a member of a caring community.
