On risks, putting yourself out there, and Only Fools and Horses...

So, I like to think of myself as a brave person, someone who doesn't shy away from risks, and recently it feels like I've taken more plunges into the deep-end than I've had hot dinners.

In the famous words of Derek ‘Del Boy’ Trotter (Only Fools and Horses – if you don’t know, be ashamed of yourself, and then look it up) “who dares wins, Rodney”. Was he right though? Let's face it, he wasn't known for the accuracy of his pithy phrases, but I have to say I agree with him here. Take for example my latest risky endeavour stats (you know, if I had to make them up…) They would probably balance out 2:1 in terms of favourable to less favourable outcomes, but does that mean that the latter were complete losses?

With any risk, whatever it may be, you put yourself out there, making yourself vulnerable to someone or something else, and that's hard. It's uncomfortable and scary because suddenly what happens to you is no longer under your control. Even though you enter these situations with a desired outcome in mind, as soon as you hand yourself over to fate like that, you also hand over any influence you have on it. But does it imply failure if things don't turn out the way you had wanted? You've still been brave and ventured something have you not? You've still learnt something about yourself; in fact you've probably realised that taking risks isn't as terrible as you feared and that you could do it again in the future.

The Russian version of Del Boy's phrase is кто не рискует, не пьёт шампанского (he who doesn't dare, doesn't drink champagne), and I like that. I like it because it has nothing to do with winning, rather it suggests that anything you perceive to be a reward merits taking a risk for. It doesn't mention losing.  

Au contraire, Rodney, au contraire. 

pre-Adventure Adventuring

It doesn't take much searching online to find a post about how your twenties are supposed to be a time of adventure, new beginnings, travel and self-discovery. And so, in heed of this oft-repeated

creed, I’m about to embark on an adventure of my own.

As anyone who’s been on an adventure will tell you, at some point before you leave, a certain pre-adventure medley of thoughts and emotions begins to kick in. On the one hand, the knowledge that you’ll soon be leaving is incredibly liberating. It allows you to break ties, escape your routine, and leave behind anything you feel isn't working for you, in exchange for a new home, new friends and a new purpose.

Weirdly though, your pre-adventure state of mind can also leave you feeling tied down even further to that which you’ll be leaving behind. I can't be the only one who starts to feel homesick before they've even left? For some reason, the thought of moving away and starting anew has an uncanny knack of dredging up the past in all its glory, or not, as the case may be. Recently, I've spent a lot of time wanting to reconnect with those times, places and people; trying to find some familiarity in the face of the coming unknown. Sometimes that’s a good idea – you get back in touch with old friends and realise how much you'd missed them. Other times though, it’s a bad idea – you get back in touch with people you thought you’d missed, only to experience once again the painful reality of why you lost touch in the first place.  

Up until recently I definitely thought I had come to terms with the fact that we lose touch with people as we get older, but it turns out I hadn't. This confusing pre-adventure ride though has shown me three things: you can’t keep in touch with everyone, some relationships aren't made to last, and that both of those things are okay.

In fact, the person I'd most like to talk to again, is my grandma. I would love to be able to pick up the phone and tell her all about my plans, even if it meant being interrogated repetitively and repeatedly until my departure date and beyond. As difficult as it's been to accept this barrier, and to try to reconcile making a fresh start with a desire to go back in time and share another moment with somebody, all this has just highlighted for me that some relationships really are more special than others. If anything, it's shown me that in some cases there wasn't much love lost at all. It seems to me that rather than wasting time hurting over people who wouldn't hurt over you, it's far more important to focus on your genuine connections, and on building more of those special, enduring bonds. You can't go back to the past. All you can do is appreciate what you have now, and look forward to the future. 

And now I'm going, before I decide to get back in touch with anyone else…

Ode to Oxford

Oxford, it's been... weird.

After 5 years here, I think I can honestly say I've made the most of the 'Oxford Experience'. I've certainly struggled my way through countless essays, translations, tutorials and lectures over the years. Aside from all that, I've also managed to play a lot of croquet, to go punting, and to wake up in time for May Day (cheese hat?) at least once. I've been to balls and bops, I played for a university sports team and I've been a sports rep at my college. I've even seen them filming a few cheeky scenes of Lewis here and there. Most importantly though, I've really lived here. I've met some amazing people, learnt more than I ever thought I would, and have been pushed past every limit I once thought I had.

Oxford is not an easy place to live in sometimes. When you get here as a fresh-faced first year, you find yourself suddenly forced to be your absolute best, and to do it on a(n infinitesimal) time-scale. On top of that there are all these other things you want to be doing like having a social life, playing sports and joining clubs. Quite frankly, it's exhausting! I have never been so physically or mentally drained, as I am at the end of every single Oxford term, no matter how good I've become at balancing my time. But when I ask myself whether or not it was worth it? Absolutely.

I've grown comfortable here now, and that definitely calls for a change. That's not to say though, that I wouldn't do it all over again in a heartbeat. This university and its libraries, professors, classes, people and prestigious colleges have a way of leaving an indelible mark on you. Of course, no indelible mark is ever left from purely happy, care-free times, but I will be forever grateful for the years I've spent here. Pretty much everything that's happened since I came to Oxford has taught me something; whether it was immediately or a lesson for later, and I value every second of it.

For now though, that's it. Five years, and fifteen terms later, and it's all over. Leaving Oxford is legitimately terrifying, and I will miss it for so many reasons, but now it's time to go and see what kind of adventure is waiting for me next.

So thanks Oxford, and goodbye. Who knows when I'll be seeing you again...

Let it go...

Disclaimer: this is not Frozen-related. Sincerest apologies.

If, like me, you have always been told to do your best, try your hardest and never give up, what do you do when you're faced with a situation that you simply cannot change? 

I think it's fair to say that as children, we're all subjected to a near-constant drumming of ambitions into us by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and teachers alike. In my case, ambition was made particularly important when it came to finishing food, and going to bed on time. Whatever your parents' priorities for you were though, I expect you often heard them say things like "just do your best," or "if you put your mind to it, you can do anything". Something I didn't learn as a child however, was how to know when enough was enough; when it was best just to let it go.

But actually, when I think about it, learning to give up is something that only you can teach yourself. The problem is that the thought of conceding; of giving in to circumstance; of letting go, is absolutely opposed to all the lessons about diligence, perseverance and grit that I was taught when I was younger: it feels like the wrong thing to do. Especially, when you find yourself faced with the prospect of giving up on something of huge importance to you. Isn't that synonymous with failing? 

Slowly but surely, it has dawned on me that knowing when to call it a day is not a failure. Usually, its a healthy decision. With time I've learnt that if something is meant to be, it will. Of course you can exert influence over people and situations, but you can't force them. Sometimes, things will just turn out how they will, no matter how much it hurts, and no matter how much you might wish for it to be different. And at times like these, desperately fighting against circumstances, actually makes things worse.

The question I find myself asking is: is it really worth it? Is it a really a good idea to keep going? I often think back to a conversation I had once with a wonderfully thoughtful, and spiritual person, who told me that while the decision to give up your struggles to whatever higher power (or lack thereof) you believe in, may be the hardest, it will also be the wisest and most fruitful. Learning that balance and putting yourself first sometimes isn't a question of being weak, or selfish, it's a matter of allowing yourself peace. It's one thing to say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's also true that these things are meant to challenge us, not to break us. What is even more important, is that it's up to you to choose exactly where you want to draw that line... 

Clever Music?

As is sometimes the case with facebook, I recently happened upon a post with which I was entirely unimpressed. It was entitled "Smart people listen to Radiohead and dumb people listen to Beyonce," and was based on a study which claimed that a person's taste in music is indicative of their intelligence. I have to admit that I jumped straight to a conclusion. My conclusion was that the contents of the article would be a load of rubbish, built on assumptions and stereotypes, and reflecting musical and cultural snobbery.

Not wanting to judge a book by its cover, so to speak, I read the article, but my conclusion remained the same. The premise of the study is that more intelligent people listen either to classical music or indie, whereas less intelligent people listen to things like rap, jazz and pop, to name a few. As someone who grew up in a house where different music was always playing, and still has great significance in my life, I was deeply offended by this suggestion.

It's one thing to argue that certain types of music are more technically complicated than others, but it's something else altogether to make sweeping generalisations about the listening public. I mean, what is intelligence anyway? Is it purely academic, or can it also be common-sense and practicality? and does the study take cultural intelligence into account at all? Given that the results were collected from students with the highest SAT scores at one particular US university, it would seem to be based purely on academic intelligence.

As a masters student, I would probably describe myself as being book-smart to a degree, yet most of the music I listen to is to be found at the "dumb" end of the spectrum. However, there are so many factors that this study excludes, that it makes me wonder how it was even published in the first place. It completely fails to take into account, for example, that a person might be listening to music in a foreign language; thereby learning a great deal. It also fails to mention the breadth of factors which contribute to the building of tastes and preferences, many of which are inspired precisely by a desire to gain knowledge.

Aside from the study's many flaws, it is the principle that someone felt they were in a position to judge the general population according to something so personal and variable, which grates on me the most. Publishing and publicising a piece like this, promotes the idea that it's okay to make assumptions about people and judge them for their choices. Would we not be better off using our investigative powers to discover how music might be helpful for different people in different ways? Surely, being less judgmental and more inclusive is a more positive step to take in any case? Maybe we should all listen to the star of Colombian reggaeton, Reykon, when he says no molestes más... 

On Home-Sickness and the Wonders of Ladbroke Grove

Don't get me wrong, Oxford is a beautiful city, but sometimes I feel like dropping everything here and going back home. 

The word "home" has different meanings for everyone. It brings up different associations, different images, and different memories. For some home is a physical entity; maybe a house, or a flat. For others home is certain people; family or friends. It might not even be the place you were born, or the place you grew up. Maybe it's the place you feel happiest, safest or most comfortable.

For me, home has come to mean all of those things. I grew up in Ladbroke Grove, and although it's been through some changes recently - yuppification is the word that comes to mind - for me it has and will always be, home. Despite brief stints abroad as a child, and as part of my degree, I've spent my entire life returning to my family and friends in West London.

My relationship with home hasn't always been rosy though. As a child, and at secondary school, family situations meant that home as a 'physical entity,' wasn't always my favourite place to be. Added to that was the fact that for a significant period during my teenage years, I felt unsafe going out in my local area. Of course I had places and people that I loved and felt happy around, but I spent a long time wishing I could be anywhere else.

Then I came to Oxford. At first I absolutely loved it. I felt safe and thought I had found a great group of people to surround myself with. I wasn't worried about missing home. After a while though, I started to realise that actually although I didn't feel physically threatened anymore, I felt emotionally threatened by the people and the environment that is sometimes synonymous with being here. I found that a lot of people made fun of my accent and the reputation of my home, making assumptions about me, which they often didn't restrain from sharing, based on that. A number of people announced that they were scared of me (which always struck me as odd, I mean, if you're scared of someone, surely you wouldn't say it to their face?) Perhaps my favourite comment was "I would feel safe walking down a dark alley at night with you". 

Whenever I go back to the dark alleys of London, I realise that actually, I feel so much more comfortable there than I ever have at university. I have certainly made friends in Oxford from similar backgrounds, who I love dearly and feel I can honestly be myself around, but I have also met people who have lived very comfortable, sheltered lives, that I just can't empathise with. There's absolutely nothing wrong with having that kind of life, of course, but I must admit that to begin with, I didn't feel like I could be myself around those people. 

I realised very quickly that the environment I grew up in had pushed me, in a way that other people's simply hadn't, all the way out of my comfort zone, and into achieving my goals. I also realised that instead of trying to escape that, I should be grateful and honest about it. Now I have a whole new appreciation for the places and people of my childhood, because without them, I wouldn't be half the person I am today. From the moment I understood this, I've never tried to modify my accent, or dilute myself or my background in any way. That's because I'm proud of who I am and where I'm from.   

As I sit here now, writing just before the final push at the very end of term, I miss home so much it physically hurts. I miss the familiar streets; the faces that I grew up around, and that I can't go anywhere without seeing; the sounds and smells; the atmosphere; even my home basketball court, and the state of its rims. What I'm saying is, that although I can totally understand the need for growth away from home, and the occasional change of scene, I also value, beyond expression, the memories, stories, and the way my home has developed me as a person. I hope that whatever homes means to you, you've found the same strength and potential from it as I have.  

In memory of my grandmother

A year ago today, I lost my grandmother. She was 94.

Known to her friends as "Quinnie," she wasn't a particularly gregarious lady. She wasn't prone to displays of emotion, and she rarely talked about herself. Nevertheless, the few times she did open up to me taught me everything I needed to know about her.

Growing up, her family was extremely poor. She once told me a great story about how much trouble she had got into with her mother when, after months of eyeing up a pair of patent leather shoes in a shop-window near her home in Derby, she saved up her pocket money and bought them. I had never thought of her as rebellious or adventurous before then, and it still makes me smile to think that as a young girl, she did something so simple and yet so scandalous. Although she would never have discussed, or probably even thought about it herself, I think this was what made her so generous in later life, and not just materially generous, but generous with her time, and hospitable. Even as she got older, and had trouble walking around her small flat, she insisted on cooking the whole family a meal whenever we visited her. 

During the war, she worked as a bus conductress, and she sometimes told us about the people she encountered in those difficult days. She described many of them as rude, obnoxious and impatient, and it always seemed to me that these experiences gave her the unfailing patience she showed me throughout all the years I knew her, even when times were hard. Every year she, my mother and I would visit my grandfather's memorial together. I vividly remember one year her quiet and tearful confession that not a day went by that she didn't think of him or miss him, and yet despite her visible pain, she had neither a sharp word, nor a reproach for anything. 

Towards the end of her life her declining health kept her in and out of hospital. Even then nothing changed. She remained the same generous, kind, and patient woman I had always known. Of course, she had some less-good traits which the years exacerbated. She repeatedly asked me how "my friend" was, without any further indication of who she meant. She absolutely could not fathom that I study Spanish and Russian, and asked me every week how the French was going, and whether I had ever considered studying German. She also had the habit of stopping suddenly in the middle of the street and pointing at things with her walking stick, sometimes even hitting them, just to make sure we knew exactly what she was talking about. If anything though, these features, that sometimes drove me up the wall, were another thing to love about her: her trademarks.

One of my favourite memories of her was a dull, grey afternoon we spent sheltering in her flat. After a couple of rainy hours, I piped up that I thought the downpour would stop soon. My grandmother looked thoughtfully out of the window for a few seconds and concluded that it wouldn't. At the time I thought she was just being pessimistic, and that she would be wrong, but she was right. It rained all day. For me, that moment summed up exactly how a lifetime of struggle and hardship had formed her. She was a wise, patient and caring woman, and I would give anything to see her again to talk about my friend, or about how surprisingly enough, I've never really wanted to learn German...   

The ghost of Valentine's Day past...

So yesterday was Valentine's Day and, despite a long spell of what might best be referred to as romantic misadventures, it was one of the only February 14ths that I didn't resent being single.

I don't know if the fact that it fell on a Saturday this year had anything to do with it, (I mean who doesn't love Saturdays after all?), but what I do know is that I enjoyed everything I did in fantastic company. And it got me thinking.

When I reflect on my proudest moments, I realise that what helped me reach them all was the support of other people, romantic misadventurers or otherwise. So actually, what better way to spend Valentine's Day than playing your favourite sport with your favourite teammates, making new friends, and talking to old ones? S/O or no S/O, I've recently been reminded of just how important it is to have a solid group of ride or die friends behind you. I've also realised how lucky I am to have exactly that. A solid group who I know I can rely on through anything.  

Who cares if you haven't found Mr. or Mrs. Right yet? Love is about so much more than romance, and I can't thank the people in my life enough for showing me that on a regular basis. This one's for you.

   

Gaps, crutches and human safety nets

Do you ever get the feeling that you're just filling a space in someone else's life?

I was once told that when I finished school I'd leave my school friends behind, and find my friends for life at university and work. Usually, my source's pearls were of genuine wisdom, but I've since found the opposite of what he said to be true.

As a child, or a teenager, at school you make friends just to make friends. You find people that you have something in common with, who you enjoy spending time with, who you can share things with. But it seems that as we get older and life gets more difficult, genuine friendships such as these lose ground to those relationships which help us get through certain situations and overcome certain obstacles. That's not to say, of course, that it's impossible to make real friends after you've left school, I definitely have, it's just that somehow they're rarer.

Recently, I found myself questioning people's behaviour, wondering what might have gone on to make them act the way they have. More than once I've come to the conclusion that it's either because I no longer fulfilled the role that they needed me to, or because I've completely misunderstood that that was the context of the relationship. Either way, what I find most difficult is deciding which is sadder; the fact that people can do this consciously, or the fact that often it's entirely unconscious. Of course it's hurtful when someone uses you intentionally, but that someone desperately needs you to play a part for them, and feels almost bereft when they realise you won't or can't join in any more, surely that's worse?

It seems to me that people are afraid of being alone, afraid of having to be themselves, without the support of another person to hide behind. Sure, being independent is scary, and it's always nice to have someone else to blame if everything falls apart, but it's something that you have to learn to do. You know how the saying goes, "if you want something doing, do it yourself". Learning to live with, and love yourself is one of the most challenging lessons out there. Unsurprisingly it's also the most rewarding. Not just because it empowers you, teaching you strength and resilience, but also because when you do meet people and build relationships with them, you can both give and take so much more from it.

That's why I really think the best way forward is to refuse to participate, that is if you see it happening, on any level, with convenience relationships. Don't use people as crutches, and try to avoid getting roped in as somebody's safety net. You'll grow so much more and, in the long run, things will be that much better because you didn't.

On Mixing Races and (Not) Conforming to Expectations

Being from a mixed-race background broadens your horizons and enables you to cross boundaries that others might consider limits. Or so you'd think, no?

Although my experience of growing up in a mixed family certainly has broadened my horizons and empowered me in many ways, I've also found it to be incredibly restrictive. I'm grateful that my ethnicity hasn't (yet) been a prohibiting factor in achieving goals, but I've definitely noticed it to be a limitation in terms of what other people expect of me. 

As a child visiting Egypt or Ireland, I never felt properly at home. There was always something, be it external or internal, that made me feel different from the people around me, as if somehow I didn't conform. Thinking about it now, it seems silly to imagine that as the product of a mixed relationship, that was relocated to the streets of west London, I would ever fit into a culture that I didn't fully belong to. What seems even sillier, is that it really upset me that I didn't fit in, and only when I was exiled to the Russian city of Yaroslavl' for eight months (thanks Oxford), did I realise that actually I did fit in somewhere: London. 

The beautiful Ladbroke Grove, nestled between Harlesden, Shepherd's Bush and Notting Hill (spot the odd one out), is home to Portobello Market, George's (if you know, you know), and me, amongst other things. But, what you're most likely to know it for is the Notting Hill Carnival. For two summery days a year, the streets around my house are filled with music, food, dancing (drugs, alcohol, inappropriate toilet breaks), and happiness. More important than any of these things though, is the reason Carnival was started: as a celebration of a different culture, and an attempt to incorporate something of it into English life. I don't know about you, but I certainly consider anywhere that establishes an annual tradition to encourage multiculturalism, to be home, whether it's my background they're celebrating or not. I've discovered that home doesn't have to be where your parents are from, or even where you live, it's where you feel it is.  

For whatever reason though, it seems that some people are still not as comfortable with the idea of dual-heritage as I've grown to be. Over the past few years I've been told that I shouldn't be considered white, dismissed as someone who "doesn't even know where she comes from," had to battle abject confusion on more than one occasion when asked the origin of my name, and listened to intelligent observations such as "ew, that's weird," when I talk about my ethnicity. I've even been asked if being half-Egyptian makes me an Islamist who's likely to blow themself up. Yet more disparaging, is the fact that this kind of cultural insensitivity is widespread. A close friend of mine was once assured future success on account of her "hybrid vigour". Not offensive at all.  

Usually, ignorant comments like this are easy to brush off. However I struggle when the conversation turns to the matter of whether or not it's typical for someone of my heritage to be doing such and such a thing. I struggle because that's never been something I've considered. I've never debated any choices; educational, physical, or personal, on grounds of whether other people from my countries would do the same. Others though, seem fascinated by the idea of cultural conformity, to the point where they even ask how my tastes and habits relate to my background.

The answer: they probably don't. I make a point of doing what I feel is right, and of following my passions, even if they don't get me anywhere. What's the point otherwise? How will you ever know who you are, until you step outside of other people's expectations, and start figuring things out for yourself? Of course I have traits that are influenced by my background, I love bastorma, foul medames and potatoes, I clap way too often, I drink copious amounts of tea, and I call people eejits. But I would hate to think that at any point, I've let external prejudices and expectations define me. I'd much rather take a chance on something I think is important, be honest and express myself regardless, and I'm pretty sure that most people are the same, no matter where they come from.

What I really want is to be like Carnival (minus the drugs and aforementioned sanitary issues). I hope that in the future, I can utilise the incredible advantage that being mixed-race is to get the absolute most out of life, to combine the richness of my parents' cultures, with the one that I grew up around, not forgetting of course, a generous helping of anything new that I pick up along the way...

So thanks a whole bunch for your opinions, but unless they're paying my gym membership, I really don't need to hear them. 

The Cuban Experience

Before I went to Cuba, I “joked” that the main reason for my visit was to find a husband. Whilst I did see many a man that I could have happily taken to be my lawful wedded, what I ended up coming back with is far more valuable than any of those pretty faces or Cuban swaggers.

Arriving at José Marti International Airport in Havana, the first thing I saw was a sea of travellers waiting to be granted entrance through the barriers by Cuban immigration control. Being the naïve westerner that I am (was?) my initial move was to connect to the airport wifi and chat to people at home on Facebook and Whatsapp. I soon discovered that Cuba and wifi do not go hand in hand. In fact, Cuba doesn’t get on particularly well with its telephone network either. But, what Fidel and Raúl’s old-fashioned island state, with its cautious attitude towards communication technology, and reticence to conformity, lacks in speed and modernity, it more than makes up for in warmth and beauty, and I’m not just talking about the men.

During the entirety of my stay I used my phone a grand total of three times. This is something of a miracle for me when I’m usually glued to my phone, typing furiously, or scrolling endlessly through my apps just in case something, somewhere might have happened. I realised that in Cuba, I didn’t find myself trying to fill any void. Throughout my time there and even during long, monotonous journeys down motorways left unfinished by Americans or Russians, who had unceremoniously up and left once their interest in the beautiful Caribbean nation had waned, there was always a stunning view to take in, an interesting, funny, or poignant conversation to be had, or music to be sung along and danced to. As someone who hates silence and is constantly trying to fill it, what I’ll miss most about Cuba, is that you can’t go anywhere without hearing (usually live) music. Looking back, it’s extremely fitting of the country. Cuban people are vivacious, vibrant and warm. They fill silences and they colour their lives; not with phones, apps, and extravagance, but with generosity, friendship and expressiveness.

The largest island in the Antilles doesn’t have a lot. Normally when people return from holiday they come back with suitcases heavier than they left with, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to do that this time. Apart from some small goodies from a market in Trinidad de Cuba, the weight of my suitcase was constituted mostly by rum and music. The CDs I found aren’t commercial records, they’re privately recorded and produced by local artists who work hard every day, performing for tourists and locals alike in restaurants and bars. I think that in itself represents the essence of Cuba; things aren’t done on a massive scale, and people are humble and hardworking. They don’t expect something for nothing, even today when it seems that often, all people are concerned with is being there first and getting “what they deserve” from someone or something.

Having only been there a short while, my perceptions are of course only surface ones, but the humble generosity of the Cuban spirit was best embodied for me in the simple gesture of one, hand-made cigar from our guide Guillermo, to our twinkly-eyed driver Pedro. The gift wasn’t expensive or shiny, but it was a small token of friendship and gratitude from one compadre to another, and it really resonated with me. This compadre-ship isn’t just reserved for fellow Cubans though. When I fell ill halfway through our trip and needed to go to hospital, our guide and driver interrupted their breakfasts and timetable in order to take me to the closest one and make sure I was okay. Then, on our return to Havana from the disappointingly commercialised tourist zone of Varadero, driver Pedro invited my mother and I into his home, so that we could see what a typical Cuban house looked like on the inside. I’ve often found myself wondering why people are so keen to make grand gestures, when acts of genuine warmth and kindness, albeit simple ones, are so much more meaningful. I honestly don’t think many people would take such good care as was taken of me in Cuba, if they, like Pedro and Guillermo, had only known me for a few days. I think we have a huge amount to learn from these humble people of music, warmth, simplicity, and beauty, of course.