The Value of a Thing

 I can remember a conversation I had with a childhood friend when I was very young. We had been raising money for the school charity and were becoming aware of the fact that people around the world don’t all have the same things. The same opportunities, the same possessions, the same rights and in particular there are people in the world who don’t have enough money to eat, to be safe and to stay healthy.

I turned to my friend in utter dismay. I just couldn’t understand how it had happened that we had all started in the same place and had landed in such a state of disparity. Ten year old me whispered to ten year old her: ‘I just don’t understand. Why don’t they print more money and then those people would have enough’.

My friend, who was clearly a high achiever in her understanding of economics, went on to explain to me the concept of value. It’s not just having something that makes it worth something. It’s got to be valued. In the case of money, scarcity equals value. In the case of the latest fashion, popularity equals value.

Value is a term we band around a lot in conversation. ‘What are the values of the organisation?’, ‘Does this align with my values?’, ‘She is a valued colleague’. But when we talk about value in terms of diversity, I don’t think we are getting to the heart of what this really means.

I want to share an incident with you. I feel like I am stabbing someone in the back by writing this but that’s the point. This needs to be known and I need to not feel like a villain for sharing my experience.

Some months ago I was enrolled on a course which would celebrate, empower and facilitate diversity. It had promise, ambition and of course was driven values which I could appreciate. However, a month or so ago I noticed that the final class I would be attending was an all-day session on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement and for many the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. The series of events went as follows:

Me: Oops, you seem to have scheduled this on a day I can’t attend for reasons of my diversity. Could I join the adjacent cohort earlier in the week? [but really hinting that you have plenty of time should you wish to simply move the date of this course to a less auspicious date].

Them: Sure, but you can’t attend for the group work sessions [for sensible reasons but this just niggled me more].

Me: [going in for the double tap] I can do this but I don’t think you are taking this seriously enough.

Them: We are so sorry, please forgive us [whilst we change nothing and forget to send you the zoom link for the alternative cohort].

Me: twiddles thumbs in awkward confusion, caught between privilege and marginalisation.

It’s not rage that I feel. It’s far more uncomfortable than that. I don’t feel like I deserve to be rageful but I am hurt, disappointed, confused, and upset. If I thought I was being discriminated against for being a woman I am certain that the red mist would descend and I would know exactly what I wanted to say, how I would say it and I would have no regrets for my poor behaviour. I have no insecurity about standing up for myself as a woman.

But as a Jew, I find it much more difficult. I don’t want to be a trouble maker. I don’t want to fulfil someone else’s racist stereotype of the pushy Jewish woman who won’t get off her soap box. Even when I’m right. And if I feel like this, how does it feel to belong to a marginalised group and not benefit from the privilege of being able to code switch like I can? My diversity is mostly hidden until incidents such as this.

My non-rage is mirrored by the non-affronting offense which has been caused. I don’t believe someone sat in a dark room lit only by the blue of their laptop screen and said ‘we don’t really need the Jews in on this. Let’s plan it on the one day a lot of them won’t attend’. But nevertheless the result is the same.

It’s insipid. It’s crept in, or maybe out, of the consciousness of the homogenous blob. I grew up amongst a terrifying narrative of ‘they wanted to stamp us out’, ‘it was the night of broken glass’, ‘when Hitler’s men came for your grandfather and his father (Opi), Granny ran her nurse’s thermometer under the hot tap to show them that Opi was unwell and could not go with them to the camps and that’s how they got out of Nazi Europe’. I grew up with an intense feeling of responsibility never to be a bystander when difference is not afforded the dignity it deserves. We are not all the same. And that is a beautiful thing. If we ‘forget’ to honour this, then careless action by careless action we create divides, injustice, prejudice and we all know how these things escalate.

Writing this has been a real struggle for me. Aside from my internalised anxiety about how I might be making others feel about my low level (though no less important) oppression, I also do not want to create a blame culture which isolates an individual. We are learning together and it’s ever more important that we create safe spaces to challenge one and other, to grow and explore the language we use, the assumptions we make and the changes we commit to.

Diversity is more than a numbers game. We can’t just print more of a thing and then there’s enough of it, job done. We need to invest in and be curious about the landscapes each of us emerges from. If we don’t value the seasoning which each person brings to the table, we will forget we ever needed, enjoyed or wanted it. And that would make for an extraordinarily bland existence. 

Welcome to my Table Top

Vulnerability is a word of metaphoric onomatopoeia. The mere utterance sets off an alarm of panic in my ear drums and makes the top half of my body shudder. Someone is about to ask me to bare my soul in front of the whole class, naked, at the end of year assembly. It’s happening and I can’t stop it and it doesn’t matter what Brené Brown says…it’s my ABSOLUTE WORST NIGHTMARE!

Vulnerability is also the millennial equivalent of power dressing in the ‘80s. No longer are we required to wear shoulder pads, ‘take up space’ and unleash a metaphoric smack down when we are talked over (although we can if required). In the ‘20s, we must share with the world a part of ourselves we grew up believing was for our eyes only,  buried in a magical box with an Azkaban worthy locking system, to which only we could access.

So why am I even sharing my feelings on the V-word with you? Here is a story.

Some months ago I was overheard discussing a person with a chaotic life (a.k.a. just a regular person) on the telephone and without realising it, had underrated the importance of something which I was discussing. I dismissed it, skated over it, and undermined it. I was overheard.

My wonderful colleague stewed on this for a brief moment and then asked my permission to create a safe space to call me out, to bring me with her into awareness and to welcome me into a new conversation.

She did this using ‘Table Top Time’. Initially an office based open mic of sorts held in that dead bit of desk no one can possibly sit at, and at which we used to eat biscuits, swap recipes and share life updates and ditties of no consequence at all.

Table Top Time quickly became something far more profound.  

‘Alex, I need to talk to you. That thing you said on the phone to the person I don’t know; it has really affected me. I don’t think you realised but it is important and it means something to me.’

Of course, an empathy light bulb lit up immediately and remained illuminated. But what percolated latterly was a reflection that she had instantly created a moment in which, without a shred of threat, she showed me her vulnerability. And she invited me to do the same, on equal footing, without competition, virtue signalling or performance.

This has been on my mind for months now. How did she do it? Can I do it? Can we all do it?

We’ve all had those moments where someone says something which hits a nerve but we don’t want to make a fuss or don’t believe we have permission to object, lest it make us vulnerable in some way. At one extreme for fear I might lose my job for saying something to someone senior and making them appear weak. At another extreme, by verbalising my upset or hurt I am expressing my feelings in a situation where emotions are aligned with weakness, for which there is no place in my toxic power-dressing up box.

But actually, what my colleague and I gained from Table Top Time has been a world of new conversations, trust and personal growth; not to mention a strengthening in our personal relationship which simply wouldn’t have happened any other way.

Maybe there is something in this.

What if the plates at the Table Top were loaded with our baggage and nonsense (see regular person, above), and we sat down to a tasting menu of truth and awareness, made peace with the fact that there would be moments of discomfort and just enjoyed the meal? No one participates in Table Top Time without acknowledging that they have a lot to learn and also something meaningful to contribute. It’s a space of Speak Up and Listen Up. Everyone has the same access to validation and challenge.

Vulnerability is the birthplace of trust. And trust is what we need in order to take risks. Risks are how we trial new ideas and thoughts. Adapt and adopt what works and playfully laugh at what doesn’t and crucially, do not judge ourselves for our failures. We notice these moments as they are recycled around the vulnerability food chain. Vulnerability is: relinquishing control and acknowledging messy things like feelings. Let those spaghetti strings splash. 

The best thing about Table Top Time is that there are no restrictions. It’s free and it’s for everyone. You don’t even need a table, just an imagination and a mind-set for it.

Who will you be saving a space for at your Table Top Time? 

Tiramisu

Tiramisu is an acquired taste. A base layer of delicate, coffee soaked sponge artfully smothered with layers of eggs, sugar, creamy mascarpone followed by an elegant dusting of cocoa.

Or it’s a mulchy ‘grown up desert’ which you’re promised you will grow to love but it just makes you feel like you’re eating cold toast that’s had a rough encounter with someone else’s morning coffee before you made it to the breakfast table.

Tiramisu can be loosely translated as ‘lifts you up’. Personally, I can’t stand the dessert. But this charming etymology has me forgive it for its bitter taste and claggy texture and just indulge in the notion that there is something in the world which was made only to lift me up.

Growing up, if you had asked me what I wanted to be you would have received the following response:

Person: What do you want to be when you grow up?

6 year old me: a vet on Animal Hospital

9 year old me: a Spice Girl

12 year old me: an actress on the stage

15 year old me: an actress on the stage

18 year old me: an actress on the stage

21 year old me: leave me alone, I have absolutely no idea.

31 year old me: who said anything about growing up?

Although I am the daughter of a recently retired secondary school drama teacher who could always be relied upon to have in her handbag a tambourine labelled ‘Drama Dept.’ in tippex, a bright red lipstick and a Micky Mouse alarm clock (always mine, never returned, I’m not over it), it may surprise you to learn that I spent a lot of my childhood reaching for an ambition to be on the stage.

In my imaginings, I would tread the boards. Make my audience, laugh, cry and rejoice night after night. I would modestly bow ‘oh, thank you’ when fans flattered me, secretly keeping a tally of all my admirers whose lives my performance had surely changed.

At some point, however, I looked backwards and I looked inwards and I looked forwards and I noticed that the limelight wasn’t calling for me anymore. Something had shifted. Instead, I was seeking joy from crouching down and providing a leg up for someone else to find theirs instead.

I was lifting.

Lifting exists in many forms. There is heavyweight lifting. These are the lifters who courageously expose themselves to provide justice where it is missing. Gloria Steinem, Edna Adan Ismail, Malala Yousafzai, any one of the women bravely stepping out of the shadows of shame to name and hold to account Harvey Weinstein, Noel Clarke and others like them.

Middleweight lifting is found in acts of organised cheerleading; less vulnerable than the heavyweights but greater in volume. These are the campaigners who lobby for equal pay, who seed fund someone else’s innovation and who secure free sanitary products for women who cannot afford them, protecting dignity and normalising a bodily function which half the human population experiences.

Then there is lightweight lifting, which is not to be underestimated. This is the lift that happens almost without us knowing. It’s as subtle as whipped cream as it melts on the tongue. So brief you can scarcely remember it was there but for the secret tightening of the jaw, an ecstasy of the senses. These are the moments in which we briefly catch eyes with one and other, a light nod of the head, ‘you got this’ and move on. But it means so much. To be seen. To be believed in. These moments are small and mighty.

Tiramisu is an acquired taste. It might not be the main event like the salted caramel melt in the middle chocolate bombe with gold leaf on the outside and popping candy on the inside, but it’s always on the dessert trolley. To lift you up. 

For Baba Yaga Boney-Legs

I was recently reminded of my once favourite childhood story. I can still feel my fingers scratching at my Grandmother’s shirt sleeves pleading with her to read me the story of Baba Yaga Boney-Legs again and again. This Russian folk tale has all the familiar characters; a beautiful daughter, a jealous step mother and a cruel, ugly witch who lives in the woods.

As a child I revelled in the imagery painted in this story. The young girl who carefully braids her luscious, thick hair before venturing out to meet the old woman with long, boney legs and a mouth full of iron teeth who lived in a rickety old house perched on two great chicken’s legs.

But with adult eyes all I see is a narrative which tells us that women cannot coexist. It’s hunt or be hunted because there simply isn’t enough room in the world for us all. And my slightly off beat story book isn’t unusual. Join me for a sail down the mainstream where we meet Cinderella, the poor and beautiful orphan who partakes in the ultimate beauty contest in which all women are compelled to vie for the affections of a prince. And Snow White, who poses a dangerous threat to another woman’s mission to be ‘the fairest of them all’. Because not only is there just one acceptable image of beauty, only one of us may fulfil it and the other must have her still beating heart cut out of her chest.

What happens when we nurture girls to compete with each other like this? What are we teaching our boys, the (not always) innocent bystanders to the bloodbath? And who benefits?

As we know, these formative tales are powerful tools in laying down our worldview and values. I grew up in a world where a queen bee was to be identified and overthrown. But this is changing in the most exciting and invigorating way. We are seeing the impact of women in leadership who are leading for and with other women, of sisterhood and of allyship.

What if Cinderella and her sisters rather than competing had joined forces, identified a need and solved a problem? ‘Tinderella’ might have been born and succeeded in matching the prince and his one true love without the need for him to inspect all those shoeless feet (I really hate feet) and the women of the town might all have had a piece of the dating pie. Meanwhile the formerly wicked step mother would be transformed as if by fairy godmother into ‘the Momager’.

Maya Angelou said ‘when you know better, you do better’. There is no sense in back tracking a childhood of poorly directed rhetoric. The task now, is to rewrite the future and to showcase what could be.  As women, it’s important that we show ourselves and each other that we can not only coexist, but we can elevate one and other. Lighting another woman’s candle does not diminish our own. It just makes the world a little brighter.

I wonder if Baba Yaga was lonely out in the woods on her own. Maybe she wanted a friend to tell her she was beautiful. Or just to keep her company and tell her that she was enough. Maybe I could be her friend. 

Zoom is a four letter word

 In 2012, whilst I was studying for my university finals, my Grandmother who lived in Australia had a devastating stroke. The knowledge came in painfully slow drips from afar. The truth was there wasn’t a lot of information yet and what we did know came to me 4^th hand from the other side of the world.

You know that scene in the Tom and Jerry cartoons where Tom is hit in the face with a frying pan and is suddenly stunned out of his chase? It was that. I was Tom. I had that sarcastic orbit of stars haloing my head. On the inside it was like looking at the world through 16 layers if cling film. I could sort of see everything. I could touch nothing. Everything was just a little bit out of grasp.

The feeling of disconnection was acute. My whole life I’d been the kid with the exotic family in all parts of the world. And it was fun. Always somewhere to travel, someone to see, someone to stay. Sunday mornings were reserved for long distance phone calls to Australia. They were hurried and there was a distracting echo of my own voice down the line.

Months after the stroke I moved to Yorkshire. Even in her post stroke fuzz, Grandma was straight on it with ‘do we know any boys for her?’ Grandpa D abruptly reminded her, ‘they’ll all be too old or dead for her, dear’.

The Sunday morning calls became more important than ever. I wanted to know everything. What was she eating? How far could she walk? Have you learnt any new tricks this week, Grandma?

But the conversations were strained, expensive and I came to feel more disconnected than before.

Then came FaceTime. Some genius in the family decided to buy my grandparents an iPad, or as Grandpa D called it ‘The Machine’. He also insisted that all dogs were called Fido or Rover and all cats were called Moggy. We weren’t going to win this one.

And from then on, on Friday evening my time and Saturday morning their time, our weekly FaceTime calls began. Always between Grandpa D’s first and second pieces of toast and always drinking Yorkshire Tea, which he liked to tell unwitting and over-trusting Australians was ‘brewed on the Yorkshire Moors, don’t you know?’

It was like someone plugged us all back into the mains supply again. The cling film between me and them was gone. I had the gift of time, no expensive phone bills, and space, I could see her. I could see my Grandma surfing the living room furniture to speak to me. I could see the new tricks. I could even see the family cat.

For a period of time, video calls changed the relationship I had with my family. We could feel a part of each other’s lives in the most wonderful way.

In a pandemic world we have seen the epoch making impact of Zoom/Teams/Face Time/House Party. It is how we have worked, lived, loved, died and grieved together. There is no doubt that this technology has made the world bearable when it might not have been.

But. It’s just not the same.

As our socially distanced lives become a little more social and a little less distant we are all musing ‘will we keep doing it this way?’ And whilst there are some unique benefits to the online world of work, I would like to expose a discreet and pernicious drawback which we are downplaying enormously.

Zoom is shoulders-up contact. There’s no heart and there are no gut reactions. We simply can’t see them. We are missing the pinball energy of a team literally reverberating with ideas which grow and evolve as they bounce off the arms in the room until spectacularly hitting the jackpot as everyone erupts with ‘Eureka’, lights flicker and flash and the DJ at the cognitive disco in every extravert’s mind has just earned themselves another rave review.

In the online version of this scenario Phil left himself on mute, Rebecca still can’t get her camera to work and the ball comes crashing down. For now, this DJ remains on Furlough.

In our virtual meeting spaces (note, these aren’t always Zoom) we are missing the detail which doesn’t appear in the minutes or action logs. There is something else. There is energy. And that’s the bit I’m good at, that’s the bit I crave and feed off. And when it’s gone something else fills the void; my imposter.

Imposter syndrome is something I have grappled with in the last years with varying success. Recently I’ve noticed a link between online communication and my feeling of disengagement, not good enough, not thriving. It’s counterfeit communication which is making me feel like a counterfeit contributor.

So how do we reconcile the gift of time and space which allowed me to reconnect with my family and the magic of IRL (in real life) alchemy? Maybe the answer is less about adoption of new things and more about the abandonment of old ideas. We used to imagine all sorts of barriers to digital communication and ‘all’ it took was a global health pandemic for us to do away with those quite simply. We are better than we know at adapting and this is what we must keep doing. Adapting. Banana bread came and went, I suspect zoom is here to stay for now, the rest is TBC.

 

Girl out of Yorkshire

Dear Yorkshire,

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

It’s been two years,

And I have a new job, see you later babes 😀

…as I keep being reminded, you can take the girl out of Yorkshire but something of Yorkshire has now become a part of me.

Yorkshire folk are well known for their tea, fish and chips, flat caps, small dogs and perhaps best for their friendliness and warmth. I can absolutely vouch for all of the above! When I moved here two years ago I felt totally foreign. Although I had always had an affinity for the North I never imagined I would have loved it as much as I have. When I think about how I used to approach situations, this is the thing which has changed the most for me in the last two years. I am still very logical and I still engage mouth before brain, but somewhere in there the compassion I think I always had has become more visible.

This year has been my second on the NHS management training scheme and has been somewhat of a reality check. I hadn’t realised how good I’d had it whilst I was based in the beautiful Dales in a very stable and innovative trust. I spent the first two months working in social enterprise and was surprised when it didn’t tick the boxes I had thought it would. I had imagined that as a third sector organisation it would have similar values as the NHS of authenticity, transparency and purpose I could relate to. It was disappointing when I challenged a project and the response I was met with was ‘yes Alex, but I need the money’. I learnt from this that I love the NHS. Also that the quality I most admire in a leader and aspire to embody is authenticity. As a leader, you can make a bad call but as long as you can be honest about your decision and your response, you’re human. And that’s a quality I look for in a leader; we don’t really need superheroes to achieve amazing things.

I then joined a community trust in the height of massive change.  Before I joined the NHS someone told me ‘the only thing that’s constant in the NHS is change’. This is true, and the way this is managed is everything. I suppose that’s what the grad scheme has all been about. How do you deal with change? It’s coming, it’s needed, it’s inevitable, rock the boat without falling out. And most importantly, look after everyone else sailing with you. Because that’s what leadership is. It’s about collaborating to deliver change together. If you feel like you’re running through treacle, the change won’t stick. As soon as you jump ship old habits will return and what’s the point?

My friends know that I am the overprotective one who is always ready to ‘get all London’ on their loser ex-boyfriends. What I had never realised though, is that as leader and a team manager I am really protective of my colleagues. This is good and bad and the more I understand it the more I am seeing myself let got when I need to. I am also seeing myself as a bit of a cheerleader for the people I work with. I hope this is a good thing, I am slightly wary of becoming a pushy Jewish mother in training! That’s for another blog though…

This afternoon I am venturing back dahn saahf. It’s bittersweet as I leave the beauty of Yorkshire for the smog of London. My identity crisis will no doubt continue, however I am looking forward to understanding what people are talking about when they refer to times and meals of the day – these have seriously thrown me! – Eee Bai Gum!

Yorkshire, it’s been a pleasure. With love always,

Alex

A moment of thought

It was a blustery winter’s evening; a far cry from a romantic Dickensian scene. I was frustrated and impatient, wedged between post match football fans congregating outside a closed train station at the start of my journey back to Leeds.

I asked the helpful man behind the bullet proof screen 'what are the chances of me catching this train?' He shook his head, clenched his jaw and made that face you make when someone tells you about the time the trapped their finger in a door. 'How about the one after that?' I asked. 'And the one after that?' The face did not change.

A few minutes later, having reluctantly rejoined the crowd, the man beckoned me back over to the window. He looked like he was up to no good. He awkwardly drew the blind down and whispered covert instructions into the microphone. I listened with my ear to the speaker and followed accordingly. For no reason other than 'I just didn't want you to get stuck in the middle of nowhere on your own' the man had allowed myself and another solo female passenger to sneak through the train station offices, through a labyrinth of corridors and onto the platform. Meanwhile the mob outside were none the wiser.

As well as putting a smile on my face for no less than a week this got me thinking. It's the random acts of baseless kindness that get us through the year. Particularly during the post Christmas winter, when fun seems to hibernate and the sun has presumably taken his hat to the drycleaners.

Random acts, though tiny and sometimes insignificant, require us to be a little more thoughtful for an extra moment. Thoughtfulness is all it takes. So why aren't we all doing it? Why isn't it the norm? And what happens when we forget to be thoughtful?

In the NHS we expect our frontline staff to be thoughtful at all times. When things go wrong, it's usually because of lack of thought rather than destructive intentions. So what can we do to tip the balance in our favour and avoid the dreaded mediocrity?

Well, I have a plan and I would like you to join me. On the first Friday of every month commit a random act of baseless kindness. Buy a stranger a cup of coffee or share a happy thought with a colleague. Give someone a compliment. Make a pledge for NHS change day. Be thoughtful.