Notes to Sparty #11

Dear Sparty, 

You wouldn't have guessed from within the confines of your little temporary home, but it’s been a pretty interesting week here on the outside. I’d like to tell you about a couple of world events in particular because I hope you’ll find them interesting, but also because I’ve found that writing about stuff helps me process them in my own mind as well. 

Come to think of it, it’s probably why I started writing in the first place; to try and understand rather than attempt to explain. Will these events still be significant when you are reading this? I don’t know. Are millions of people affected by them now as I write this? Most certainly. So, let’s begin, shall we? 

On the 7th of November this year, on the west coast of the United States of America, a singer named Leonard Cohen passed away at the age of 82; the latest in a fairly long list of famous musicians for whom 2016 was the final curtain call. 

To be honest, I was never a big fan of his music, but Cohen was first and foremost a poet, which I think is why he appealed to me. He was up there, not as great as the great Bob Dylan (in my opinion, of course) but a formidable songwriter nevertheless; someone who could wrap a melody around melancholy and somehow make it strangely uplifting. 

Funnily enough, when I first started up this blog ten years ago, I put a line at the top of the page (which is still there) and it said: Blessed are the cracked, for it is they that let in the light. I didn’t realise this at the time, but it turns out that this is actually a variation of one of Cohen’s lyrics: There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in. 

Just a few hours after news of his death, the first results of the US presidential election started coming in, and it was clear that something big was happening. Hillary Clinton, the first ever female candidate and a vastly experienced and accomplished politician, was starting to look like she might be beaten by Donald Trump, a controversial, supposed billionaire who had never held public office before. 

By the morning of 9th November, as Americans woke up to confirmation of this monumental upset, the eyes of the rest of the world turned to them as well, and mostly blinked in disbelief. Then came the deluge of news, analyses, editorials, opinion pieces, etc. etc. Some people were elated, some were distraught. Many, like me, were just stunned. 

In the hours and days since the result, I kept thinking about the Leonard Cohen line- there is a crack in everything. As an outsider looking at the US, it seemed like the cracks and splinters had grown into a full-fledged chasm. This had been a bitter, bruising campaign; a bloody slugfest rather than a virtuous democratic exercise. 

In the end, after Hillary got around 3 million more popular votes but Trump winning by virtue of the electoral collage (I will explain this one when I understand it fully myself), the world’s most powerful country appeared to be a nation divided, each side fuelled by hatred and mistrust for the other, and revelling in their differences rather than all the things they had in common. Could this be a microcosm of the whole of humanity?

I suppose it is easy to wallow in despair in the aftermath of a perceived tragedy, however big or small it might be, and I will admit to doing this for a few days. But then I forced myself to focus on the second part of the Cohen quote: that’s how the light gets in. 

Yes, there are a great many things to dislike about Trump, but there are also a great many things wrong with the way things are, not just in the US but around the world. Many of us are scared and concerned and confused, and when things are in tumult we turn to people who we think we can help us. It is a normal human reaction. 

So rather than judging the people who supported, endorsed, or voted for Trump, maybe our time will be infinitely better spent by thinking about what we do next, and how we can continue to combine forces to help solve problems that are bigger than one single country. 

Yes, people can be mean and petty and unreasonable, but the same people can be kind and fair and hopeful. People can judge you based on the colour of your skin, but people can also get together to help a Dad find the right coloured sippy cup for his autistic son. People can drop bombs on unarmed civilians in Syria, but people wearing White Helmets can also put their own lives on the line every day to help drag survivors out of the rubble. 

Perhaps this is the biggest challenge of them all, Sparty. To see the cracks for what they are, but to also look beyond them to the light. To recognise that there is always hope, and that as long as we are alive, we can help make a positive change. Once we realise that, maybe, just maybe, no problem will be too big. 

This is something I struggle with on a daily basis. I look at the crack and, unlike your mum, I get stuck. I don’t believe I can make a difference. I sometimes even think it’s not worth trying. But somewhere inside, I know it is. And I hope you will know it is too. Some weeks, like this last one, will be tough and dispiriting. But other weeks will be great and inspiring. And every day, we get to start work again. 

As for the US election, well, here’s what I wrote the day after, mostly as a reminder to myself:

Dear friends, welcome to the morning after the night before. As the outgoing President said, the sun did rise again. Our planet, this pale blue dot on a vast black canvas, still throbs with the same beautiful energy as it did yesterday. We still have the same choices we always did- to be kind, to live out our days as better versions of ourselves, to dream, and stretch the moments of magic and imagination. 

There will be turbulence along the way, but still we travel together with the fierce certainty that there is a place in the future, yet unseen, where we will lock hands and celebrate our shared humanity. And from that glorious vantage point, we will look back and reflect on how far we have come, despite seemingly insurmountable odds. 

So today, even though the smog of confusion and despair threaten to momentarily shroud the sun, let us keep moving forward, one tentative step at a time, until the final destination of our destiny comes into view. 

See you soon, Sparty. This beautiful world is waiting to welcome you. 

Love, your dad.

Notes to Sparty #10

Hey there little Sparty, 

Today you are one week closer to coming out, and so as a celebration I thought I would tell you a little story. It’s actually a true story, and the events I’m about to describe took place when I was about twenty-one years old. 

Back then, I was in college in a city named Bangalore, which is a twenty-four-hour train ride from where my parents were living at the time. So, every time I got more than a weeks’ holiday, I would catch a train and head home- yes, home sweet home, home where mum was, home where yummy food was, where everything seemed just right, even when it wasn’t (you will know exactly what I mean soon enough) 

Anyway, because this is your Dad we are talking about it, the build-up to any sort of travel involved a frenzy of last-minute packing, handing in assignments, missing the bus to the station, the auto breaking down on the way, panicking over whether I’d remembered the ticket, etc., etc. (and this was just on a good day) You better make sure this is one area you don’t take after me- all this unnecessary stress isn’t good for anybody, as your mum will be only too happy to confirm. 

When I finally got to the station on this particular occasion, I think there were about 6-7 minutes before the train was due to depart. Now, you might be thinking- that’s plenty of time; but! try and picture the scene, little Sparty: 

The Indian railway is one of the world’s largest railway networks, and is said to transport more than 22 million(!) passengers a day. And so, to step onto the concourse of one of the many hundred major stations spread across the length and breadth of our country is to experience something almost supernatural. The sheer spectacle of people, trains, vendors, taxis, autos, ticket inspectors, luggage porters and all manner of other people racing across your field of vision is enough to take your breath away. I have seen many stations around the world, and while some may be grander in size and design, none will match the human drama of Indian railway stations. 

So there I was, with three items of luggage (one heavy suitcase, one smaller holdall, and a backpack) and no idea which platform I needed to be on. I needed help- and I needed it quick. As soon as I paid the auto driver, I called out to a porter to help with the bags. The first one to respond looked like an old man; and I had Thought Number 1 I’m Ashamed Of - "this isn’t going to help."

Before I could try and signal for a different one, however, he had already reached the auto. Years of this kind of work makes you sprightly, I suppose. I remember looking at him to see if he might be able to carry the cases, but I needn’t have worried. With one swift move, he hoisted the suitcase onto his head, and then bent down to slip his arm through the handles of the holdall. 

As his body straightened, his shirt sleeves rolled down his arm and I could see the outline of his veins. Under his red uniform shirt, he wore a frayed vest, and his sandals were close to falling apart. Before I could say anything, he turned to me and asked me which train I needed. As soon I answered, there was a flash of surprise/shock, and then a faint smile travelled across his ragged face. I smiled weakly back, and remember thinking how when he smiled he suddenly looked a lot younger. 

And then he was off. I had to take longer and longer strides just to keep up with him, and then had to break into a little jog as he bounded up the stairs to get to the footbridge connecting the platforms. We both got to the top together, and from there I could look down at the train about halfway down the platform. I had about one minute left. I glanced across, and could see him grimacing. Beads of sweat had formed across his brow. In Kannada (the main language people speak in Bangalore) he said one word to me- “Run”. My Kannada wasn’t great, but I did know what that word meant, and so I started running. 

I dashed across the bridge, reached the bottom of the stairs and looked back up again: he was about half-way down, obviously struggling under the weight. As I started to climb back up the stairs to offer to help, he shouted that one word again- Run! I looked down along the platform and estimated that there was still another 40-50 yards of ground to cover. The train was now making about-to-leave sounds; doors were being closed, flags were being readied, last-minute transactions were being completed at the little makeshift shops. 

I finally reached an open door just as the whistle blew to signal departure. I clambered up the two steps and then stood in the doorway as the porter kept running towards me. He was visibly starting to tire, but I could see him almost willing himself to make one more push to try and reach me. The whistle blew once more, and the train began to pull away.

It was at this point that I had Thought Number 2 I’m Ashamed Of: "He's going to steal my luggage". It was just a momentary thought which flashed across my brain like silent lightning, but I thought it all the same. When I next looked up, he had arrived alongside the door. I bent down and helped him slide the suitcase off his head and into the compartment. As the train began to pick up speed, he slipped the holdall off his shoulder and pushed that through the door as well. And then he heaved a huge sigh- I still remember that sigh- a sort of exhausted sigh, but also one of relief, maybe even victory. 

As I stood at the door and watched that porter recede into the distance, two more thoughts entered my brain: 1. I didn’t know his name. 2. I hadn’t paid him. My heart sank as I waved at him from the doorway and watched this amazing man, with his frayed vest and torn sandals, smile and wave back at me. 

I often think of that man, Sparty, and I can still picture him like all this happened yesterday. I never saw him again (even though I looked out for him every time I went back to that station) so I suppose now he only exists in my memory. But every time I do think of him, he inspires me to be better, and kinder; not just to people I love, but to strangers I may never see again. He also reminds me to try - even though it seems to get harder with each passing day- to see the good in people, because when you do you’ll often be pleasantly surprised. 

At some point on your journey to Adulthood, you might find yourself faced with two contrasting approaches to life: expect nothing, or very little, and then everything seems like a bonus; or, go at everything expecting nothing but the very best, and maybe it will end up as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This will of course be your choice to make, Sparty, but my hope for you is that you will have enough success with the latter for it to be your preferred choice. 

Yes, there will be times when you might feel silly for trusting people, and that’s ok. But when you find your natural instinct is becoming one of mistrust, I hope you will remember this story featuring your crazy, disorganised dad and his highly comedic travel (mis)adventures; but more importantly - a nameless, selfless old man who helped me just because he could.

Love, Your dad