Where do we go from here?

When I was 15 years old I remember having a friend over one Friday night; we’d spent all day at school carefully planning the events of the evening. Obviously, we were rebels, we were going to live life on the edge, for on this night we were going get drunk! We felt empowered, so grown up! Who knows where the night would take us?! (I bet you could give it a good guess, and I bet you won’t be far wrong!). 

Now, I’ve no idea where a 15 year old me found the funds, or how I actually managed to obtain said alcohol but, by the time it was dark, Nuala and I were sat on a bench, in a run down park with a bottle of orange MD 20/20 (the nostalgia!). As we drank and talked (I talked, she drank…proof of this, I guarantee, will follow) conversation fell to “love” and “boys” and general “soppy rubbish”. We agreed that crying girls were the worst; crying at films, songs, even adverts. We just couldn’t fathom how anyone could be so ridiculous. A bond was formed that night, a team of two. Two girls who vowed to never cry over a boy, or a song and, heaven forbid a tear leave our eyes during an advert! 

This was a promise I kept until only a few years ago (making me *ahem* 26 at the time). Not a bad run really, Nuala would be proud! 

But last night, as I sat on the couch with my mum and watched the Channel 4 documentary, ‘Escape from ISIS’, I cried like I never have before. 

Oh, don’t get me wrong, there’s always tears on the horizon these days; when a touching video is shared on Facebook, when an animal programme shows pets that have been neglected and abused, or (I hope Nuala never reads this) when there’s a happy ending in some film or another, I will ever so carefully wipe away a stray tear whilst pretending to rub my eye. Just so no-one notices.

Last night, however, hands clasped to my face and eyes wide open I let the tears fall freely, in front of my Mum. 

A small team of men were running an operation in which they sought to rescue women and girls from their capture in Raqqah, the ISIS stronghold in Syria. I watched, completely perplexed, as a woman, aged 21, gave a detailed account of the night a guard tried to take a 9 year old from their dwelling, for reasons that I don’t even want to consider trying to comprehend. This brave, young, 21 year old fought with the guard who, of course, threatened to kill her. She told him she did not mind dying for this young child and begged him not to take her. The pride I felt for this woman at her selfless act, the sadness I felt for both her and the child mixed with the anger I felt towards the monster that did this welled up inside me and spilled out through my eyes in a flood of emotion. (If you haven’t watched the documentary I would urge you to do so. It’s unpleasant, it’s emotive but it is essential, in my opinion, to have a comprehensive knowledge of what goes on in the world around us).

The information I managed to successfully retain, through my inconsolable sobbing, was that, allegedly, around 4,000,000 women and children have been captured and taken prisoner by ISIS. Raped, sold as slaves and used for their blood – only 500 have been rescued. 

‘Only’ does a disservice to the men who are working so hard, putting their lives at risk every day to save those women. 500 is a huge number and I saw, in that hour, the joy and relief it brings to families when reunited with their loved ones. But, if we’re honest, 500 is nowhere near enough out of the FOUR MILLION that have been taken. I wasn’t around for World War II (contrary to my boyfriend’s jokes about my age, I’m definitely not that old 😉), but I’m almost certain that, at that time, we saw something so abhorrent taking place that we stepped in to save and protect as many innocent lives as we could. Why, why are we not doing that now?

This week, here in the UK, a Free Vote was due to take place, on the future of fox hunting. Thankfully, it was cancelled due to a fear of defeat but, what troubles me, is that it was actually even considered. Yesterday, I learned that a puppy farm has been authorised by our PM where beagles will be bred (in disgustingly inhumane conditions) for the purpose of clinical trials. How can you consider putting such an intelligent animal, who feels love and pain almost identical to that of humans, through such things for your own personal gain? I just couldn’t cause that level of suffering to a living thing.

The real question for me now is ‘Where do we go from here?’

I don’t want to live in a world where we torture those weaker than us, simply because we can. I don’t want to be part of a society that turns a blind eye to the suffering of others because “there’s nothing we can do about it”. I don’t want to feel as though I have the inability to be heard when I know that I am fighting for a worthy cause.

So, for now, I will sign the petitions against animal cruelty and raise awareness whenever I can. I will talk openly about the abuse and torture of those around the world, without fear, in the hope that, someday, someone with some level of power will stand up for the innocent.

There’s something categorically unpleasant about the notion of living in a future where there is no compassion or kindness left. Where all there is, is pain and suffering. I, for one, will do all I can to prevent this. For my children, and my children’s children, and my children’s, children’s children. It is unacceptable.

Apologies, I almost forgot. My friend, Nuala, and I stayed on the park until 10pm – the usual weekend-going-home-time. Never one for a sneaky teenage drink I had left her to consume the full bottle, alone. Big mistake on that one! We returned home, to my ample sized bedroom, recently decorated, with its double bed and new soft carpet, and Nuala proceeded to throw up the bottle of 20/20 in its entirety, all over my beautiful new carpet! I spent the next hour frantically cleaning the mess with tissue and a bowl of water in an attempt to conceal the stain that had appeared, and showed no sign of disappearing. I think I managed two days without my mum noticing a (not so) strategically placed storage box covering the eyesore. Oh, I was in trouble! 

Yet, if I could go back, I would change only one thing. I would tell those 15 year old girls that it’s okay to cry, because it shows you feel something. Feel something for you, feel something for those around you, feel something for what’s right. And the world needs more people like that, to fill others with hope and make those dark days just a little bit brighter.

  

“The Youth of Today…”

“The Youth of Today…” was always something I heard growing up. Older people waiting patiently in a bus queue whilst teenagers were bustling to jump straight to the front, not a second thought for the people that had been waiting there before they arrived. The older people were angered, outraged almost, that this ‘youth of today’ had so little respect for polite norms and values. I often wondered whether, as a teen, I would become this kind of rebel with not a care in the world. Thankfully, I didn’t!

  
As I woke up this morning I had a strange message from my younger cousin (she’s 25, so by no means a baby) who, quite matter of factly, informed me that she thought her dad was ‘going crazy’. Now, I’ve met her dad on several occasions, which I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear (or not!) and he’s a very blunt, dry kind of person who, some (a lot) would say, is an aquired taste. Nevertheless, I saw him not a month ago and, as an aspiring mental health professional, he is not someone whom I immediately felt concern for that they were, as she said, ‘going crazy’. A little bit baffled and a little bit disinterested (if I’m honest…) I replied to her message asking what had brought on this concern. It turns out he’d left her a note on the kitchen side before leaving for work that morning. The note simply read, “Emma, please do not buy me a Fathers Day card. Dave”. 

I have to admit, I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed. What kind of request is that? Why wouldn’t she buy him a card? Is there something we don’t know? A secret that’s been buried for a quarter of a century only to be moments away from reappearing to reveal…she’s the milkman’s?! 

Against my better judgement I asked her why she thought he’d left the note. Turns out he’s been ‘acting weird’ for a while now. Saying that he’s going to go away and live on his own, or that he’d love to retire but he ‘can’t right now’ (he’s almost 60 and has, and always has had, a very good job), even calling his son a ‘useless twat’! 

That may sound harsh and, to be honest, it may seem like a total overreaction and as though, as my cousin fears, he is getting a little bit confused in his later years. That is until you see the full picture…

Emma is 25; a qualified Primary School teacher with an undergrad degree in Music. Her brother, Pete, is…heavens now, he’s 23 (forgive me, I remember him being born. Somehow I’m ageing too – it’s so unfair); he too has a degree…I believe it’s something to do with wild animals and their conservation. Emma and Pete had the best start in life. Their parents were hard grafters, always had and always would work to provide the best for their children. They attended a private school from the age of four, their pronunciation when speaking always made me giggle. We’re from Yorkshire, born and bred. Here we drop our h’s and add a ‘t’ at the beginning of words instead of actually saying ‘to’ or ‘the’ – but my cousins never did. A trip to the hospital was just that, the hospital, instead of the ‘ospital as I knew it. (You’ll be pleased to know I found my h’s and started using ‘to’ and ‘the’ as I got older. However, as a child, I was as Yorkshire as they come). So, private education from the age of four moved on to private education for the high school years. A beautiful four bedroom, detached house had been purchased in a quiet, and rather elite, part of the city in which each child had a huge bedroom, en suite and a computer each to carry out their studies. There was room for the piano for Emma to continue her lessons at home (as well as the flute and the violin), and for Pete to practice his Sax. They were the picture of ‘perfect living’. This is how everyone dreamed of bringing their children up…giving them the best of everything so that they could thrive.

I used to be quite envious of the opportunities they had; the skiing trips with school, the personal computers and the en suite (WOW!). I’m from a single parent family and was brought up on a Council estate. I went to the local Community School where, after a poll ran one year, it was discovered that every single pupil lived within walking distance, making it truly ‘the heart of the community’. (My school were very proud of this fact, I never really understood why. The school has since been pulled down, grass grows two feet high and travellers keep their horses there. But that’s another story). 

Here my cousin is, 25 years of age, unable to understand why her grumpy dad gets grumpier by the day. I feel as though I know the answer…and I tell her this, often. 

Her dad is bitter. 

Bitter that he sacrificed so much in his life to provide these great opportunities for his kids, only to have it thrown back in his face! (Not literally, but almost). 

What I’ve said about my cousins is true; they got good grades all through school, went on to obtain good grades in their degrees. Emma furthered her learning and gained her PGCE with minimal effort. That’s where it ends though. 

Pete has worked for a grand total of two weeks throughout his life. Emma, credit where credit’s due, has worked approximately six months of her life. Neither pay rent/board to their parents, they don’t clean up the house as their parents work all day or cook nice meals for them on their return, they don’t even spend all day scouring job sites and submitting CVs. Instead Pete plays computer games and Emma shops. 

This is the moment where I hold my head in my hands and suppress a scream. How? How on earth do you not go bat-shit crazy, sat on your backside all day with only your sibling and the same four walls for company?!  How do you not start to overthink every conversation you’ve ever had, just because you have the time to think. How has your brain not completely turned to mush and dripped out of your nose due to sheer lack of stimulation?!

My cousins were given the best of everything to begin their lives and herein lies the problem. If you were to ask Emma what she should be, she should be a doctor, a recognised and respected musician playing the Royal Albert Hall, a Headteacher of a private, all girls school. Pete? Pete should be running his own Nature Reserve in deepest Peru (someone watched Paddington for the first time recently, can you tell?!). But neither of them should be the cleaner of a school, the receptionist at the Albert Hall, the kennel boy (man, I grant you) at the local pet sanctuary.

Ambition is a brilliant thing, it’s necessary to make us push ourselves to achieve. When though, did having everything handed to us on a plate become the normal expectation for ‘the youth of today’? When did pulling your socks up, starting from the bottom and getting your hands dirty become such a ridiculous and unrealistic notion that we now have adults in their mid-twenties still sat on their backsides waiting for “the right job” to come and find them?

I’ve told my cousin, on several occasions, in no uncertain terms that she, and her brother, need to get a handle on this thing we call life. Not everyone out their likes their job. Some people go to work purely for the money, to fund their holidays, their shopping trips or their childcare costs. Some people start way, way down the pecking order with a five year plan that, by the end of it, they’ll be closer to the role they want (closer, not actually there yet). Some people (the lucky few) really do enjoy their jobs! I know that when I’m at work, rushing around organising support for people and their families, I’m constantly thinking, “two minutes to myself would be amazing right now!” However, the second I get those prayed for ‘two minutes’ I get itchy feets (an ‘s’ on the end is completely incorrect, I realise. It’s an ‘in’ thing with me and my other half though and he’d be shocked – and possibly appalled – had I just written ‘feet’, so please excuse me). The fact is though that we all need work to make us feel valued within society, to make us feel as though we have a purpose. 

Now, before you go getting all PC on me (I know what some of you are like 😉) I am well aware that, due to various reasons, some people can’t work. Those people are the people that inspire me most!! They attend groups and workshops run by ever struggling charities, they share experiences with others who are struggling to cope with various illnesses, disabilities and hardships, they provide support to strangers, to their friends and to their families. They never give up pushing themselves to achieve something that doctors, social workers, psychiatrists and the general public etc. never thought they could do. Now that, is amazing.

This isn’t, and was never intended to be, a public dressing-down of my ‘lazy cousins’ and their behaviour. It’s a very honest view of the world we live in today. Growing up, kids were told to believe in themselves, believe they could achieve something great!! Which is brilliant and true, but a vital ingredient was missed out. Reality. By handing everything to my cousins on a plate their parents removed ‘real life’. They never saw the struggle, they never felt failure, they never understood what it was like to be told ‘no, we can’t afford that’. So now here we are, twenty years later (give or take) with two very well educated individuals pushing their father to the brink, where he is almost willing to run away and live in a house by the sea, on his own (I’m not sure about the sea thing, but it sounds nicer) who point blank refuse to work. 

The News constantly tells us that unemployment in young people is at an all time high (or has that reduced now thanks to the ‘amazing’ DC? *please, please sense the sarcasm*) and would lead us to believe that there are a lack of jobs. However that’s just not true! There are plenty of jobs out there, it’s just these young people don’t want to do them. Why should they be a cleaner when they’re meant to be running a beauty salon? Why should they be stacking shelves in the local supermarket when they should be CEO of a Company? 

I don’t have children of my own, yet (I’m really too young for that right now) but I already know my game plan. There’ll be no private school in sight; ‘Outstanding’ in its reports from Ofsted, but not private. They’ll be expected to pack their own bags for school, do their homework when they get in on an evening. School trips won’t be off limits – these are vital for their learning – but everything will come with a price tag. My kids will understand how hard Mummy and Daddy have worked to put food on the table, to afford that games console that they wanted for Christmas. When they’re sixteen they’ll be encouraged to find a Saturday job to give them pocket money.

I’m not saying my way is right and that I have it all sussed. You can guarantee when I have my first child mistakes will be made and I’ll look back and think, “Why did I do this? Why didn’t I do that?” but having witnessed what misplaced airs and graces can do to a child you can put money on it that my family will have their feets (😉) firmly on the ground.