By
Stanley Collymore
We were all of us - without any consultation on the
part of
those who conceived and biologically sired us, far
less
so any permission from us - born into this world that
inescapably, as far as I know, until the emergence
of death and the life hereafter must inevitably
stay here. All well and good that, if we’ve
been provided by those concerned with
a favourable start in life and the subsequent
constructive
support, in all of its positive forms, that’s
necessarily
and understandably required in the circumstances
that we find ourselves in and is critical for our
likely improvement as human beings. But,
all the same, the onus isn’t to be always,
unswervingly and exclusively that of
those who gave us life, for we too
have our part to play in defining
what we beneficially become
and how we can efficiently
achieve that desired goal.
And you Sarah, young though you evidently
are, have, however, already spectacularly,
thankfully and illustratingly developed
those crucial aspects of life which in
your instinctive and engaging way
you most excitingly empathize
with others, to forever infuse
in those who’re conferred
with the fortuitous luck,
in your case, of even
informally but also
most delightfully
too, in getting
to know you.
©
Stanley V. Collymore
24
March 2018.
Author’s
Remarks:
This work was
completely inspired by, conceived and written for and is specifically dedicated
to the named person who is visibly mentioned in it. Her name is Sarah and she’s
an employee of a supermarket chain called Morrisons, and where I invariably
shop when I happen to be in the UK.
British though
I undoubtedly am I must honestly say that when it comes to customer service in
the UK, and from my personal experience, large supermarket stores or other
commercial firms the “service” – if one can call it that – is habitually
appalling and that’s being as polite as I can get or care to in this particular
instance. A perpetual state of affairs in which those, for the most part, whose
individual job it is to be at minimal ordinarily polite to the paying customer
is as rare as having a snowstorm in Barbados.
And the
incredible thing is that many of them don’t seem to care, oblivious it would
seem to them that those whom they’re treating in this off-hand manner are
actually the ones at the end of the day who are paying their wages or salaries.
But they get away with it and evidently do so for a variety of reasons. Among
them stupidity.
But enough of
these lowlifes. Therefore, it’s a rare treat and an undoubted pleasure when at
times and wholly unexpectedly one does come across persons in these positions
who are not only fully au fait with their jobs but are also polite, helpful and
in a word human. And that’s where this story starts.
I’d never in
all my previous occasions at this specific branch of Morrisons where the
conduct of the staff members there and whom I’d dealt with before is overall
excellent, and I honestly mean that, met Sarah before. But, I’m sure you’ll
agree with me – those of you who have any worthwhile grey matter for a brain –
that there are people that one for the very first time come across and one
instinctively knows that they’re special.
I’m
well-travelled and have met all sorts in my life – the good, the bad and the
indifferent – and it’s all in a day’s work to me. That said, there are some
people, who just like a scenic situation that tremendously inspires you – and
if you’ve ever been to Barbados than you’ll know what I’m talking about (smile)
- instantaneously do the same. And as a poet who is completely fascinated by
things physically or inspirationally beautiful – whether these are animate or
inanimate – I always either instantaneously or at the very earliest occasion
soon afterwards enthusiastically commit my thoughts and the beauty of what I
saw, physical or psychological, onto paper and thereafter a new poem is born.
That’s my
general pattern when I’m abroad and there is no hesitancy on my part in doing
so, as I know that when it comes to people there my efforts and actions will be
appreciated in the altruistic sense in which they were conceived. Alas, that’s
something that I definitely eschew in my home country of Britain and for very
good reasons.
To begin with,
altruism isn’t a word that the overwhelming majority of people in Britain have
any notion of what it is, and even if one were to explain it to them they still
either wouldn’t understand or care. So with my very erudite brain and my
staunch religious upbringing in the case of my fellow Brits I always desist in
their case of my casting pearls before swine, both literally and figuratively
in their case.
And for good
reasons too: Write a poem, against the backdrop I’ve earlier painted, for a
Brit whether that person is male or female and he or she I can guarantee you
invariably as well as instinctively thinks I MUST have an ulterior motive in
doing so. And unconditionally being, as I unquestionably am, a straight,
incontrovertible and an unapologetic heterosexual, Black male in unrestrainedly
and exceptionally markedly proselytized Dyke, Queer and laughably professed
Transgender Britain - or as one British writer aptly described the latter
recently as “men in frocks” - unrestrainedly contaminating this purported green
and pleasant land with their presence and attendant paedophilia doings - I most
certainly don’t have to graphically outline the instinctive responses and the
connotations behind them when someone different from them makes an altruistic
gesture, even when it’s a literary work of art like poetry.
However, there
are a few occasions when my altruistic nature rebels against my taking such a
hesitant approach in Britain and, consequently, I do embark on taking the
proverbial chance. And my enthusiastically writing this poem for Sarah - having
earlier, decidedly courteously and entirely reciprocally on her part and in
that procedure charmingly acquiring her assent fully informed her of what I had
gallantly planned on doing – is a clear indication of that.