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, nevertheless, already
splendidly, blessedly and illuminatingly 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.
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’m 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.
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