music in the (open) air

I think it has become my music venue of choice - the Cornmarket in Belfast, Arthur Square. It's not a grand concert hall with pristine acoustics - in fact the acoustics are horrible. It's not an intimate little basement venue where the artists can truly engage with their audience - in fact 90% of the audience only pause briefly to listen before continuing to go about the daily business of existence. It's not a space filled with music history, where legends have belted out crowd pleasers to their adoring fans. It is simply a junction of five pedestrianised street in the city centre, and a rather odd sculpture.

And yet on three separate occasions I have found myself abandoning plans to sit in mesmerised awe as a musician or group entertain the shopping masses free of charge. Well, for spare change anyway.

Most recently it was a latin jazz group over from Edinburgh. I sat for an entire afternoon as they performed the most unlikely covers - who would have thought 'Jenny from the Block' would work so well cuban style? And as for 'Come Together' ... I don't say this lightly ... better than the original. Absolutely incredible. I've never been as moved by a Lennon/McCartney song.

They're called Tequila Mocking-bird. A collective of music students from Edinburgh University. I was on my way to a first date. I may have been a little late. But it was their fault. I was in Belfast in plenty of time - I'd even had time to do a recce of the location. When I was wandering round Belfast city centre and heard the music I checked - I had time to listen to a couple of songs. Maybe a couple more... Everytime I got up to move on they would kick in with another salsa beat and I would be glued down. I ended up staying until the very end of their set and chatting to them briefly. To my horror they were just coming to the end of an Irish tour and were heading back to Scotland the next day. Even worse - they had played a gig only five miles from home the day before. I bought a cd of their new composition and promised to keep an eye on their list of upcoming live performances. Then ran to the pub, trying to think up a suitable excuse for being late. Great first impression.

I thoroughly encourage you to track them down and listen to them live if you get the opportunity. They are a talented bunch and ridiculously young. Attractive young things should not be allowed to be so talented - blessings should be shared around all of us a bit more. I look forward to hearing them again - for they will return - and I will not miss them next time. If it means rearranging dates or bringing the date along; I will see them live in an actual venue - not a street corner.

On the subject of the date - you may be wondering why this isn't in the 'reasons why I'm single' series. Well, actually the date went pretty well - but better yet - she got caught up in work and turned up even later than me. Guilt free tardiness and a free music performance... does life get better?

sectarianism to racism in three easy steps

I have rarely felt such extremes in my pride/shame of being Northern Irish as I have done in the past few days. In the space of a few hours I have felt horror that overt racism has become reared its ugly head in my province, relief that it was immediately condemned roundly by large numbers of press and public alike, then shame when the backlash happened and a series of bitter voices were heard on radio phone ins and news reports claiming that “they should go back where they came from”, “coming here and taking our benefits”, “they shouldn’t be here, that’s all I have to say on the matter,” “stealing our jobs while our own teenagers are struggling to find anything to do.”

For those who don’t watch Northern Irish news I should offer a quick spot of exposition. Last week over one hundred Romanian nationals fled their homes in Belfast after being attacked and intimidated by locals. The particular area of Belfast is known as the village. It’s a working class loyalist area popular with migrants attracted by the cheap housing. Racist incidents have been occurring there for years but this particular episode and some other high profile attacks have brought it to the national media attention.

And this one has had more of an impact on me than any that came before. While the petty squabbling and small minded ranting was going on in the big city, far from me and those I know, I was able to pretend I couldn’t hear it – persuade myself that I was living in a much more tolerant society than we had seen before. But this time it’s bit a lot closer to the bone – I know one of the Romanians involved, and I am terrified for her.

This particular girl is an ethnic Roma – a group that have been persecuted throughout Europe, and beyond. She is no stranger to abuse. I don’t think I’ve come face to face with anyone who has put up with as many hardships as she has in her life, and come up smiling again and again. So the fact that the collective nerve of her community has snapped and they are so scared they feel they have to sleep on a Church floor for safety… well, it takes a lot for that to happen.

I was speaking to her only a day before this all happened. She was in good spirits, as usual. She was always very positive about her situation and thankful to the “friendly” locals who had helped her settle in. I was always surprised by her attitude. I have been with her when people have ignored her, glared at her, hurled insults at her from across the street. I’ve seen it – and yet she didn’t seem to. She seemed to take it all as some of the challenges we face in this life that lead to blessings in the next. Her faith leads her to believe that anything that happens now is only temporary and as such can be endured. But more than that – she believes that through suffering come opportunities for blessing. She talks occasionally of times when the Police have stopped her when she was selling papers on the street to check her credentials. She smiles as she recalls the members of the public – strangers – who came to her side to make sure she was alright and accuse the officers of harassing her. This unexpected support, though rare, has more effect than a thousand dirty stares.

But I still cannot understand the anger people feel towards her. There is a lot of dangerous ignorance shading the public perception of this girl and her community. Far from “stealing our benefits,” this girl works two jobs to help support her family – neither of which the locals would belittle themselves doing. She lives in a grossly overcrowded house with no housing benefit. She wears clothes that she bought in a charity shop while standing in the rain earning money to pay for her baby sister’s shoes. She gets no benefits. It is a horrible irony that most of the people complaining about these immigrants actually receive far more government aid than the people they are complaining about. In fact, through the work they do and the rent they pay a lot of Roma contribute more to society than a lot of their neighbours.

A few weeks ago in Church the minister preached on Matthew 6:

Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? … Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these… But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

And my mind turned towards my friend. Her faith is sufficient for her. So sure is she that God will provide that she can ignore the madness going on around her. She makes do with the little she receives, safe in the knowledge that she will enjoy riches in heaven. And in that way I find her inspirational. She is happy with enough. How many of us can truly say the same. We are actively ordered not to worry – we are told here and in other passages that what we need will be provided and that what we want isn’t always what we need. I always took that with the qualification that, obviously, God wanted me to have what I wanted and that a little excess was part of the deal – everyone needs a bit of luxury in their lives, no? As the minister pointed out that Sunday how many times have we opened the fridge door, looked in at the shelves full of food and said “there’s nothing here to eat.” switched on the TV, flicked through the hundreds of channels, and said “there’s nothing on.” Looked in our wardrobes (bulging with clothes) and said “I have nothing to wear.” Excess has become complacency has become vulgar dissatisfaction. That isn’t a problem those Romanians have.

And though my friend showed little worry herself – I feel worry for her now. I don’t know where she is now. I have no idea whether she will remain in this country or leave for somewhere less threatening. Part of me wants them to go somewhere they can be safe – but I would hate for the racists to achieve their goal. Some reports have branded Belfast the race hate capital of Europe. That is a horrendous reputation to have – and actually far from accurate - but I can understand why people would say it.
I work in a school where in several hundred pupils there are no black kids, no eastern Europeans, no Hispanics. The cultural diversity is made up of about four Asians and a white American. It has been a similar story wherever I have taught. These kids have never faced other cultures; the closest they ever came was meeting people of a different religious denomination – and look how that turned out. When I asked my pupils their opinion of the Romanians I was literally shocked by some of the comments they came out with.

As I type this two teenagers are facing court, charged with ‘provocation likely to cause a breach of the peace’ and intimidation. They have admitted to involvement but claim it was the first time they have ever done anything like it. If found guilty it will be a small victory for sanity – but will it do anything to change the opinions of those (including many of my pupils) who still believe that immigrants are stealing our homes, our jobs and our society. The court case will do nothing to remove the fear, the paranoia, the ignorance that led to decades of sectarianism in our country and now threatens to manifest itself as racism.



Update (tues 23 June): This morning I heard that the majority of the Roma have decided to leave. Twenty five have already left; seventy five would be leaving asap. Fourteen have decided to stay. I am happy for them and I hope they find peace somewhere. I am sad for our society. We have a long way to go before our Christian actions reflect our Christian preaching
The Church where the Romanians sought sanctuary initially has been vandalised (three twenty year olds have been arrested for that attack) and several people (many teens) have been arrested on race related charges.

found guilty of first degree snobbery

I was out shopping today. It’s not something I often do for pleasure but I was at a loose end and I was passing Junction One Retail Park so I dropped in. I didn’t actually buy more than a large Soya Latte and an orange muffin but it was a pleasant enough time.

As I was making my way out of Starbucks I literally bumped into two rather short, stocky, hairless young men with strong Belfast accents. They each had identical Barönjon suit carriers in their hands and my first thought was “I wonder which of them will be in the dock” It is an appalling stereotype that a Belfast man wearing a suit must be on his way to court but I am ashamed to say I couldn’t help myself.

Of course I immediately rebuked myself – out loud – much to the amusement of a teenage girl smoking outside the adidas store. I can be such a snob at times – a flaw in my personality I would love to be able to remedy. The fact that they were buying matching suits could surely, and more likely, be because one of them was getting married and the other was to be the best man. Maybe they were just good friends who enjoyed shopping together and who shared a love of nice suits.

Of course just because something is a stereotype doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I reckon 9 months, suspended because of the nice suits

the definition of relieved

Tonight I went out – occasionally I do have a social life. I spent a very pleasant evening in the Piano Lounge in the Europa Hotel – Europe’s most bombed hotel (I bet they’re getting sick of it being described like that.) My friend Shannon and I often go there to have our regular discussions about our love lives (or lack thereof) and university reminiscences. Well, we go there when we get sick of Starbucks. The Europa is an odd sort of place – from ground level it looks quite nice – posh even; but when you look up at the accommodation it looks distinctly scumy.

Anyway the Piano Lounge (or Piano Restaurant – depending on the time of day) is an extremely pleasant place for a chat and an overpriced drink. A conversation-conducive environment if you like. And there is usually somebody playing piano – hence the name.

A friend used to play there – he loved it. The way he saw it he got paid to practice his playing and he got to use a beautiful piano. A no-lose situation. One of my personal favourite piano bar related moments was when an international string quartet were playing at the Opera House next door. When they finished they came across the the Europa and gave an impromptu performance. Now I love the trad sessions you get in the Springhill bar but that night was something special.

Anyway, back to tonight. After a while I got up and made my way to the cloak rooms (or whatever they call the toilets in four star hotels) As I was there a young man came and used the urinal next to me. I never know what to do in situations like that. Are you supposed to make polite conversation? I know eye contact is out of the question but is one expected to pass the time of day with your convenience neighbour?

“You’re playing well. Enjoying it greatly.”

He looked a little confused, bemused even, and I went to wash my hands. As I dried them and made my way to the door all kinds of thoughts were invading my mind – the major one being

“What if he isn’t the pianist?”

The definition of relieved – seeing an empty piano stool on my way out of the gents.

park rangers are go

No, not Power Rangers. An even less likely sight in the centre of Belfast – a New York Park Ranger. I didn’t even know New York had Park Rangers. I know, I’m ignorant. I just always imagined a Park Ranger as seen in Yogi Bear cartoons. The idea of Yogi and Bobo strolling through Central Park doesn’t fit somehow. Park Rangers go along with geysers, forest fires, and man-eating ant movies. Somehow I can't picture Park Rangers in the city, Urban Rangers who don't play Ice hockey - I wouldn't have believed they exist. And yet obviously they do – because they’re over here. I saw them. New York Park Rangers in Belfast.

I can only imagine that they are over advising our parks people on how to dress well. I have to say that I like the uniform – as did the group of middle aged women who were practically stalking them through Botanic Gardens. Although, at the end of the day, it won’t compare to mine when I finally become a mountie.

A Typical Day at the Cornmarket

Recently I was in Belfast for a wander about when I came upon a strange sight. There was a busker (not strange for Belfast – I’d passed three on my walk up to that point), two girls and a guy handing out fliers (again not strange – the Corn Market is the perfect place for evangelists/religious nuts to stand for maximum exposure.) What made this a strange sight was the fact that the two girls and the guy were dressed up like Victorians. “Promoting a play,” I thought; and certainly the way one of the girls was listening earnestly while a drunk spilled his guts (not literally) made me think she was a great actor. Each of the girls and the guy were talking earnestly to people and all the time the busker strummed her guitar and sang vaguely latin-american-sounding songs. They were all incredibly beautiful people, and even more striking in their costumes.

I moved round the corner and leaned against the wall to listen – I didn’t fancy being accosted by anyone and listened to earnestly. The singer had an amazing voice. Absolutely captivating. I was getting so lost in the music that I didn’t notice the male member of the group looking at me for a few seconds and when I did I accidentally made eye contact. NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT! I looked away immediately and tried to look like I was waiting for someone in a shop. I impatiently looked at my watch (I’m good) but he wasn’t fooled. He came right over and shook my hand.

Paul, and his colleagues, are missionaries who had come over from their work in Liberia to speak to the people of Europe. As he told me of the group and what they believed and listened earnestly to what I had to say I got more and more uncomfortable. I listened to hear if anything he had to say was heretical or evidence that he belonged to a dangerous cult that would kidnap my children (if I had any) and force them to eat Weetabix for lunch. He didn’t; and that, if anything, made me even more uncomfortable. What was amazing was the fact that he seemed to be able to slip the word ‘love’ into practically every sentence – woolly liberal obviously; except he really wasn’t. As I stopped trying to accuse and judge I started to enjoy the discussion. I really got into it and totally lost track of time. But the whole time the discomfort grew; and I began to notice the words of the busker’s songs weren’t helping that discomfort.

Both Paul and Ivanna were using the word love in a casual way – but they weren’t talking of love as we know it. They were talking about the love they inherited from Jesus. They were talking about a love that would make them leave their lives behind and move to Africa to help people in war torn countries. They were talking about a love that was more important than safety and security, more important than their lives. And yet they were talking about it casually as if it was something everyday normal to them. Because it was everyday normal to them. They lived this love.

Il n'y a pas de plus grand amour que de donner sa vie pour ses amis.

I was feeling uncomfortable because, while I spoke often of this love, I am not able to talk about it casually or without a twinge of discomfort. I do live a life of love – I hold Christ’s love as an example of how I want to live my life. Paul and Ivana weren’t thinking about it, they were living it, every day. And as Paul quoted passages of scripture they took on a whole new level of understanding. There are many things I need to work on in my life and now it turns out that even this part, the one I thought I had sussed, needs much development. I guess I have work to do yet.