2020 - the year when everything stood still

The date is 30th of December. The year is 2020. I have been saying since middle school that 'the end of the world is coming' and I guess 2020 was my version of it. You see, I have always been this dramatic, all-or-nothing type of person and it seems I have been preparing myself for a time when I could say 'I was right' (which happens regularly, but I am trying to apply some modesty here).
This year started well, I had finally reached some sort of peace and stability both in my professional and personal life but by March I would soon discover how quickly and easily this 'sense of control' can be taken away from you. And when you suffer from anxiety and are a bit (a lot) of a control freak, this can be quite distressing.
I had started working from home, which was a delight in the first two months (I was finally able to recuperate all the lost time with commuting, sleeping better and getting to do the chores around the house I could never find time for): my house was spotless, my bras forgotten somewhere at the back of some cupboard, I was cooking fresh dinners every night, I was taking walks every day after work, I started baking, I was feeling totally in control in uncertain times. It was great. But, of course, this was short-lived. Work got really busy and, all of a sudden, it was all I was doing. My dining room, which now served as an office, was giving me anxiety attacks. My back and neck started hurting, my head was a mess, I couldn't concentrate, my eyes were constantly burning, I had little to no patience left, I wasn't sleeping, I couldn't disconnect or quiet my thoughts and all I wanted to do was run. Not the good kind of running (I have never been a runner) but that kind that makes your problems go away. See, work had always been something I could control, but now it had become an ongoing chaos and despite my efforts to keep it stable, it proved too difficult to keep organised.
The isolation didn't help either. I missed people and I was constantly worried for them. Worried that they will get ill, that they will fall pray to all the weird conspiracies going around, worried that our relationships will never recover from the distance, worried that I will become anti-social and too comfortable with these four walls... I worry, non-stop. About everything. In general. And the pandemic only made it worse. I cannot control everything, I cannot control what people do or think, I cannot protect them. I was not in control.
This year has taken away everyone's masks. We were stripped naked and all our insecurities, fears and hidden beliefs were made available for everyone to see. Behind the many screens we used to communicate, we felt free, we articulated thoughts that were never meant to be alive, we spoke of things that should have remained unspoken, we tried to regain control by creating alternative realities which could answer the many questions we had. Not all was helpful, not all was kind.
This year has shown us our true colours. When faced with the prospect of death, we became selfish and we resorted to less-than-human ways to maintain a false sense of control. Survival is not what was thought to be. Despite the many amenities that we had at our disposal (electricity, internet, a roof over our heads, food and water, medical care and experts etc.) we still struggled to do our bit. The sacrificies asked of us seemed to be too much to ask for. The pleas for exerting common sense were not enough to stop us - as I once said in another post, common sense is not that common.
This year has given me many answers about me and about humanity. I have learnt that I can be alone and that I don't have to always be in control, I have learnt that we are more than just bodies and that our worth is not translated into weight or looks, I have learnt how easily people can be controlled with social media, I have learnt toilet paper is an essential good, I have learnt that real friendships can survive no matter what... and ultimately I have realised that I am one of the good ones.
This year was the year when everything stood still but our minds. The planet had a well-deserved break from the toxins we threw at it every day, entire cities and towns stopped for a while, humanity paused to reflect on how quickly everything can be taken away and how much of an impact our actions have on this earth.
As for me, I have been humbled and made very aware of my privilege, but I am still grateful for being alive, along with my friends and family, I am thankful to all the people that fed us and kept everything working so we can just stay at home and I am sorry for all the sadness that could have been prevented.

My here scattered thoughts are a true reflection of how 2020 worked and how difficult it has been to follow a single trail or idea to completion but, nevertheless, I hope I have managed.

 
2020, goodbye. I hope we learn from this and be better.

Eulogy

On 29 November, at 4 in the morning, my grandma drew her last breath.

She was not alone, but she wasn't surrounded by all her loved ones either. She had been struggling for a while and lately all she wanted was to see her mother again.

I last saw my grandma in June 2017. And since then I have been fearing this day. You see, when you live 3000 km away from home, you blame yourself for a lot of things, but mostly for not being able to visit the people you care about. You hope that they won't judge and that they will understand that you don't visit because life sets up barriers, not by lack of will. I think she finally understood this last time I saw her or at least I hope so... she seemed to accept the fact that her family was spread all across Europe and she contented herself with seeing glimpses of us.

She had been mother to 9 living children, grandmother to 17 grand kids and great grandmother to 7 great grand kids. She had dedicated her life to raising all of us. And that she did. She raised me since I was nine months old until I was six. She was the one that thought me the difference between good and bad, how to be respectful and how to be nice to people. She showed me that no matter how hard life gets, you need to keep pushing and carry on doing good. She was a strong believer in the saying 'good things happen to good people' and she always told me to be good and not expect anything back, as things will eventually work out in my favour.

I can proudly say that she shaped me into who I am today, as she built the foundation of my personality and brought in me the basic elements of being a good human being.

I hadn't experienced death as an adult. And I didn't want to. I was terrified of seeing her like that. The days before her funeral have been a blur, as I was still in shock and couldn't believe that I was heading to see her not be.

The moment I approached her house and the place where I grew up... I froze. Despite the -15 degrees outside, the cold was on the inside. Flashes of memories, her walking around, me playing as a child... all came at once and I froze. I couldn't go in the house to see her, I just couldn't move my body in that direction. I was afraid. I turned into a scared little girl. The girl I have been, the girl that needed her grandma's warm hug. A hug that would never happen. I felt like in a dream, floating around with no real purpose, because being there didn't seem to make sense. Two days before I was in Birmingham, my now-home, oblivious of what will happen. How could I look at her? When I knew how much she wanted to hold my kids one day, to have them run around in her big gardens, to cook for them and watch them grow up.

I stepped inside and had to step back. I felt a knot in my throat, like I couldn't breathe... that familiar feeling of a panic attack. I ran. I had to be strong, I had to stop myself. She is better now, she is finally at peace, I was telling myself, she is not longer hurting and struggling, she no longer feels pain nor suffering. I needed to see her to believe it, as I was still in this state of denial. But how to get close when my legs felt buried in the ground? Step by step. Moment by moment, as done previously, I had to just go with the motions. And I did. One step at a time, I was moving closer to her. The front door, the hallway, pause. Breathe. Take another deep breath and take another step. Seconds felt like ages and I felt so scared. Pushing forward, this must have been the hardest thing. When I spotted her, I screamed inside. This can't be real, I kept telling myself, that person lying there is not my grandma, she is not that tiny, why is she not moving, why is this happening. And then all the voices stopped. As I was studying her face, I couldn't think of anything else. I couldn't cry, nor move, nor speak, nor think. My brain now needed all its energy to take in that one moment alone. The moment when I was confronted with the image of my dead grandma. I don't know for how long I stood there, but it felt like my entire childhood. I relived all those years, went through all the good and the bad that happened in that house. I thanked her for everything and I asked for forgiveness, for not being able to be with her and see her more often. For not holding her hand when she needed it most and for living in a world where so many diseases exist. And then I walked away.

I know I'll probably not see those places again, as she was the only one bringing us there. Without her, it doesn't feel right. As beautiful as it is, she made it warm, she made it a home and she made it extraordinary.

Now, all I am left with are the memories and the pictures.

Déjà Vu

Six years ago, on this day, my live has changed forever. Six years ago, today, I landed in Brussels, I was 21, hopeful, skinnier and far happier than I am today. Six years ago I decided, more or less forced by the circumstances at the time, by the lack of money, luck or promises of a better future, to emigrate and to put all my naïve hopes into this new land of promise, this western and far more civilised country, Belgium. As you can read in one of my past articles, that whole experiment did not go as planned, instead it was replaced by a constant fight for approval, equality and need of basic human behaviour. 

I started by working in bars and cafés (the only work available for Romanian girls, apart for housekeeping), where I was being paid half the minimum wage at the time, working up to 18 hours straight, in conditions that went from heavy cigarette smoke, to cockroaches and rats, to fights and yelling and being verbally abused just because I was below what people thought it should have been a human standard, as in a Romanian girl working in a bar. I was regarded as a maid/prostitute/she-does-not-deserve-our-respect-because-she-is-a-girl-working-with-in-a-bar-surrounded-by-men and that had confused and had upset me deeply. I, as a young graduate from a highly ethical university, where values such as honesty or transparency had been promoted, I, as a girl who had been brought up to be nice and respectful to everyone, to look for the best in people and to always stay positive, was confronted to the worst human behaviours, just because I did not have the same nationality as the others, just because people had blindly created a stereotype and were following it religiously. I just couldn’t understand why, where did all the hate and vileness came from, why all the mean words and bad attitude towards me, why? I had to always keep a smile on my face, even when surrounded by people doing drugs, people talking about human and weapon trafficking, people throwing glasses at me or swearing at me or calling me names. I had to keep smiling and try not to cry or run far, far away, because it was that or no money at all. There was no support for girls like us, no benefits to ‘take advantage’ of, not a helpful hand in sight. I had to suck it up, repress all my fears and hope that it won’t always be like that. I was telling myself that life is tough and I just have to man up and face it, that eventually the good in people will win. I was going to earn all the money needed for the Master’s degree, I will do that and get a nice job and all my efforts would then be rewarded. That’s what I was telling myself every night before going to sleep, another day, and another day and it will all be over. But that day never came. Five years have passed, the Master’s courses were done and I was still not getting a decent job, even though I was looking every single day. Plenty of bars to work in, but I just couldn’t deal with that environment anymore, my patience had all run out and I just couldn’t go another day hearing people class me at the lowest rang of humanity. I was on the verge of giving it all up. So I left. I ran. I hid. I tried to recollect all my tired strength and look for a better place, a normal place, a decent place, and a place where it won’t matter what colours my passport show, but what colours my heart is. Where being Romanian is just a nationality, not a stigma. Where the actions of a few won’t determine the future of the many. Where positive things happen to good people. 

Six years ago, humanity came to Belgium to die. And the girl I had been for 21 years. 

Now, six years later, I find myself being that young, shy, scared girl all over again. I find myself questioning all the basic human values and all I have done to be here where I am today. All because a minority of people thinks I am not worthy or good enough to exist. All because being hateful or judgemental is easier than being open and understanding. All because people dismiss what they can’t understand and people can’t expand their thinking beyond what they know and what they have in front of them, being limited by ignorance. I find myself alone again, just like before, and scared for my future, incapable of doing anything to change it. I feel, once again, isolated and misunderstood and judged, and like the rest of the world is looking down upon me. And confused. And sad. For how long do I still have to prove myself? For how long do I still need to fight the masses and the sheer obliviousness? When will my actions and words be stronger than the prejudice that comes with the word “Romanian”? When will I receive the vote of trust instead of a motion of no confidence? And most importantly, when did my beautiful country become the origin of all evil?

À plus!

How to Avoid Writing for a Whole Year in Five Easy Steps*

 

Step 1

It’s all useless. Yes, try telling yourself that when the first thought of writing something appears. Additionally, you can also try to think of yourself as a bad writer, therefore the idea of someone even enjoying your written creations will have a solid foundation. Moreover, considering the fact that you couldn’t keep an internship in writing or even finding a job in the field should be a more than enough proof that maybe you shouldn’t over-crowd the virtual world with you written non-sense. Why bother in the first place, why waste your time on something that clearly does not have an impact on the world or even on your own little universe?

Step 2

Find an excuse. If the first step did not put you down enough and you are still determined of coming up with a string of words combined in a textual matter, this second one might just do the trick. Creating barriers for yourself such as “I am not talented enough”, “Nobody is going to read it”, “It’s pointless anyway” and the classic “Ain’t nobody got time for that”, will most certainly slow down the writing process, if not stop it for good. Coming up with excuses is always very effective in each dreadful activity and it will give you a false feeling of satisfaction on the lines of “well, at least I tried but my objective reasoning simply came up with a better argument”, creating the illusion of intelligent thinking. 

Step 3

Create distractions. Come up with a sedentary routine in your daily life. Go down the path of the working-class adult who wakes up in the morning tired, goes to work to a job he doesn’t really enjoy but manages to pay the bills, comes home tired and eats some comfort food, watches crappy TV while sinking in the living room couch and then tells himself how tired his brain is and how he could not possibly exhaust it even further with futile activities such as writing. And bam!, you’ve concocted the recipe to the murder of all creative acts: self-pity.

Step 4

Kill the motivation. Drowning yourself in thoughts of self-pity has its downsides as well. Your motivation is already trying hard to keep its nose above water and you throwing away the lifejacket and calling quits will only amplify the idea that there is really no reason for you to write in the first place. So what you like it? You like lots of stuff that you don’t get to do because life gets in the way and that’s what maturity is all about - giving up on your little things so you can see the bigger picture. Grown-up life is known for killing that little ray of creative sunshine and you are only a human obliging to the natural order of things.

Step 5

Do the opposite

You need to be able to determine when enough is enough and pick yourself up from that pit of banality where you’ve been living for the last year. Taking the easier route, like I’ve been doing for the last 12 months through the examples illustrated above, will, granted, give you a warm, comfortable feeling of normality, but will also take away that unique thing that makes you different from the other seven billion people – your creativity, your originality, your essence. I’ve wished for normality my whole life but I had no idea it will rob away this much and would require so much compromising. Therefore, on a more serious note, do the opposite. If you think you have something you’re good at and you take pleasure from it, don’t give it up and built up the courage to do it. It’s not going to matter who appreciates it, who approves or who criticises it, as long as you are a fan. So, for the three people that might read this ;-)(and I can’t believe I am saying this), don’t do like me.

À plus!

*this text might contain traces of sarcasm

Romania Through England's Eyes

 

An article on this subject was long due and I cannot call myself a true Romanian immigrant if I don't pick a bit at the country that I am currently in, by publicly-shaming its people and the way they act towards us, the honest Romanian people who only came here to work in the most honest of ways. "all sarcasm intended"

The internet is filled with articles showing how the Romanians are united in misery, how patriotic, civilised and full-of-love they are and how discriminated and rejected they feel in the countries in which they CHOSE to settle in. Of course, it was, more-or-less, an involuntary choice, a scenario on the borderline of "leave Romania or deeply struggle to pay the bills each month". But what I guess I am trying to say here is that the truth is always somewhere in the middle. People don't throw tomatoes at us on the streets, rarely yell "go back to your country, you filthy gypsies" and most definitely don't treat us in a privileged way just because we are "poor immigrants". We all struggle, Romanian, Indian or English alike, but some more than the others. Some of us come with pre-established factory settings and a how-to-act-around-them manual where you would find tips such as "don't call them poor to their faces", "don't use the word gypsy near a Romanian", "speak in a slow and relaxed matter in order for them to fully understand" and, the universal one "treat them like any other human being".

It is true, life is most certainly harder if you are an immigrant who comes from a country which already has a bad reputation to start with, but people around you will really try to make it easier. At least, that's how it looks like. They are trying to accept you, help you integrate, make conversation, smile, ask questions about your culture and look interested in what you have to say. They look genuinely and positively surprised when you tell them you speak three-four languages, the look sincerely entertained by your jokes and they seem to really enjoy your company, despite all your immigrant background. They invite you to gatherings, they make you feel comfortable and appreciated, they make you forget the fact that you have different cultures by simply engaging into a human-human relationship. And this is how it should always be. And this is how it happened in England.

A conversation should never start with "what country are you from" instead of "what's your name". One should never form a general opinion over an entire country by what a 8% minority does. And, yes, I am referring to the Channel 4's show about "The Romanians are coming". I did see it, on national television. And I was deeply upset. Mostly because that's where the majority of English people gets its news from. And that is the only thing the really know about Romania. I did ask. I was curious to know what are the stereotypes circulating in England about Romania, since I already know what the Belgians think. And, to my surprise, the "prostitute" and "alcoholic" ones weren't present ("wink"). Just the "gypsy" and "thief"ones. And that's it. No Nadia, no Ceasescu, but Dracula was on everyone's lips. But what is even more surprising is that most of them have no idea who gypsies are, what are their culture, what they represent, nothing. They just heard the word and instantly associated it with Romanians, mainly because of the "Romani" term, not to be confused with the "Români" one. Many of them don't even know why we are so offended when people compare us to them. It's funny and ironic at the same time.

The people I've met so far were quite different from what I expected. I was expecting more hate and ignorance,but what I've got in return were decent human beings. With a very particular sense of humour (which I love, btw), a genuine familiarity to them and a feeling of transparency. I was feeling comfortable, funny, interesting, sociable. Just like I am! I felt like I should not try to hide my weird humour and my bubbly (read as over-excited/angry) personality and just be me. And I must admit it feels great to not hide. But let's not get too happy, because it is not all rainbows and butterflies, of course. Like in any other country, there are bad people, greedy people, jealous and arrogant people, selfish people and hypocrite people. But for them I am prepared. I am used to mean. I am not used to nice, this I still have to work on. I still have to learn to allow niceness around me without thinking there must be an ulterior motive, to accept the appreciation I am getting and maybe start seeing myself like the others see me. #awesome

Inform yourself here :http://romaniatourism.com/

The good, the bad, the ugly

Two months have passed, two months filled with emotion, despair and exciting new beginnings.

The cold, windy Christmas and the New Year celebrations were as great as we could expect of a person who was feeling lost and alone in a new home, with a new future that seemed more dark than optimistic. But then something happened. As the clock showed 0:00 and the date changed from 31 to 1, as I was drinking my way to sleep and contemplating over my shitty year, I took a decision, a New Year resolution, as we so commonly call it.  I decided to stop giving a shit, which is, in my case, the most difficult thing to do. I care too much about too many things, I consume myself over everything and everybody and then I fall into a self-pity black hole while eating my thoughts away and blaming myself for everything that goes wrong with this world. I started feeling ugly on the inside and outside and I couldn’t chase away this sickening feeling of a perpetual incompetence. And then I stopped. This sudden realization came over me as I wondered who would do the same thing for me. Who would be eating his brains out thinking about my well-being?  Well, besides my mum, bless her, most probably nobody else. So why do I have to pressure myself into being this perfect, kind and over-considerate person with everybody around me when obviously this isn’t doing any good for me? Because the world doesn’t respond the same way, not even close to the expectations I have of it. So, I decided to stop. I decided to be selfish for once in my life and to put myself first. And what do you think it happened? It really worked! I could sleep better, without the night-terrors; I was feeling pretty again, even with some extra-kilos and, the most impressive change of all, I started feeling optimistic about what the future might have reserved for me.

I still haven’t found my ideal job or my handsome prince-charming, but I landed a pretty cool editorial internship that I just love, where I finally feel appreciated for what I do.  And I constantly have this voice in the back of my head that tells me that all I have to do is be patient and things will reveal themselves before my eyes just like I deserve them. I might just be crazy but for now it works, for now that voice is doing a brilliant job in helping me wake up in the morning. 

And I often think about Belgium, about the people I left behind and how much I miss them every day, but then I remember why I didn’t stay. I miss the coffee and the cheap cigarettes; I miss my dog and walking down the streets. And I miss Romania, so much. I think the missing part will never go away and, even if I wanted to, it’s there to remind me who I am and where I truly belong.

P.S. Fun fact: English houses don’t have doorbells.

England. The first impressions.

It was 7h30 in the morning when I arrived to the Manchester Airport. I have been up for four hours; I have had two coffees and some chocolate biscuits when I left and I was starting to get hungry. The flight had experienced some turbulences and I was cold, but we managed to arrive safely and on time. Even though I had been to Manchester before, everything seemed different now. I was really paying attention to the surroundings, to the people, to the language and the accents, maybe because I didn’t want to get lost while I was looking for the coach station.

People were smiling. At 8h00 in the morning! A cute guy even helped me with directions towards the coach station, to which I had to walk for 15 minutes in the cold. While I stopped to have a smoke, I noticed the change in people. They were blonder and happier. Lots of track suits and high heels. It was very cold outside but the people didn’t seem to mind that, considering the fact that they were very lightly dressed. I was so excited to hear English all around me. With a British accent! When I got to the coach office to buy my ticket, the lady there spoke really fast and I stuttered for a bit but I managed to purchase my ticket into the right direction, after it took me a couple of minutes to count the weird coins they have. And then I waited for two hours. While I was reading the second book from A song of Ice and Fire series, I heard Romanian around me. A family that came from Germany was also moving to the UK and we had a chat while waiting for the coach. It was pleasant to talk in Romanian, it calmed me. I think I was still under shock, I wasn’t yet realising the fact that I was moving into a whole different country, that I was starting from scratch again…

After a while, the bus arrived. The driver asked me ‘Love, where to?’ and I blushed. Aww, he called me ‘love’. The famous English ‘love’! Unfortunately, that word didn’t compensate for the fact that I froze the whole two hours that the ride took. He had mistaken the heating button with the A.C. button so the group of newly arrived Jamaicans and I struggled not to fall asleep and die frozen.

The ride to Birmingham took forever. I was tired and cold and hungry. I was also very excited to see my sister after one year. The sun was shining high over the green hills and the dark-brown brick houses as it warmed my face. And then it hit me. I said goodbye to Belgium forever. It will never be the same.  I was scared but curious. And, weirdly enough, optimistic about my new future. Yeah, I know, optimistic me! But that was exactly the purpose of this big change, change the place and change the luck. I really wanted to start for scratch!

When I finally arrived to Birmingham, I was relieved. And the city looked so beautiful. I was called ‘love’ some more by two taxi drivers and that made me smile again. I had a dumb smile on my face the whole trip to my sister’s house. And then I saw her. And her fiancé. And Dexter, the new puppy. She waited for me with a chocolate cake, gifts, an English phone number, a room nicely decorated on my taste, with purple in it and with a big smile on her face. That was the look of happiness. On both our faces. It felt good to be there, with her.

The week passed quickly, as we went shopping for things a lot cheaper than in Belgium, we walked in the cold admiring the early Christmas lights, ate at KFC, which you cannot find anywhere in Belgium, went voting for the Romanian President, where we stood in line for four hours. There, we met some nice Romanian girls, while eating bagels and drinking hot red wine, which was served to us by another Romanian man. We are everywhere, haha!

Overall, Birmingham is great. Riding the public transport can be a bit tricky, since they don’t tell you the next stops, there are no maps inside the buses and you always need the exact coins, but there are double-deckers, which is nice. ;)

Here are some things I’ve learned until now or I needed reminding:

- They have pounds, NOT euros; stones, NOT kilos; feet, NOT centimeters; miles, NOT kilometers; (So complicated!)

- They ride on the left side, so wait for the bus on the LEFT side.

- In pubs, don’t wait for the waiter to come and take your order, everything, even food, is ordered and paid at the bar, by mentioning the table’s number.

- You cannot exchange foreign currency in banks.

- Never say ‘pants’ instead of ‘trousers’ if you don’t want people laughing at you.

- It’s ‘centre’ not ‘center’.

- ‘Chips’ means 'fries' and 'crisps' means 'chips'.

- When telling the hour, use AM or PM, so 3 PM instead of 15h00. I don’t think I can get used to this one!

So, that’s about it for now. Everything seems exciting and I really like it, there are no regrets…yet. But, as I know myself, I will soon discover the skeletons that the UK had hidden in the closet. But, until then, keep calm and love England!