my propensity

my propensity
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Last night at Shabbat, I was sitting at the table with my parents and my children, enjoying peppermint tea and brownies that were still warm from the oven, and deliciously gooey. I mentioned that I had finally found out what happened to the official complaint I had made against my boss in my job that I left six months ago. As I talked about the email exchange in which I was informed that the substance of my complaint was never adequately dealt with because by the time the complaint had reached a stage in the process where it could be raised and discussed, I was no longer an employee of the institution whose Staff Complaints Policy had made it possible for me to make the complaint in the first place, I noticed that my son was making faces, had become tense, and was trying to find a crack in the wall of my verbosity, to chisel his way into the conversation.

"Let me guess", he said cynically, "what you did next. You wrote a letter..."

We all laughed. I was desperate to know where this would go, and tried to get him to tell me, but the others wanted me to finish my story first.

So I told them that indeed I had written a letter to express my valid dissatisfaction with this outcome; that the union to which both I and the person I whose behaviour I had complained about belonged to had opened up this devious method whereby the behaviour would neither be dealt with nor acknowledged, and that I hoped in my new career path that despite the certainty that I will come face-to-face with my ex-boss, I will have the professional strength and integrity not to be victimised again.

I received with a promptness that beggars belief, a most indignant response to my letter from the person who had been originally assigned to deal with my complaint and who has concertedly ignored my every effort over the past six months to ascertain what was being done about it. She suggested I am insensitive and inconsiderate; unable to understand the bereavement she has been going through, and that I ought to respect the need to keep certain things confidential.

I really don't agree that keeping things confidential assists in making the world a better place. I don't agree that not telling me what was going on was the right thing to do. I don't agree that seeking the loophole serves any purpose other than maintaining a shaky status quo.

SO THERE!!!

Finally, I was able to return to the subject of my son's attitude toward my propensity for letter writing. He was simultaneously reluctant and eager to tie me to the post above the flames that were already licking the bare soles of my feet.

"Well," he began, with a brittle tone to his voice, "You know that letter you said you didn't write?"

(which one, asked myself in a silent whisper)
"The one about the cricket trip to Malaysia?"
(Phew - I guessed correctly.)

"Well, that's why I got dropped from the First 11s."

My son, my son. He is crushed, he is proud, he is angry and he is defeated. All this at once. How can he possibly achieve what he wants to with a mother like me?

I pressed for more information. Sure enough, his coach, who previously had talked to me about the very real possibility that my son would be made captain of the team, unceremoniously, with no explanation omitted my son's name from the list of players on the team.

NOW THAT'S JUST NOT CRICKET, IS IT?

It's very clearly my fault, and I feel very badly about it. Why should my son suffer for his mother's big mouth? Especially since the letter I wrote on behalf of myself and the scared, silent parents of players who also could not afford to fund their son's trip to Malaysia to play elite cricket had such a prophetic quality. In the end, I was the only parent who stuck my neck out and said I simply could not condone the proposal on the grounds that it was inequitable. Other parents took a passive approach, pretended to go along with the scheme until the very last minute, when they were honest about their inability to pay for the trip. Their sons are still on the team. Mine is not.

My propensity for letter writing gets me into trouble. It's ironic that when I write letters to promote and protect those close to me, sometimes they get shot down in my place. I don't seek martydom for them, or for myself. But I do seek to stand up and speak out when it's necessary.

So as badly as I feel, and as angry as I am at the petty and unprofessional behaviour of this cricket coach, I don't think I will write to him again. Next time I see him, I shall attempt to have a face-to-face discussion with him about what happened. After all, when I tried to raise my concerns in the meetings that were called about the proposal to send the team to Malaysia, I was dismissed as though I were simply being negative or stingy.

I plan to make a card this weekend, for the Human Resources person whom I offended so greatly this week. It's high time I got my paints out again. I can sense where she's at. She's hurting, grieving deeply, casting about for the source of her distress. Poor thing. It's never easy to lose one's life partner, and I feel bad to be causing her more grief at this time. I'm certain she feels guilty for not being in a position to manoeuvre my complaint through a process that would have led to a more satisfactory outcome.

I make an easy target. After all, I'm getting on with my life and therefore should not be dwelling on the unpleasantness that led to me to my distress eight months ago. It's natural for her to take this out on me. I forgive her.