Reflections On Resolutions

I love making New Year’s Resolutions. There is a part of me that truly believes that in 365 days, I could be a brand new person, a person who has cast off all the bad habits and ways of living in the previous year and embrace a completely new me. I look at the coming months on the blank calendar and imagine how many days I’ll go to the gym, drink more water, earn more money, write more, and be present more, so that by the end of the year, I’ll have accomplished everything. Every single thing. My old habits of procrastination and sometimes sloth-like behaviour will have disappeared, the old fears completely replaced by this courageous new person. Me! 

I came close to this during lockdown. When the world was shut-in and I was forced to be quiet, I had time to slow down and think. My husband and I cooked healthy meals. I started exercising and was sticking to the regime. I healed an injured shoulder by consistently doing online physiotherapy. I thought I had the answer. Just do it. It will eventually become a habit once the systems are in place. I even did a talk to youth about setting goals. A young woman asked me: what if I just can’t seem to exercise? I talked about accountability - having a friend check in. I talked about overcoming inertia - just start. How I wish I could go back to that young woman and tell her I only had half the story. 

I wish I could tell that young woman that I thrived during the peace and quiet of lockdown, that all was well before my husband got laid off and once that happened, I abandoned exercise and sat in bed most nights eating caramel coated popcorn and watching Netflix. I wish I could tell her that the myth of three weeks for a new habit to form is just a myth and that for some people it’s six months or even a year. I wish I could also tell her that our brains are wired to stay put and to stay safe. When we decide to embark on any new venture, there may be excitement and an earnest desire to go for it, but there is also the brain sneaking in messages like: “It’s too much trouble. It won’t work. It will be too hard. You will probably fail.” 

It is January  2025. I have the exact same resolutions I’ve had since last year. As a matter of fact, my resolutions haven’t changed much since my twenties. I know this because I have stacks of diaries dating back to the 1990s. On one hand, it could appear that I have completely failed in my endeavours. On the other hand, it shows what I want has remained more or less the same and I’m striving for the same things. Sometimes progress is slow. It can take a lifetime. For as long as I can, I’ll never stop trying. It will always be a goal to exercise more, to eat better and for me, to write more.

If I could reach that young woman, I’d tell her to write down her goals. Some days, she’ll succeed and some days, she won’t. Either way, it’s okay. Labelling ourselves as lazy, a procrastinator or even sloth-like as I did is unhelpful and untrue. The body needs time to recharge. Recharge in your own way. I’d tell her to trick the brain and not go all out at once. If the goal is to walk every day, start by walking for ten minutes, not two hours. If the goal is to write a book, don’t even think about the finished product - just think about one short paragraph. If it’s to eat healthy, celebrate each time you make a good choice. The key here is not to guilt ourselves for our failures, but to focus on our successes. 

As I turn my focus to the coming new year and looking at the empty calendar squares, I am making the same resolutions to exercise and write as I have always done. Maybe this will be the year that I stick to them. One thing is for sure - I’ll never stop trying. 

The Importance of RTFQ

When we’re young and if we’re lucky, an adult may come into our lives who changes the trajectory of our path for the better. One of these people for me and my highschool friends was a man called Peter Young. We met him because a group of us were not doing well in Accounting. The teacher didn’t seem to be able to impart her knowledge to

us and she was often absent. My father said he knew a smart man and he’d ask him to tutor us. Back then, we were preparing for what is known as the CXC exam, formerly known as O’ levels. 

We knew at once that Mr. Young was different. For one, he treated us like we were actual people (meaning he didn’t judge, discipline, reprimand, scold, berate, warn or make us feel inadequate for not knowing the material). His words emboldened us rather than frightened or restricted us. This was so long ago that I can’t remember what we actually talked about except that when we left his place, we were light-hearted and ready to take on not only Accounting, but the world. We believed we would pass Accounting and we believed we handle this confusing thing called life. We offered up our teenage problems and he guided us. He shared his life stories and we, enraptured, listened intently. He offered us a small glass of red wine each and told us that we could master anything we put our minds to. My friend Jo told me that Mr. Young was the only person in her life that made her feel worthy and capable. He was the only person who made her feel smart and good enough. For me, he made me feel that I didn’t have to be afraid of the numbers that swam before my eyes. All we had to do, he said, was, “RTFQ!” If we did this, we could solve anything. To this day, I remember RTFQ. READ THE F…. QUESTION. Read the full/f…king question! We laughed gleefully, but he was serious. If you don’t focus on the full question, you’ll miss important details. Take your time, don’t rush it, read it in full, answer thoughtfully. And when our minds jumped from conversation to conversation, from the lesson we were supposed to be learning to the social, he’d gently pull us back to the task at hand. 

We never wanted to miss these tutoring sessions, what we call in Jamaica extra lessons.  Our time with Mr. Young was too precious and valuable. When we took our CXC Accounting exams, we passed with flying colors. It was at 16 that the thought came into my head: “What if I’m not really dumb at math and numbers? What if everyone just needs the right teacher?” I’ve held on to this belief in my adult life as a parent and a former English as a Second Language teacher, setting the stage for learning, by instilling the mantra: you can do it. Of course you can. If one way isn’t working, try another way, another method, another teacher. And as always, remember RTFQ!

Mr. Young is at the forefront of my mind right now. My Aunt D told me Mr. Young wasn’t doing so well. He was in hospital in Jamaica. I was visiting Jamaica and wanted to see him, even if he wasn’t responsive. I had to wait though, as I had caught Covid and was waiting for a negative test. Unfortunately, it was too late. Mr. Young died on Monday morning, July 15, 2024.  My aunt called to tell me. I immediately called Jo. Since I’d left Jamaica over 20 years ago and hadn’t seen Mr. Young in a long time, I remember him as young, vibrant, with that welcoming smile that put you at ease. I was 16 again in his house, laughing and learning while his five-year-old son watched from the hallway. As I sobbed into the phone, Jo reminded me that Mr. Young lived a good long life. She had kept in touch with him all these years. He always sent bananas for her, especially when she was sick. I felt sad that immigration takes one away from all that is familiar and comforting, takes us away from the people who we love the most and the landscape that’s most familiar. I cried for roads not taken, yet felt solace that I had Jo with me to reminisce, to fill in the gaps, and to reflect and ultimately recover. The lessons Mr. Young imparted would remain a part of us, shaping us into the adults and mothers we are today: resilient in the face of life’s challenges. 

In this fast paced life, RTFQ applies even when the situation is not a question. I was in Jamaica, sunburnt like never before. My skin was cracked and crinkled like an alligator. I sent my daughter to the pharmacy to buy a good moisturizing lotion. She came back with a bottle and for days we rubbed it into our skin wondering why it was so thick and pasty and hard to apply. As my skin got dryer and dryer, I decided to take a good look at the bottle. Turns out all this time, we’d been rubbing body wash into our already dry and damaged skin. 

“But the woman in the pharmacy said everything on this shelf is lotion and Auntie examined it too,” said my daughter in surprise. “I guess I should have looked at it more closely to make sure.”

“Yes, we all should have, I said looking at my damaged skin. “In this case, nobody paid attention to the details. No one applied RTFQ!!” 

Peta-Gaye Nash

Music: A Generational Thing

I walked past my 15-year-old daughter’s bedroom and put my ear to the door, listening to the music that pounded from within. She usually wore airpods so this was unusual. I stood by the door listening to the lyrics and then barged in.

“What is that you’re listening to? It’s awful,” I said.

“My music,” she shrugged, barely looking up from her phone. 

“That could never be called music! It’s horrible, talking about people’s body parts like that! How can you listen to that slackness?”

As she shrugged again and I walked away, a memory hit me with such intensity, that my current life melted away and there I was again, in my twenties, backpacking around Australia. I was visiting Cairns and had met some older Jamaicans who had migrated there in the seventies. They were hungry for news of Jamaica - wanted to know what had changed - what remained the same. They asked a question that I’ve never forgotten. 

“Do people still listen to that awful man?” 

I had no idea who ‘that awful man’ was until they said Bob Marley. They shook their heads in disgust and their lips puckered like they’d eaten something sour. 

“Yes,” I answered. “Everyone listens to Bob Marley, but he’s more chill and mellow. My generation listens to something called dance hall.” 

I was thinking what they would think of dance hall music and artists like Super Cat, Bounty Killer, and Buju Banton if they thought Bob Marley’s music was awful. These older Jamaican-Australians shook their heads uncomprehendingly. 

Back then, I thought their dislike had more to do with our colonial upbringing where emulating the Anglo part of our culture was better than the Afro. I thought that Bob Marley’s dreadlocks and his embracement of black power was the real reason behind their dislike. Maybe some of that is true. But here I was in 2024 doing the same thing -  criticizing my children’s music - something I said I would never do. 

I remember back in the eighties when I lived in Orlando, Florida and my father would come into the family room where our eyes were glued to MTV. 

“Turn off that crap,” he’d say, “and go do something constructive.” He thought MTV was going to scar us for life. Further back, rock n’ roll was considered the music of the devil. I pondered two questions: does music actually get worse with time? What happens to us as we get older that we dislike newer music? 

I consulted ChatGPT (Artificial Intelligence because we can do that now) to get some answers. 

Chat GPT gave 6 reasons why older people dislike the music of younger generations. 

• The first one is nostalgia and familiarity - we like what is familiar and what we grew up with. 

• Second, we have cognitive biases. Some say as we get older, our brains get less flexible in processing new patterns and sounds. This cognitive rigidity makes it harder to enjoy new musical styles. 

• The third is cultural identity and generational differences. Newer music may be seen as a departure from values and norms of the previous generation. Some of these cultural shifts are harder for older people to relate to. (Personally, I can’t relate to music with lyrics that talk about women’s private parts and the sexual act. Having said that, my daughter says the dance hall of my generation is no different.) 

• Fourth are changes in music production and consumption giving rise to new sounds and production techniques. It can sound jarring to our ears. The way music is consumed with streaming services and social media platforms may also seem alien to older generations.

• Fifth is selective exposure. It is normal for us to listen to what we like and avoid the unfamiliar. Our exposure to new music is limited. 

• And finally, number six is perceived decline in quality. Older people believe that modern music lacks the artistry, complexity or emotional depth of the music with which they grew up. Music has indeed changed with digital effects and production techniques. 

ChatGPT says these reasons are emotional, psychological and cultural. 

I would like to see the day when my children are criticizing the music of their children. With the way Artificial Intelligence is exploding, my not-yet-born grandchildren will probably be listening to AI-generated music. This music may be even more alien to me but I suppose everything is a cycle and everything has its time. 

A few days later, we were at a family gathering. Louis Armstrong played softly in the background. One of the elders looked up and said, “now this is music. This is real music, not like the awful stuff they play today.”

“Who is Louis Armstrong?” Asked one of the youth.