Why we still can dare to hope

I'm not, contrary to popular belief, a cheerleader for feminism. Nor are men my public enemy. No. 

It's just that I cannot stand that very haughty male attitude, "Oh, women! They cannot seem to get anything done properly." It sucks. I've come across quite a few MCPs who are so full of themselves it leaks out of the top. Poor bozos!

One might think I'm a silly old fusspot for pursuing this argument but I simply cannot rest my case. It's too great an issue to be dismissed so easily. Ahem.

We were at a sociology lecture the other day and it was based on the position of women in society. It was sheer discrimination from the word go. The lecturer, with all due respect, gloried in his species and made it sound as if men made the earth and all the other planets move. Women were mercilessly forced to play second fiddle. Fortunately to his credit, he admitted at the end of the lecture that what he said was not necessarily his personal opinion. But that hardly made up for the mortification we suffered. My pulse rate was racing as I listened to all that and I had to constantly remind myself that we were in the middle of a lecture and that I was not allowed to scream. Whoever said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned knew what he was talking about.

With inter-university games just a few weeks away, we are having a real bad case of the nerves and a tight training schedule. Our coach, an alumnus, is a tough taskmaster for all his charm and friendliness. Praise is pretty hard to come by, but when it does, it sure lifts our spirits. Most importantly, he's NOT a patronising cow. The only problem is once he starts to jitterbug on the court, all the techniques we know fly out of heads and we proceed to make all the wrong moves.

I've made quite a few friends from the junior batch, most of them badminton partners. None of them, however, dared to put me to shame as "Little Maxie" did. (I insist on "little" because he uncannily resembles my impish younger brother.)

With his dimpled cheeks and boyish looks, Maxie could easily pass off for a schoolboy. But a couple of chats and a number of arguments later (due to his macho attitude, of course), I was convinced that there was more to this guy than met the eye. My curiosity was piqued and I decided here was a bloke worth exploring.

Maxie is from a "border village," about 40 km off Anuradhapura, where peace of mind is a luxury they cannot afford. It's easy to give into despair in a situation where every waking moment is marred by the fear of death. One could be excused for failing in life. This youngster, with all the buoyancy of youth, forgot the excuses, set himself high standards and, so far, has achieved most of them. What he did takes guts. The ordeal, however, is far from over. The long-distance travel, even once a month, must be daunting. "I'm used to it," he smiles convincingly. This guy deserves a Nobel prize for his incorrigible optimism.

I asked him, once he graduated and found a good job, would he go back to that troubled village of his. Now why would he even consider such a thing, turn his back on world of opportunities as it were? I was positive the answer would be a firm negative. His soft but steady "yes" shocked me. I just stared at him, disbelieving. But no. He was not kidding.

Even though his passion and commitment to his studies landed him in university and brought him to this part of the country, he's not fooled by all its glitz and glamour and, hopefully, not by the phoney people one encounters. Many were the times he felt like giving up, he confessed. Living in an environment full of 'here today and gone tomorrow' friends, I couldn't agree with him more. But Maxie's determination not to let anything or anybody hold him down is as impressive as anything I've ever seen. If you can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him, here was one who had enormous odds against him but stuck to his guns anyway. He didn't wait for miracles to happen. Instead, he shaped his own destiny. Throughout our conversation he made it perfectly clear that I need not pity him.

At a time when scores of young people abandon ship in search of greener pastures, this little fellow was telling me and in no uncertain terms that he would never leave home. No matter what. Ain't no place like home, eh? I've heard that a thousand times before. But it was the first time I heard somebody say it with such warmth and with such honesty. Way to go, champ. Thank God there still is hope for this battered island of ours.

Back to school

Clubgoers are required to wear school uniforms, which are compulsory in almost all British schools. They dance to a selection of pop hits from the 1980s, when most of them were still in school. Images from 1980s pop culture, such as TV shows, are projected onto an overhead screen. 

The young men are in shorts and peaked caps, the young women in pleated skirts and plain blouses. Both wear striped ties and crested blazers. They stand together in small groups, laughing, gossiping and occasionally smoking.

These are not teenagers on their way home from a day's lessons, but lawyers, accountants and consultants in their twenties and thirties on their way to the latest fad to hit the British clubbing scene: School Disco.

School Disco sets out to recapture the spirit of the British version of a sock hop. Clubgoers are required to wear school uniforms which are compulsory in almost all British schools. They dance to a selection of pop hits from the 1980s, when most of them were still in school. Images from 1980s pop culture, such as TV shows, are projected onto an overhead screen. 

"Teachers" walk past the lines of people waiting to enter the club taking attendance and giving detention. Bouncers confiscate chewing gum at the door.

The success of School Disco held every Saturday night in the Hammersmith area of West London, has been astounding. "The clubbing industry in the UK is not doing well - but we are," said Bobby Sanchez, 30, the disc jockey who created the concept and now runs the evenings. "We have 2,500 people every week, and we're expanding to Friday nights as well."

School Disco began in late 1999 when Sanchez was fired from a job for playing a number by Shakin' Stevens consldered way too cheesy for the club scene. While driving home, reflecting that there must still be people who enjoy music with words and a chorus, he passed his old school

"I went through the gates, and I thought about going back to your childhood, when people didn't have mortgages, jobs or problems," he said.

"Then I thought that we could create a visual environment to solidify going back to your youth and play songs from our childhood."

The school-uniform dress code was a natural progression: "The process starts as soon as you put your old school tie on. You feel different - like looking at a photo but more real, touching the emotions in a good way."

The first School Disco night was held in a rented restaurant in central London; 50 people showed up. As its reputation spread, attendance rose. Now tickets are often sold out weeks in advance. "Mick Jagger came the other week," Sanchez boasted. "He said he had to see it to believe it."

Uniforms are used in British schools as a means of breaking down financial and social barriers. If everyone dresses identically, the thinking goes, no one knows who is or isn't able to afford the latest fashion. 

At School Disco, too there is none of the sartorial competitiveness of other, dress - to impress clubs. "I think when you're dressed up like that, it lets down barriers," said Simon Bryant, 23, an economist. "No one's really looking at you and judging you. You tend to relax more."

School Disco's heady mix of uniforms and 1980s schlock often awakens long-repressed tendencies of youth. The rules of teenage behaviour suddenly re-emerge most significantly, that boys will be boys. "Getting dressed up makes me think of being at school," Bryant sald. "You act a bit more like a child."

Just as at school dances, when boys and girls barely dared to speak to one another, let alone dance together, women here look on in alarm, retreating into corners, while men vigorously bounce up and down, singing.

"It's music you know, you can recognise, so everyone sings along at the top of their voice" said Robert Heyes, a 29-year-old in a blazer and tie.

But as soon as the tempo slows, a different type of memory comes flooding back: Of a time when the strains of Careless Whisper accompanied sweaty-palmed slow dances.

"We want to rejuvenate those experiences," Sanchez said.

(Adi Bloom - Gulf News)

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