This ones outside Rose's place. She's been out of hospital for over a week but I had not yet found the time to visit her. Good job that she is so popular and kind herself that she has many neighbours and friends caring for her and bringing her food already.
She was looking good - apart from the dark bruises around her neck from all the lines they had going in and out of her and the deep scar over the top of her chest where they operated 3 years ago. And she was on top form. Looking through our church's Annual Report which another friend took over to her on Sunday after the church Annual Meeting, she points to the main picture 'Where am I? Am I there? Why am I at the back? Why is she at the front - she never even comes to church!'
I said I was glad she'd had lots of visitors and people bringing food. 'Ooooh I know!' she says. 'In the hospital' she says 'they kept saying "Do you know everyone in London?" and "How is it you are a black woman and yet have all these white visitors?"' That last comment seems a bit harsh, but I suspect it's more of an indictment on the safe silos we keep ourselves in in this diverse City of ours, rather than a reflection on Rose herself. Perhaps it's true and it's flagged up to us by those who observe it close at hand: white people get white visitors. Black people get black visitors. C'est la vie. But what a sad thing that is.
It made me doubly proud to have Rose in my life. Proud because she's so lovely. And proud because our friendship seems unusual. Church is the one last truly diverse community in our neighbourhoods. Or at least it has the potential to be. Old, young, black, white, rich, poor, educated, not so educated. Sometimes it feels a struggle to keep all these different people, with different backgrounds, and different perspectives together, but oh my is it worth it?
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