A Glass of Wine, Memories, and Michael from Nigeria
Isaac Samuels
Champions of Change: Co-Production and Lived Experience through the Eyes of Social Justice Warriors
It was a quiet afternoon during my time in Italy. My husband was preoccupied with DIY projects at his family home, absorbed in tasks that left me on my own. (Italy doesn’t recognise same-sex marriage, so that familiar feeling of being outside the norm lingered.) My personal assistant was resting, and a close friend had yet to arrive for the party we were planning to attend. So, I found myself alone, pondering how to spend the afternoon. What does one do in a foreign country with an empty day ahead? I decided to head to the local bar. ??
Being alone was nothing new.
It was just past noon when I ordered my first glass of red wine. As I took that initial sip, a voice from my childhood came flooding back: “It’s fine to drink after noon, but never before.” It’s funny how these seemingly arbitrary rules cling to you, influencing your behaviour no matter how far from home you are.
Suddenly, I was transported back in time, reflecting on my unusual upbringing. I grew up in a large family, surrounded by older cousins who relished tormenting me and siblings who made our household feel tightly woven—whether I liked it or not. The truth is, I didn’t like it. It didn’t work for me then, and it doesn’t work for me now. That’s why we don’t have a relationship—they see me as less than, and they’ve said so openly. I’m gay, disabled, HIV positive, and I ask too many questions. Though I felt stifled by the closeness of it all, hindsight now allows me to appreciate the value of those bonds.
Our family had its own strict code of conduct, a strange blend of Victorian values and cultural expectations. We were taught not to eat in public, to be mindful of the noise we made, and to greet every adult when entering or leaving a room. We had to kiss everyone goodbye, and above all, never ask questions. We were never to explain or complain—something I still carry with me every day as someone living with chronic pain, which I rarely share due to what’s been ingrained in me. My Aunt Ann, my mother’s older sister, was my saving grace. I was her favourite, and with her, I could escape some of the stricter rules. But even then, the weight of expectation always hung over me.
There were unspoken laws in our community—money stayed within the family. Charity work was essential, but it followed an “us and them” mindset—giving to the poor but from a distance, rather than in a spirit of love. Marrying outside the community was scandalous. “They married out,” people would say, raising their brows. My parents had done just that, and although no one spoke of it openly, it left an undeniable mark on our lives. The boys were revered, and the girls were cherished, but not for their independence. And don’t get me started on inheritance—something now playing out in the lives of the women who were shielded but never encouraged to be truly autonomous. What was that all about?
I wasn’t allowed to be different. My life had been planned for me—doctor, accountant, dentist—careers deemed appropriate. But those careers would never have suited me, nor did I have the capacity for them as a disabled person with learning difficulties. I had other dreams. I wanted to be a dancing queen—something utterly unacceptable in my family. So, how did I become one? In secret. ????
My beloved Aunt Ann made room for that part of me. She’d sneak me into her room, and we’d have little tea parties, just the two of us. I’d dress up, and in those moments, I could be the dancing queen. She loved every part of me in a way that filled the gaps left by my strained relationship with my mother.
My mother and I never had love between us; in fact, I didn’t like her at all, something hard to admit, especially since she died young. You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, after all. But that’s not to say there wasn’t hope that things might have changed if she had lived longer. She’s been put on a pedestal in my family. She’s also the link between my bipolar disorder and hers, as well as my younger cousin’s. Unlike them, I accepted my diagnosis and sought help, feeling no shame in it. It’s even harder to process because my siblings had a different experience with her. My Aunt Ann filled that void. She accepted me—my queerness, my mental health struggles, all of it. She embraced it fully. I still remember the day I introduced her to my boyfriend. She cried. Not because she didn’t accept me, but because, in her old-fashioned way, she mourned the idea that I wouldn’t have children. Times are changing for the LGBTQ+ community, especially for those with money, but for disabled, queer people, those rights still feel out of reach. I have three dogs, and that suits me just fine. ?? Still, despite her unconditional love, my aunt couldn’t escape the influence of her upbringing.
As I swirled my wine, these memories washed over me, and that’s when a man approached. “Hello,” he said with a warm smile, “You speak good English. I speak no Italian.”
I laughed and replied, “No, you speak good English!” It was an immediate connection, a light moment shared between strangers. His name was Michael, and he had come all the way from Nigeria, making a life in Italy by selling small household items. Peddler, some might call him, but that word didn’t seem fitting for someone like Michael. He had cloths, lighters, gloves, socks—the sort of things people often ignore. But more than the items he carried, Michael had a look—a look of knowing, of understanding, of acceptance. That’s where my journey with him began. His presence stirred something much larger within me.
Growing up, we were always taught to support our own—Black, Brown, people from our community. Money stayed close, a form of solidarity, a way of lifting each other up. And here I was, halfway across the world, speaking with Michael, and that old sense of community re-emerged. Without hesitation, I bought a cloth from him for €10. I didn’t need it, but it wasn’t about the item. It was about supporting someone like him, someone from my extended community of colour. ???
As I sat there, I started thinking about the different “pounds” that shape our lives. The pink pound, from my time in the LGBTQ+ community, had always made me uncomfortable in my twenties and thirties. It felt like a world that took our money but didn’t fully include people like me. Then there’s the purple pound, the cost of living as a disabled person, where every need comes with an extra expense or obstacle. It seemed that capitalism had its grip on every corner of my identity. Even in moments of relaxation, like sipping wine in a bar, thoughts of these economic realities flooded my mind.
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Michael and I exchanged stories. He told me about his life—how he juggled three jobs to make ends meet. Our lives were worlds apart—me, sitting comfortably in a picturesque bar, and him, hustling on the streets. But for that brief moment, we shared a connection that transcended economic and cultural divides. We both understood the struggle to survive, the need for solidarity, and the value of community.
As we looked into each other’s eyes to say goodbye, that look spoke a thousand words: I know you, I see you, I am you, and we are family. We parted with a warm farewell, promising that our paths might cross again. As he walked away, I felt a deep sense of peace, knowing that despite all the differences in our lives, we are woven into the same fabric of humanity. That simple encounter, a glass of wine on a quiet afternoon, had transformed into a moment of profound reflection on the lives we lead, the communities we come from, and how capitalism shapes our interactions, no matter how personal or intimate the moment might seem.
Meeting Michael reminded me of all the times I’ve been acutely aware of how my identity shapes the way I see the world. Whether it’s family, money, or human connection, I’ve come to realise that we can never fully detach ourselves from the structures that define us. Yet, within those constraints, there’s always room to find meaning, to connect with others, and to remember that, beneath it all, we are simply human, doing our best to make sense of the world and the roles we play within it. ??
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Health and Social Care Strategic Co-production and Lived Experience Expert
1 个月A great reflection for us all! The human race should look after one another ?and no matter how small our commonalities, they do bind us together! Xx?
I am passionate about unpaid carers getting the help and support they need and that adults with additional needs getting the same opportunities as their peers, so I founded the group ‘Out of Hours Club Rutland’
1 个月I love this reflection Isaac I can relate to majority of it and others including ’Don’t interrupt adults speaking’ and when in public getting that look which means you’ve done something or said something you shouldn’t have.