By 
HAS anybody else noticed how the word cosmopolitan has pretty much vanished from our vocabulary over the last few years?
I know it never really made it onto the pages of the Omagh English Dictionary – but it was one of those words you’d have read in the papers and heard on the television all the time.
Before 2020, roughly speaking, it was the go-to adjective for the world’s multicultural capitals, like London, Berlin, Newry and New York.
It was the progressive, if not slightly elitist, phrase for places where cultures collided, cross-pollinated and created new music, food and ways of living.
Nowadays, though, the only time I notice it crop up is when my auntie has no room left for the stout – or when I, finding myself yet again bamboozled by the vagaries of the female condition, scan the magazine rail, incanting the name of the publication that I pray will provide me with some row-averting insight.
Anyway, cosmopolitan: originating from the Greek kosmos (world) and polites (citizen); during the Enlightenment came to mean a person with an allegiance to humankind as a whole; evolved to denote societies that are proud pluralistic mixing pots; and now means little more than a sugary cocktail or glossy magazine.
Suffice to say, the word cosmopolitan isn’t as in vogue as it once was.
(Thank you, thank you.)
But just because the phrase has disappeared doesn’t mean the concept has.
It’s alive and well – just supplanted by trendier, more morally-loaded synonyms like inclusive, diverse, etc – as I was gladly reminded while witnessing a comical culture clash in a charity shop the other day.
There I was, hoking through the rails for something to wear for Halloween. I’m going as a hippie of sorts, so a pair of bell bottoms was the dream. But as usual, it was all dead man’s cords.
Sliding the penultimate hanger to the side and seeing yet another pair of 38’ waisters, I was about to leave when suddenly my interest was seized.
“No, no, no,” a grandmother chastised her grandson. “You can’t be asking the woman that.”
“No, it’s fiiiiine,” said the American working in the shop. “I’m 51.”
The granny laughs and turns to the cub, “There, you got it out of her.”
A few pleasant, slightly awkward words are exchanged and before I knew it, the following was unfolding.
“My daughter is actually pregnant at the moment,” said the American.
“Oh, congratulations. What age is she?”
“17 – going on 70.”
“Oh, much too young; much, much too young,” said the granny.
The shop worker from the US agreed wholeheartedly.
“Yeah, they were considering – you know – putting the kid up for adoption but I don’t think that’s going to happen now. Too many ‘objections’,” she said with a strange degree of sarcasm.
The local lady, clearly uncomfortable from this oversharing and the idea of putting an unborn child up for adoption, then started manoeuvring for an exit.
“Well, I think they’ve made the correct decision. You never know how…”
But the American cuts her off and starts explaining that her son is thinking of adopting.
“Well, that’s nice,” says the lady, looking relieved by the good news.
“Yeah, he and his husband are thinking of taking two children from the one family.”
“Well, that’s… Uhm… We really need to…”
“They’ve both got Downs Syndrome – the kids.”
At this point, your woman threw her hands over the child’s ears, then removed one of the cups and grabbed him by the arm, almost pulling it off as she ran out the door.
I stood behind the rails, peeked over to see your woman smiling gently as if nothing had happened, and thanked the lord for different kinds.
