Читать книгу Now I Climb Rocks - Liv Hambrett - Страница 6

A lot changes when you have a baby and much, really, stays the same. Time begins to morph, becomes something wickedly untameable. One’s body becomes a site upon which something extraordinary took place – and yet, to look at you, nobody knows – and it must now find its way back to the ordinary.

One’s appreciation for silence deepens. Things that once seemed so big, so important, they shrink, gather dust, no longer frighten. And yet, the world in which you now carry an additional human, is still the same world through which you walked alone. The shift is so seismic you almost don’t feel it, like when a noise is so loud and so quick, you wonder if you heard anything at all until you look around and realise everything is ever so slightly left of centre. Still there, still familiar, just not quite as it was. The very loud noise was a door closing; the life you had before your child is one you will never know again. You must now move forward as best you can in a world you have deliberately tilted on its axis, aware that you have created the very thing that’s loss would destroy you.

Writing with children is something done in dribs and drabs. Easier with a newborn: like koalas, they seem to sleep for most of the day. More difficult as they grow and disrupt attempts at schedules with teeth and sore tummies and new tricks that must be practiced at 3 o’clock in the morning. More difficult still when they become little people with ideas and plans of their own, and you adjust to being not only their means to achieve these ends but their most sacred source of comfort when things don’t quite work out. I found no way around the typical oxymoron - the more my children grew, dragging me along with them, the more I had to write about, but the less time I had within which to do it. Instead, I did what mothers have always done – I grabbed pockets of time and pressed motherhood onto paper while they napped or played quietly or watched TV. I found I was drawn more and more to my own childhood, long gone, as they crawled into theirs, stood up, and took off running; my childhood and who I was as a result of where I had grown up, and how I could pass this on to my children who would grow up on the other side of the world. Whereas I had once written to unpick a people and a culture I had found myself in the midst of, not particularly deliberately, now I wrote to understand my role as both a mother and a cultural inheritance.

As I settled into days with a newborn, ein Deutsches Kind (a German child) according to the foreigner’s office, I found myself constantly, more than ever before, negotiating my foreignness. I was, although I was too tired to think about it at the time, learning two things on the job; how to be a mother, and how to be an immigrant. A good immigrant. One who worked within the system and tried with the language and didn’t stick out. It helped that I was white, that my mother tongue was one Germans learnt for years at school. My child, my deliberate choice to tilt my world on its axis, was also a declaration to a country I had only just resolved to happily call home; I’m staying. She was an anchor. Before, I was the Australian. Now I was the Australian mum. When I got it wrong, I got it wrong on two levels, as a first-time mother and as a woman parenting outside of her own culture. My German had to improve, and quickly, to handle the paediatrician appointments and Rückbildungsgymnastiks Kurs (post-partum sports designed to strengthen the pelvic floor) and baby swim classes and Krabbelgruppe (baby playgroup) where I was gently chastised for sitting my baby up and not letting the baby lead the way. I fed my daughter different first foods and balked at the German staples of parsnip and mushed carrots. My mother-in-law gave me a jar of pureed meat – Fleisch – and several jars of Karotten Pur which my child steadfastly refused to eat (something I am sure my mother-in-law suspects me of influencing). Time after time, we had the great barefoot debate, as she would go clucking after socks to protect my baby from instant, cold-footed death. There was a bit of handwringing about how her German would suffer due to her early exposure to so much English.

Through it all, the linguistic misunderstandings, the culture clashes, the moments my Australianness ran headfirst into the Germanness I lived in, I was repeatedly referred to as entspannt, or what us Aussies might call easy-going. Was I relaxed because I am Australian, or because of simply who I am?

But am I not who I am, because of where I come from? Can the two be divorced? I’m not so sure. They bleed into one another.

You cannot remove ink from water.

Just shy of two years after my daughter’s birth, in the very same room overlooking the fjord, on a warm day at the end of an unseasonably warm May, my son arrived. After a bit of a push from a homeopathic induction cocktail – the Germans prefer trying natural remedies first – followed by acupuncture and finally the real induction drugs, he came quickly, too quickly. He shot out, tiny and blue, the cord having got stuck around his neck. His eyes, like his sister’s, were wide open, taking it all in. I was a Mum, again, to another Deutsches Kind.

Another anchor dropped in the flat, brackish Baltic. Another heir to my language, my country, my ink.

He brought with him a calmness; I knew what to do as a mother, and I was more seasoned in my foreignness. I had begun the process of making peace with living on the other side of the world and raising my children so far from all that was familiar. I had begun writing more and more about what that entailed and in doing so, had come to learn that while the outside is a place of uncertainty yes, it is also one of strange freedom. As my daughter began chatting away and my son became rotund and bouncy, my time evaporated even more – but the field within which I wanted to write became only more fertile.

There were a handful of hours a week during which my daughter was at a playgroup and my son would nap, and I pulled motherhood and culture and belonging under the microscope and wrote. Often, I would meet, within the first few sentences, a familiar melancholy. A lovely, quiet sadness at distance and absence and difference that I learnt not to see as a bad thing, but as something that was now a robust fibre, glittering gold in the tapestry.

With my second-born, I stopped assuming points of difference were a result of my being wrong, and instead chalked it up to a difference in upbringing, a difference between what I think is normal and what the Germans do. My mother-in-law’s relentless handwringing and worrying I knew, this time, was not because I was doing anything wildly different or stupid; it was merely her default setting of German Angst, dialled up as a result of her own upbringing by an emotionally distant mother, who herself was born as Hitler passed the Nuremberg Laws, and sent away as the bombs fell. The Germans telling me how to do something was not necessarily because what they were doing was right, but because Germans tend to think they are always right. Australians play the ‘aw I dunno, I might be right, but I don’t want to toot my own horn’ card as a matter of course; the Germans don’t have that card in their deck. It took me a long time to learn that very simple lesson – neither of us were necessarily right, we just came at things very differently. And that was okay.

As the Germans became clearer, and my own position within their country with it, the inevitable happened: my own culture came into sharper relief. Culture can be this shimmering thing, liquid, impossible to grab and hold, particularly by us people of the ‘new world’. We’re the small kids on the playground, with lots of bluster and self-esteem issues. But I saw it – at least, I saw it as it pertains to me – and I felt it, my Australianness, as it left me and entered my children. I began to see, as my children developed their personalities and learnt to speak both languages, the little ways in which Germans became Germans, and Australians became Australians. The myriad ways in which we become, draw out what we were born carrying, learn and take on what we weren’t. Culture is imbued, breathed into the next generations and when you raise your children in your own culture, you unwittingly, unthinkingly, often accidentally pass it on. But as a parent raising a child outside of your own culture, you can only pass it on through a concerted effort. You must do it emphatically, perhaps more so, because you are its only source.

But running alongside my kids as they took off in this world, exploring and inhabiting, I began to see that my children were giving as much to me as I was to them. Erik Erikson was right about babies raising parents, and I felt this particularly acutely as an immigrant parent. While later, my daughter would start providing German words I was missing or correct me on the pronunciation of her friends’ names, which all seemed to include the dreaded ‘schwa’ sound at the end – Hanne, Jette, Merle, Jonte – as babies and toddlers, the children dragged me out of my shell because someone had to take them to the Spielplatz (playground) and make stilted conversation with the other parents in the cold afternoon air. Someone had to take them to the baby music classes and baby dance classes and baby swimming classes, to while away the rainy, cold days. Someone had to buy them their Rosienenbrötchen at the bakery (a raisin bun, the standard snack for German children) and curate a wardrobe of softshell and fleece and a hat for every possible weather occasion. They showed me a country that belongs to them through birth and blood, a country that belongs to me through circumstance and choice. Blood and birth is a different relationship to circumstance and choice. Their love for their childhood land is different to my love for my adulthood land. My children force me to choose what I want to give them: they force me to expand my acceptance and understanding of this foreign life because they take for granted my roots in this soil are as deep as theirs. They do not fully understand that my roots have not always grown here, that this soil is at times uncomfortable and mostly unknown.

My country once only resided in me, as I went about my daily life in a colder, rainier corner of the world. But it is now carried in my children. Whereas once my days were driven by my own curiosity about the world, now they are driving with me, pointing things out, asking questions, trying to make sense of how we all fit. I wrote to try and get a handle on raising my children – and being raised by them – in a country I have come to know intimately but do not come from. To understand culture and providing a cultural inheritance, a baton I must push into my children’s hands as firmly as I can. But I found something rather unexpected as I peeled back the layers and peered at what pulsed beneath: very few of my experiences were limited to the consequences of my choice to live in another country. I thought my foreignness was the ink in the water, but that wasn’t quite right. On this period of my thirties, it wasn’t the linguistic quagmire, the different passport, the foreignness – or, better, it wasn’t only these things that had the greatest impact. Motherhood was as much a foreign land and language as the literal foreign land and language I inhabited.

For me, the two experiences – migration and motherhood – produced very similar symptoms, provoked very similar reactions, awoke very similar beasts.

So that is what these essays are about. We are all water and we all have ink. It spills and seeps and we are forever changed, however and wherever we move.