The day Francisca turned 12, my husband Paul caught me staring at her as she chattered away about nothing in particular. I do that sometimes.
“It must have been so different for you …” he said. I snapped out of it and silently turned to look at him. “…growing up I mean … when you were that age”.
When I was 12, my family left a war torn Lebanon and immigrated to Canada. It’s hard to remember much of the details. I feel blessed…, and sometimes I feel cursed, with a brain that forgets.
We had lost our home, relocated with only the clothes on our backs and our lives, having to depend on relatives for charity. Up until my first day at school in 7th grade, the grade Francisca is in now, I had not been in close proximity to boys my age. In Lebanon, I had attended an all-girls catholic school run by nuns and really no school at all for the previous two years. The boys I knew in Lebanon were almost men. They all carried weapons – grenades and machine guns. I found the ones in Canada really annoying. They were loud and childish.
I was visibly different. My mom dressed me, which didn’t help. My early days at school were spent watching people’s lips move, hearing sounds and not recognizing the looks in their eyes. Learning English was a challenge and I’m not convinced that I ever learned what makes Canadians tick and how to be around them. With my son Manuel who is 13, I now know those boys were the ones living in the right time and place and I had aged to fit the nickname my neighbors had given me – Grandma.
I’m not sure it was wisdom back then that earned me the name. It was a sense of calm that all who were around me could feel. I walked in silence. To this day, it annoys my younger sister to no end that I don’t react or have drama around superficial events. When others worried about what they were going to wear, I wondered if there would ever be peace on earth. The grown ups were pre-occupied with making money just to get by and I wore hand-me-down clothes for the first time in my life.
Having given up an existence of comfort and status, I’m sure it was much more difficult for my parents than it was for me. I cried myself to sleep nightly, but no one knew. I perfected a silent grief that served me well during my college years of sharing dorm rooms and later in my marriage when I was scared and lonely and didn’t want to attract any attention. With time and trust, I learned to cry aloud. Sometimes, people noticed.
To this day, out of nowhere, the kids will look at me and Francisca will ask “Mom, are you OK?” I wish I could hide it better. Manuel just grabs for my hand to squeeze it the way my Dad did when I was growing up. I used to reserve my feelings for those hours at night when no one else was awake. But more recently, it’s become easier to cry. Maybe I’ve grown to feel safe with those around me. Maybe I’m just overflowing and can’t hold anymore. In any case, I find myself thinking she’s 12 and he’s 13 and I wish they didn’t know me so well.
I celebrate their every moment and I find myself drawn toward all kids and animals that are still wild. Mine have not yet been fully domesticated. You can see it in their eyes. It’s a constant juggling act to find that place of balance between socializing them and leaving them wild the way I want to be. I had a teacher once who said that “balance is a tight rope - The place to be is in harmony”. When I catch myself walking the tight rope, I stop struggling to find balance, and I strive for harmony. So when she asks: “Mom are you OK?” I don’t say I’m fine. I tell her the truth: “Habibi, (my love) at this moment, I’m feeling sad;” Just those words. No more. No less. Unless she asks…
In my culture, there is a lot said without a sound being uttered. My family of origin has perfected that and to this day, my husband is amazed at what transpires at the dinner table all in the time it takes him to serve himself some food. With no words uttered, suddenly one of us slams their hands down and explodes. Seemingly out of nowhere, the argument is in full swing, leaving him and his British sensibilities wondering if he’d missed the previous half hour. In real time, it was seconds. A glance, a raised eyebrow, pursed lips or something perhaps not perceptible visually – just a sense we have about each other. It’s something you learn when you are with people in close proximity and your life is on the line and there’s no time for words.
On our daughter’s 12th birthday, I don’t have to answer Paul. I’m happy to be noticed. I turn back to watch her brushing her hair. She is bubbling with joy and excitement. She’s contagious. I ask: “Hey, it’s your birthday!!! What are you going to wear?" |
