Graffiti

Some graffiti under a bridge made me think of one of those hilarious family memories. My little cousin, now just eighteen, was learning how to read and eager to practise. Look, mummy, look! He shouted. I can read that: “Ffff-u-ck thth-e po-o-lice.” Very good, my aunt managed to croak while the rest of us practically jumped into the bushes to hide our laughter. You have to encourage them to read, after all…

Memories Of The Charts

Some techno music floating in from some neighbour’s stereo brought on a sudden memory: New Beat. Does anyone remember that? For some reason my brother and I thought it was cool. My mum used to indulge us and let us eat our dinner in front of the TV one night a week, so that we could catch the countdown. And every time the new beat hit du jour would come on, my dad would come out of the kitchen copying one of the silly –well, now I recognise it as silly– dance moves. Da-ad, we’d groan, you’re ruining the song!

And another top of the charts related memory –weird how it seemed so important at the time, but it really was. Saturday lunchtime (because those bloody shows always coincided with mealtimes), my brother and I sat side by side at the kitchen table, each with our own little boombox next to us on the floor and a weekly magazine open on the charts page between us. We each marked the songs we wanted to tape and when one of those songs was about to come on, everyone had to be quiet so we could focus on pressing the REC. button at the start of the song. The aim was not to get any kind of introduction on your tape, but you also didn’t want to miss the opening bars of the song. Man, we had time for stupid things in those days^^.

João

Something in the air this morning brought to mind my first ever crush. I must have been around 6 years old; he was my mother’s age and my aunt’s boyfriend (are you with me?). His name was João.

He dropped by my grandparents’ house from time to time in the late afternoon, for tea and cakes. Obviously he must have seen my aunt alone as well but, in my six year-old world, this was all that existed between them: all of us –grandparents, parents, aunt, brother, two dogs, a cat and me– and tea. He learned a few words of our language, which never failed to get some laughs. I remember him as very tanned, with sweet eyes, very white teeth, and a moustache. That’s right. I haven’t liked a moustached man ever since but, on him, somehow it wasn’t at all offensive. My aunt and mum seemed to agree.

He knew I had a crush on him, of course. After all, at the age of six, how subtle can you be? He took it in his stride; always gave me friendly smiles and wiggled his moustache when he kissed my cheek. I don’t know whether my aunt found it entertaining or annoying. I do remember once, at dinner in a restaurant, she tried to hook me up with a ‘boyfriend’ of my own. A friend of his –similar tan and white teeth, and enormously tall to a little girl like me. But he just didn’t do it for me. I swore my heart was João’s forever.

I grew up and out of it, of course. And he got married –and later divorced, I heard– to someone that wasn’t my aunt. I think they may still be in touch. As for me, the memory that stays clearest in my mind is this:

Late afternoon, tea time. The tires of his car crunching the gravelled driveway. Ah, someone said. João is here. And me, plaited hair and wearing bikini bottoms, running out to greet him. In my excitement I forgot to put on slippers and the gravel hurt my feet. I tried to walk on my heels alone, carefully but deliberately, as he moved towards me. His polo shirt was blue. He may have said something, or not. And then he scooped me up into his arms. He carried me like the hero carries the star of the movie. And I, surprised and deliriously happy, gave him my best smile.

Love At First Glance

This entry is part of the February RBJ collab:

N. was 18 when I was one year younger, but we were both in the same year. She was the exchange student from AFRICA (a big deal, in our school), half my weight but head and shoulders above everyone. She wasn’t settling in, though not for lack of effort on her part. A few silly decisions by the student coordinator and some sillier prejudices from some girls in her class. Her home room was right next to mine. Super shy and equal misfit, I tended to scrape together a little courage when it came to people in need of a friendly face. So one day after class I walked up to her. I remember looking up into a slow ironic smile. I shook her hand, a rather bizarre thing to do, but I couldn’t think of any other way to appear approachable. I spoke in English, which was obviously a relief to her. I introduced myself and held her long brown fingers as I spoke. Even now, whenever I see her, I still notice her beautiful hands. I must have said something else but frankly I was too nervous to make much sense. I have no idea what she thought of me then, apart from the fact I was being nice. But I walked home thinking we might talk again sometime, and we did. Our lunchtime window shopping and MacDonalds lunches, movies and after school dance sessions at my house are the only reason I made it through school that year…

About four years later in the North of Scotland, I noticed a neighbour across the plaza, sitting by the window just like me. She noticed me as well: our eyes kept meeting but every time they did, we quickly looked away. We were both foreigners, trying to adapt to much colder climes in more ways than one: no friendly hellos and goodbyes in these parts. I thought she might be lonely too, so one morning I walked over and rang the bell. T. opened the door in a pair of light green pyjamas, her five month pregnant belly peeping out from under the top. I felt embarrassed, maybe I had woken her, but she smiled and invited me in. Just for a minute, I said, but ended up staying for hours. She had a relaxed and casual manner and purple nail polish on her toes. It turned out she really was new to the city, it was her first week there. So the next day, we went shopping for maternity clothes together. Once in the changing room and confronted with those soft front panels of maternity trousers, we laughed so hard the shop assistant told her to calm down unless she wanted to give birth on the spot. Which, of course, made us laugh all the more…

These girls are my sisters. Over the years we’ve moved countries and continents –some of us incessantly– but we’ve always stayed in touch. There have been the occasional faraway trips to each others’ homes and the much more frequent long distance phone calls, when we discuss everything under the sun. On two occasions all three of us have met. There have also been times of fewer mails and phone calls, times to concentrate on our personal happinesses or crises. And other times we’re practically joined at the hip and talk every day. Recently N. has got the hang of chatting which, as long as she isn’t bothered by a cramp in those lovely fingers, is improving communication no end. T. is in her own world right now, going through something similar to me, but it seems we can’t talk about it. I really miss her. But I know this is only temporary. Because we are family.

Family Reunion

This post is part of the November collab project over at RBJ:

I remember the reunions of my dad’s side of the family the most. Not because they were particularly exciting, but because they were big. Six siblings with their wives and kids, and countless uncles and aunts and cousins I don’t know how many times removed. A serious bunch, the lot of them. And they would have happily sat around being serious all day if it hadn’t been for Aunt I. She’s my dad’s great aunt and a seasoned prankster. She must be well into her nineties now and I wonder if she’s started recycling some of her more successful pranks. But in those days, she always managed to take everyone by surprise.

One New Year’s Day –we don’t do Thanksgiving– she manoeuvred my youngest uncle into the kitchen for a chat. He came out the accomplice in that year’s upcoming prank, wearing an old tie Aunt I. had picked from her late husband’s cupboard. Once everyone was seated, Aunt I. declared we’d start off by playing a game, since she wasn’t in the mood for another boring family party. Predictably, a bunch of the older uncles started to grumble. Uncle N. in particular wasn’t at all sold on the idea. Not that that surprised anyone because he never participated in anything. But Aunt I. sought him out especially: you too, N., she said. But of course, Uncle N. didn’t move a muscle. And neither did my youngest uncle K.

The rest of us played a few rounds of the game –an extremely silly game, involving shouting and clapping and flapping your arms like a chicken– and everything went well until Aunt I. ostensibly lost her temper. Right, she said to the two uncles in the corner, I’ve had it with you two. Whoever doesn’t participate in the next round is really going to regret it. She started off another round and when neither uncles stood up to join us, she walked over to Uncle K. and, in one decisive move, snipped off his tie with a great big pair of scissors. There was a collective gasp, followed ever so quickly by a chair scraping against the tiled floor, and Uncle N. rushing over to clap and shout and flap his arms for all he was worth. She didn’t exactly manage to convert Uncle N. into a barrel of laughs for life, but we did have a lot of fun with him that day…