by Virginia Walters
It said that being born into our families is like arriving at a party. Sometimes, we come before the party begins. Things are quiet. People are getting prepared. Sometimes, we arrive when everything is in full swing, and sometimes, we arrive at the end when things are winding down and everybody's tired. I was born into my family system when life was in full swing. There were multiple generations in full swing with many people around, and they had names, of course, but I didn't quite know who was who and who belonged where; my mother sometimes wanted me around, and, most of the time, didn't. Children oversaw children, but mostly, nobody knew what was going on. We were what you would call wildlings.
Around 7, I remember being dropped off somewhere to visit a friend. We had moved out of the area when I was five. I had no contact with this friend, nor were our families in touch. As my mother drove away, I called out, asking what to do if she wasn’t there. She shouted vague instructions to go to my grandparents' house if nobody was there. I bravely knocked on the door, rehearsing the lines in my mind, ready to ask whether my friend wanted to play. A strange man was standing before me. He sent me away. I waited a few minutes and knocked again, hoping my friend would appear if I asked the same questions. Again, he sent me away, asking who was with me. And to go back to the person who had landed me there. I looked around. There was nobody else with me. I remember leaving there and later arriving at my grandparents' house. I must have walked the 7 km, although I can't remember doing so, only that I was thirsty upon arrival. My grandmother opened the door and beckoned me to sit at the kitchen table. My grandfather was angry at the sight of me. He asked where my mother was. Where had she gone? I didn't know. I only knew I was meant to go there if my friend wasn’t at home.
I was curious to know what the following sequence in the plan was and was waiting for direction, but it wasn't coming as my grandfather was too angry to speak.
I found myself apologising before saying that I would leave. As I got up from the table, my grandfather bellowed to sit back down and, through tears of frustration, said, "You belong to me". He continued, "Don't you ever think for a minute that there isn't a place at my table for you? Because you are mine and you belong to me". I felt relieved at that moment to know I belonged to my grandfather. I felt the truth in his words. This was my grandfather, and to him, I belonged.
The words I got from my grandfather that day have become lessons that people will spend their entire lives searching for and never find. From Par, I learned loyalty and love in action. I learned the value of family and the comfort of belonging. Some 45 years later, they are not just memories to draw upon during difficult times but also regular visitors in my life. My grandfather and his father, another noteworthy figure in my life, show up in. I am reminded of having a place where I still belong and having ancestors walking beside me through every stage of life.
His message is the message that I try to convey to my children and my grandchildren - you belong. There is always a place at my metaphorical table for them. To the person reading this today, I wish to share that you are an essential part of this matrix called life. Never underestimate the importance of who you are and your words' impact on someone, for they may carry another through some of life's most enduring times. Your words may be remembered long after you have forgotten them.
Connect with Virginia
Comments