| General Non-Fiction posted October 1, 2024 |
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My real family
Hiraeth
by Esther Brown
Hiraeth. A Welsh word that has no direct English translation. A combination of longing, nostalgia, homesickness that conveys a feeling of missing something irretrievably lost.
My brother from another mother, Carl, used that word to describe the reunion of my class of siblings from boarding school. Other words were family, acceptance, belonging, amazing…positive words. My words are Swahili, nawapenda nyote. I love you all.
We are “third culture people”. Americans raised in another country who share a common worldview. My culture. My missionary kid brothers and sisters.
Many of us have never had roots. “Home” can be described as where you are sleeping, who you are connected to, or the country from which you came. Home for me is my “family”.
Psychologists have a multitude of diagnoses for us: attachment disorders, complex PTSD, adjustment disorders, and misfits. We are not American, not African. Our own world view is unique to us. We are our own.
Most missionaries in my part of Africa sent their kids across the country to go to a boarding school where they could be educated in English. I was taken to Rift Valley Academy in Kenya from the Congo. I went into second grade, (never had first or kindergarten), and shared a room with 5 other girls my age. Our “dorm parents” had sixty little girls to watch, and I am sure they were overwhelmed. The first night away from our parents I listened to the other girls sobbing. I already knew it was a waste of time to cry. No one was coming to read to me, tuck me in with a kiss. I was on my own.
This was just after the MauMau uprising in Kenya. We had bars on the windows. After lights out, our room of little girls would sneak outside and use our nail files on the bars pretending to be MauMau breaking in. The other girls would wake up screaming; we were safely back in bed by the time the dorm parents showed up. Mischief was the norm. Getting caught was the sin.
The whole dorm room was scared into salvation by a Billy Graham film: ‘I Wish We’d All Been Ready’. Our dorm mom prayed with each of us, and we were dunked the next Sunday. Yet I suspect we were all still little heathens, at least I was.
There were rules. The ones that mattered to me were “don’t tattle on a friend and never whine”. Late to classes, socks hidden under my mattress, borrowing clothes: it was all a crime. Somehow, I managed to miss the end-of-term BBQ because of my demerits. One time, 2 older girls counted my demerits and spread the word that I was under the limit by 2. I couldn’t count that high. I distinctly remember having to walk up to my older sister at the BBQ and apologize for lying. She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and neither did I.
My punishment included missing the BBQ and eating with the dorm parents. As I walked alone to the dining room by the open window, I heard them laughing about me. My long hair was in a skin tight ponytail my mother taught me to make. I was so proud of it. My eyebrows were sky high. I ate my dishwater soup, walked alone back to the dorm and cut off all my hair.
We shared our memories at the reunion. Laughed until we cried. Hugged each other like the brothers and sisters we are. Accepted each other as only family can do.
Yet, our culture has changed irrevocably. Hiraeth. We have only each other and the memories of what once was.
Hiraeth. A Welsh word that has no direct English translation. A combination of longing, nostalgia, homesickness that conveys a feeling of missing something irretrievably lost.
My brother from another mother, Carl, used that word to describe the reunion of my class of siblings from boarding school. Other words were family, acceptance, belonging, amazing…positive words. My words are Swahili, nawapenda nyote. I love you all.
We are “third culture people”. Americans raised in another country who share a common worldview. My culture. My missionary kid brothers and sisters.
Many of us have never had roots. “Home” can be described as where you are sleeping, who you are connected to, or the country from which you came. Home for me is my “family”.
Psychologists have a multitude of diagnoses for us: attachment disorders, complex PTSD, adjustment disorders, and misfits. We are not American, not African. Our own world view is unique to us. We are our own.
Most missionaries in my part of Africa sent their kids across the country to go to a boarding school where they could be educated in English. I was taken to Rift Valley Academy in Kenya from the Congo. I went into second grade, (never had first or kindergarten), and shared a room with 5 other girls my age. Our “dorm parents” had sixty little girls to watch, and I am sure they were overwhelmed. The first night away from our parents I listened to the other girls sobbing. I already knew it was a waste of time to cry. No one was coming to read to me, tuck me in with a kiss. I was on my own.
This was just after the MauMau uprising in Kenya. We had bars on the windows. After lights out, our room of little girls would sneak outside and use our nail files on the bars pretending to be MauMau breaking in. The other girls would wake up screaming; we were safely back in bed by the time the dorm parents showed up. Mischief was the norm. Getting caught was the sin.
The whole dorm room was scared into salvation by a Billy Graham film: ‘I Wish We’d All Been Ready’. Our dorm mom prayed with each of us, and we were dunked the next Sunday. Yet I suspect we were all still little heathens, at least I was.
There were rules. The ones that mattered to me were “don’t tattle on a friend and never whine”. Late to classes, socks hidden under my mattress, borrowing clothes: it was all a crime. Somehow, I managed to miss the end-of-term BBQ because of my demerits. One time, 2 older girls counted my demerits and spread the word that I was under the limit by 2. I couldn’t count that high. I distinctly remember having to walk up to my older sister at the BBQ and apologize for lying. She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and neither did I.
My punishment included missing the BBQ and eating with the dorm parents. As I walked alone to the dining room by the open window, I heard them laughing about me. My long hair was in a skin tight ponytail my mother taught me to make. I was so proud of it. My eyebrows were sky high. I ate my dishwater soup, walked alone back to the dorm and cut off all my hair.
We shared our memories at the reunion. Laughed until we cried. Hugged each other like the brothers and sisters we are. Accepted each other as only family can do.
Yet, our culture has changed irrevocably. Hiraeth. We have only each other and the memories of what once was.
My sweet Gary fit right in.
© Copyright 2024. Esther Brown All rights reserved.
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