My life between parentheses

My Life Between Parentheses

I was asked to write something about myself. Ugh! But here it is. A biography is always somewhat guarded; no one wants to wear their heart on their sleeve, nor can anyone remember their life experiences verbatim, so writers use a gentle lens. So, I shall try to condense my narrative and recall memories as accurately as possible.

I was born in Indonesia during the Dutch colonial days and the Bersiap Period (when Indonesians struggled for Independence from Dutch colonization). Shortly after the Indonesian people gained their Independence, those of us of mixed race returned to the Netherlands or Holland; I was three then. My father was in the Royal Dutch Air Force, and with little pay, our family could only afford a fifth-floor walk-up apartment in Amsterdam. My poor mother carting all the groceries up five narrow stairs with two little girls and a baby. She was such a trooper.

I loved living in Holland and spending weekends with my grandparents, my Oma and Opa. My grandfather was an architectural engineer in Amsterdam, and they had a lovely apartment, which was always a delight to visit, especially during holidays. We were the center of their lives and spoiled by them. It was difficult for me to leave my grandparents, aunts, and uncles when we immigrated. To this day, I still get teary-eyed, recalling the day we left for America when I was ten. My heart broke to say goodbye to everything familiar to me. I can only imagine what it was like for my parents. The uncertainty must have been daunting. My grandparents were heartbroken and grieved for a long time.

Nevertheless, my grandparents made many trips back and forth, and I even had the opportunity to return when I turned sixteen. And once again, it was heartbreaking to leave. Some people leave their hearts in San Francisco; I left mine in Holland.

In January of 1957, we arrived in New York, and the weather was bleak and dismal. I recognized in my parents, especially my mother, a courage that shone like the sun and gave me hope. Coming to a new country with its unfamiliarity and inability to communicate effectively is difficult. The immigrant feels afloat, not anchored to anything familiar, and one must step forward gingerly, for we know not what awaits us. But the America of 1957 was mainly kind and welcoming to us, and since that time, there were moments when I felt wanted and appreciated. My family and I flourished with the support of many lovely people throughout this beautiful country. We are so appreciative. Looking back at my journey, I see how blessed I was. Yes, I had challenging moments in life, yet my intrepidness and the support of various people brought me to this amazing point, and I am grateful.    

I married Tom in 1969 in California. Eventually, our little family moved to Alabama in 1976. I have lived in this humid, hot, and beautiful state for over half my life. It wasn't by choice that we arrived here; it was a job transition for my husband, and we thought we were only staying for a few years. As a young mother with children, I was filled with a lot of trepidation as Alabama's reputation for racism and injustice toward people of color was renowned. And I was not exactly pink and white, but dusky of color. So, I was nervous. However, I soon met many Southerners who were exceedingly kind and welcoming. I guess I was white enough. How very convenient for me, but sadly not for other people of color. Even though things had gotten much better since the march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 and the Civil Rights Movement, there remained hidden antipathy for those who were not white. Today, it is still a struggle we must challenge; equality is not guaranteed for all, and brutal, unjust people still exist, not only in the South but everywhere. 

My mother was all about civil rights and instilled in us a desire to see everyone on an equal footing. She did not see this in Virginia in the early sixties, and she fought for equality long before she realized she was part of a larger movement, causing turmoil in our neighborhood and her place of work. That story remains, perhaps, another book. We need to write stories about our heroes and heroines.

 Knowing her daughter and grandchildren were soon ensconced in Alabama caused her to tremble with fear. She once told me she was fearful someone would burn a cross in our front yard. I had thought much the same. Yet, none of that happened. Our stay in Alabama was good, and we cultivated many beautiful friendships with our Southern neighbors. Our children graduated from school and university, and I returned to college and became an educator, teaching classes in Social Justice within our church community and ESL to foreign-speaking children in our school system. How apropos. 

 Here I am, seventy-seven, with two books published, When Uncle Chris Was a Little Fish and Opa and The Tiger Trap, and another near completion, Finding Sofie, indicating my life is not done yet. Society tends to instruct us that you are nearly finished once you reach your seventies; it is time to tie up loose ends, declutter your home, downsize your house, and begin to live smaller. Well, perhaps. But most of us still have much to contribute; we can all do something, even supporting those who have found new beginnings. No one can evolve without support, and I am grateful to my friends and family, especially my husband, for their support. Support is indeed critical for our success, especially at this age when our bodies and minds are in rebellion. When we have more bad than good days, we can still inspire, support, love, and step forward into adventure, comrades in arms—holding on to each other and giving one another strength. If I can begin a whole new existence, so can everyone else; even in small ways, we can step into tomorrow with spirits ever enlarging. Be a power for good in the world; all of us can be miracles, even several steps over the threshold of seventy and still kicking, maybe kicking a little lower and slower, but still kicking!