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CRY, YOU ARE NOT A CHILD! / PLAČI, NISI DETE!

in MY BLOG

CRY, YOU ARE NOT A CHILD!

When I was little, and it was thirty years ago or more, I was not a child who could start crying easily. People would rather expect me to argue, break up a fight, or be quiet in a sulky way until I get my way or this feeling releases.

I did not cry even when in one terrible cold January of 1985, compared to which this January of 2016 is nothing, my dad came to the school during the break. I knew that grandpa passed away. The grandpa, my mother’s father, who allowed me, his nine-year-old only grandchild, to sleep in the trailer which was left at his yard in Orebic, Peljesac by a German until next summer. He died when he was only a little more than 62. I did not cry, I just yelled “Why didn’t Milena die instead of him?!”… Milena was my mother’s mother, who was 89when she died… There’s no need for tears. Anger was just enough. Back then.

And I guess that it is how things work, until you start to grow up, and then “adulthood” does not allow you to be a cry baby and shed tears for anything or anyone? Then it is not even OK to ask why someone died, and someone else did not. Also, it was wrong to ask my mom not to die before my dad, although I did. However, my Ljilja avoided that subject in her own style, with a laugh: “I don’t give a shit. When I die, do what you want… “, referring to the difficult relationship that I have had with my father from my childhood until today. A difficult man, a difficult relationship. Neither am I easy to deal with. He raised his only daughter as a soldier, and a soldier was rebelling against him … And that was the case all my life.

There were not many tears when my schoolmate Brana Milinovic was killed during protests in 1991. There was anger, disappointment, sadness, but not many tears. At 18, you are thinking about how to change things and not where to find paper tissues …

Then “adult things” started to happen. My cousin’s girlfriend went to give birth to a baby on one October day. She did not come back. They just returned us a bundle of 6 pounds that we needed to worry about because there was no one else. And how could we give that little nose to anyone?… And the first tears that are hard to stop when the bundle had cramps, and at 23 I was carrying it from door to door, in a circle around the house… in shifts with other family members.

Then one police stick from of the cordon cracks your head in Kolarčeva Street during “Counter-demonstrations”.  Blood is dripping down my neck, you do not know if you are going to stay alive, or healthy, your brain is, as in a convertible, drying out on the December cold winter day, but you are not crying. You are changing the world? Change my ass! And who knows when that tomorrow will be and if it is tomorrow any way…

You are growing up as if you are not growing up actually, although your tears are becoming the only way to protect yourself from the things that you cannot change… You also cannot make many people change, although you are trying. You are helpless with a lot of them. Anger “does not work” anymore.

You are helpless when your friend from primary school is brought back after who knows how many years from Kosovo, where he was killed. You are also helpless when you find out that your mother is ill with systemic lupus and that only about 30% of people live more than 10 years struggling with it. You are helpless when you go to the hospital and find your mother’s mother covered with a ragged blanket, in a room with the greasy paint peeling off the walls, and the door had long been taken off the hinges. You are helpless when you get back home one day and you realize that he did not leave me any choice and decided to move 1000 km away among other things because of the conditions in which your mother’s mother died 2 and a half years ago and only three months ago your mother, too. You are helpless when you see what kind of people have benefits at work. You are helpless when those who are supposed to help others are actually wicked. You are helpless when some first graders basic burn the cat in the sack and others, just a little bit older, put a firecracker in a dog’s mouth.

And what remains to you when you use up all the strength in anger, useless attempts to deal with the injustices of various kinds. In order not be get mad, you sit down and cry yourself out. It helps.

Cry, you are not a child! Then we will see what happens, with clean, washed eyes and calm head.
And with your hand on the trigger.

 

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PLAČI, NISI DETE!

Kad sam bila mala, a bilo je to pre tridesetak godina i više, nisam baš bila dete koje lako zaplače. Pre su mogli očekivati da ću se posvađati, potući ili nadureno ćutati dok ne bude po mome ili me osećaj ne popusti.
Nisam plakala čak ni kada je 1985., jednog odvratnog i hladnog januara, naspram kog ovaj 2016. nije ništa, tata došao u školu za vreme velikog odmora. Znala sam da dede više nema. Onog dede, maminog oca, koji je meni, devetogogodišnjem jedinom unučetu, dozvoljavao da spavam u kamp prikolici koju je kod njega u dvorištu u Orebiću, na Pelješcu, ostavio neki Nemac do idućeg leta. Umro je sa samo malo više od 62. Nisam plakala, samo sam vikala “Zašto Milena nije umrla umesto njega!?”… Milena je bila mamina majka, koja je živela 89 godina…  Čemu suze? Samo bes je bio dovoljan. Tada.
I to tako, valjda, ide, dok ne počneš da rasteš, a onda ti “odraslost” ne dozvoljava da budeš plačipička i liješ suze za bilo čim ili kim? Onda nije u redu ni da pitaš zašto je neko umro, a neko drugi nije. Nije u redu bilo ni da moliš mamu da ne umre pre tate, mada sam to radila. No, moja Ljilja je to u svom stilu, uz smeh, zatvarala kao temu: “Boli me uvo. Kad ja umrem, radite šta znate…”, aludirajući na težak odnos koji od svojih malih nogu, pa sve do danas imam sa svojim ocem. Težak čovek, težak odnos. Nisam ni ja laka. Vaspitavao je ćerku jedinicu kao vojnika, a vojnik je pravio pobune… I tako celog života.

Nije bilo mnogo suza ni kada je 1991. u demostracijama poginuo moj školski drug Brana Milinović. Bilo je besa, razočaranosti, tuge, ali ne mnogo suza. Sa 18 više razmišljaš kako da promeniš stvari, nego gde su papirne maramice…

Onda su počele da se dešavaju “stvari za odrasle”. Devojka mog brata od tetke je jednog oktobarskog dana otišla da se porodi. Nije se vratila. Vratili su samo zamotuljak od 3kg o kom smo trebali da brinemo, jer nije imao ko drugi. A i kako taj mali nosić da daš bilo kome? …I prve suze koje teško zaustavljaš krenule su kada je zamotuljak imao grčeve, a ja ga, sa 23 godine, nosala od vrata do vrata, pa u krug po kući… na smenu sa ukućanima.
Onda ti jedan pendrek iz kordona u Kolarčevoj na “Kotramitingu” razbije glavu. Krv se sliva niz vrat, ne znaš da li ćeš ostati živ, a posebno zdrav, mozak ti se, kao u kabrioletu, luftira na decembarskoj zimi, ali ne plačeš. Ti menjaš svet? Menjaš sutra malo! I to sutra ko zna kad je i da li je…

Rasteš, a kao da ne odrastaš, mada ti suze postaju jedini način da se odbraniš od stvari koje ne možeš promeniti… A mnoge ne možeš, iako pokušavaš. U mnogima si bespomoćan. Bes više “ne radi”.
Bespomoćan si kada ti druga iz osnovne škole vrate posle ko zna koliko godina sa Kosova, gde je poginuo. Bespomoćan si kada saznaš da ti majka boluje od lupusa, od kog samo oko 30% ljudi preživi duže od 10 godina u borbi sa njim. Bespomoćan si kada odeš u bolnicu i zatekneš majku svoje majke pokrivenu pocepanim ćebetom, u sobi sa čijih se zidova ljušti masna farba, a vrata su odavno skinuta sa šarki. Bespomoćan kada se vratiš jednog dana kući i shvatiš da te je on stavio pred svršen čin i odlučio da se odseli na 1000 km između ostalog i zbog uslova u kom je 2,5 godine ranije umrla majka tvoje majke, a pre samo 3 meseca i tvoja majka. Bespomoćan si kada vidiš ko sve ima “prođu” u poslu. Bespomoćan kada oni koji bi trebali da pomognu drugima zapravo jašu metlu. Bespomoćan kada klinci iz prvog osnovne zapale mačku u džaku, a drugi, tek malo stariji, stave psu petardu u usta.

I šta ti ostaje kada iscrpiš sve snage u besu, pokušajima Kalimera da se izboriš sa nepravdama raznih vrsta? Da ne bi poludeo, sedneš i isplačeš se. Pomaže.
Plači, nisi dete! Posle ćemo da vidimo šta ćemo, čistih, ispranih očiju i mirne glave. I sa rukom na okidaču. 😉

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Ilustracija preuzeta sa weba (Weheartit).

 

Tears should not be inherited… (Suze ne treba naslediti…)

in MY BLOG

ENGLISH:

Child that I do not have … I admit that, despite all the troubles in my life, I often think about why, how, whether … what kind of a parent I would be?
Since my twenties, I have been asked why I do not have a child. Is it just me? Yes, certainly. But the problem is not in my body, or even in my head. I just do not have a child. My mom always used to say that in my case, as with many people, it goes “from the center”, but I control “the center” badly, … I might have one someday, it is said that women now give birth to children till the age of 45. Maybe I will adopt one. Maybe I will take a little gipsy kid from streets, as I now collect abandoned animals. I do not know. But I know that being a parent is not an easy role … and that a parent has to protect you from a hornet in a meadow.I grew up with my mom and dad, but most of the time I spent with my aunt, my mother’s sister, who is still being asked: “How is your elder daughter?”, even though she has only one child, 9 years younger than me … My mom worked in what later became the Emergency Center, my dad used to work in the police, and I belonged to them between daytime and night-duty work, travels, driving me from Belgrade, where we lived, to Pančevo, where mom’s family lived … over the summer at Pelješac at my grandfather’s, where I was taken to by different people.

Today, I am 42, mom has been gone for a little more than 4 months, and my dad will soon turn 67.
These days, I am pondering about myself and my own essence, deeply affected by various emotions, I am also reading various letters, pictures, documents … and I came across the letters to my parents. Since I was 24, when I left their home in shorts and slippers with a wallet in my hand, slamming the door, until recently we would not speak for 3, 4, or even 6 months during the year. Those were minor things, sometimes even bigger than that but our explosive characters would not let things turn out other way. Hornets flew across the meadow which I used to cross barefoot as a child, and my dad used to say it was good for me to learn to defend myself.
Nowadays, I am prone to idealize them. My parents. Because mom is gone, and my father was left alone with me in this world. Have I ever been disappointed in them and has it made me a better or worse person? Yes, I have. I have been disappointed, as they have probably been disappointed in me, too… but it hurts children more than it hurts adults. Adults find an explanation, children take pain through life.

When you are a child and the world is one large field which you are running across, tripping over stones, running away from a dandelion you are afraid of, you live without the presence of people who gave birth to you or made you, you are a net for butterflies … into which sometimes, even often, an uninvited hornet flies. You expect your parents to kill hornets … and that does not always happen. And the field that you are running across and tripping over stones turns into a vast field full of hornets and large stones, and on the top of a rock is one of your parents who nods and says: “Get stronger. Nobody has ever fondled me either. “… and then you turn 42, being thankful because they made you stronger, taught you … but the same place where I was stung by the hornet still hurts. And the tears flow. Because when I close my eyes, I feel my mom only when she is moving the fringes from my forehead. And we are silent.

If I had a child (just as I do not have one), I would never let myself disappoint him/her, I would rather swallow a hornet … Maybe it is an unattainable ideal in life, I may be unrealistic, perhaps because I do not have a child, but it hurts when I see and understand that people make children stronger, for higher goals, reasons explicable only to them, that they cannot make the slightest sacrifice for a creature that is their body and soul, that they let children look upon them as gods, and they behave just like average people … Life makes you strong enough, the parents’ role is to be the ideal role model, pride, to cuddle and keep promises.

If I had a child (just as I do not have one), he/she could rely on me. As much as it is difficult, impossible, childish, unjustified for me…
It is wonderful to be an adult and feel that support, even when you do not have a physical support any more.
It is not wonderful to be a grown-up and suffer for a piece of parental love.
If I had a child (just as I do not have one), he/she would be a person who would not write letters to his/her parents in which one of the main sentences would be: “I feel like an orphan.”
If I had one someday, one way or another, he/she would never be disappointed in me. Because tears should not be inherited.

Note: This post does not refer specifically to me and my parents or people and their parents familiar to me. Post was created just like brooding over coffee. That is what blogs are for, aren’t they? 🙂

 

SERBIAN:

Dete koje nemam… priznajem da često razmišljam, pored svih peripetija u životu, o tome zašto, kako, da li,… kakav bih roditelj bila?

Od moje 20 i neke pitaju me zašto nemam dete. Da li je problem u meni? Jeste, sigurno. Ali, nije u telu, a ni u glavi. Prosto nemam dete. Mama je govorila da to kod mene, kao i kod mnogih, ide “iz centrale”, ali centralu slabo kontrolišem,… Možda ću ga jednom imati, kažu da žene sada rađaju i do 45. Možda ću ga usvojiti. Možda ću uzeti ciganče sa ulice, kao što sada skupljam napuštene životinje. Ne znam. Ali znam da biti roditelj nije jednostavna uloga… i da roditelj mora da te zaštiti od stršljena na livadi.

Odrasla sam sa mamom i tatom, ali sam veći deo provela sa tetkom, maminom sestrom, koju i danas pitaju “Kako ti je starija ćerka?” iako ima samo jedno dete, mlađe 9 godina od mene… Mama je radila u preteči Urgentnog centra, tata u policiji, pa sam im pripadala između dnevnih i noćnih dežurstava, putovanja, prebacujući me iz Beograda gde smo živeli, u Pančevo, gde su živeli mamini…, preko letovanja na Pelješcu kod dede, gde me je vodio kako je ko stigao.

Danas, imam 42. Mame nema nešto više od 4 meseca, a tata ima još malo pa 67.

Vrtim se ovih dana oko same sebe i svoje suštine, enormno pogođena raznim emocijama, prebiram isto tako razna pisma, slike, dokumenta… pa nailazim na moja pisma roditeljima. Dešavalo se, počevši od moje 24. godine, kada sam u šortsu i papučama, sa novčanikom u ruci, otišla od njih zalupivši vrata, pa sve do skoro, da nismo pričali po 3, 4, pa i 6 meseci u toku godine. Bile su to minorne stvari, ponekad i veće od toga, ali eksplozivni karakteri nisu dali da bude drugačije. Stršljeni su leteli po livadi po kojoj sam kao dete hodala bosa, a tata je govorio da je dobro da naučim da se branim sama.

Danas sam sklona da ih idealizujem. Roditelje. Jer mame više nema, a tata je ostao sam sa mnom na ovom svetu. Da li sam ikada bila razočarana u njih i da li je od mene to napravilo boljeg ili goreg čoveka? Da, jesam. Bila sam razočarana, kao i oni, verovatno, u mene,… ali decu to više boli nego odrasle. Odrasli nađu objašnjenje, deca bol ponesu kroz život.

Kada si mali i svet ti je jedna velika poljana kojom trčiš, saplićeš se o kamenčiće, bežiš od maslačka kog se plašiš, živiš bez prisustva onih koji su te rodili ili napravili, ti si jedna mreža za leptire… u koju ponekad, pa i često, upadne nezvani stršljen. Očekuješ da stršljena ubije tvoj roditelj… a to se ne desi uvek. I tvoja poljana od poljane kojom trčiš i saplićeš se o kamenčiće, postaje nepregledno polje puno stršljena i velikog kamenja, a na vrhu neke stene stoji tvoj roditelj koji klima glavom i kaže “Čeliči se. Ni mene niko nije mazio.” … i onda napuniš 42, zahvalan si što su te očeličili, naučili,…ali te boli i dalje ono mesto gde te je izujedao stršljen. I suze teku same. Zato kad zažmurim mamu osetim samo kako mi sklanja šiške sa čela. I ćutimo.

Da imam dete, kao što ga nemam, ne bih nikada dozvolila da ga razočaram, pre bih progutala stršljena… Možda je to ideal neostvariv u životu, možda sam nerealna, možda baš zato nemam dete, ali me boli kada vidim i shvatim da ljudi čeliče decu, zarad viših ciljeva, razloga samo njima objašnjivim, kada ne podnose ni najmanju žrtvu za stvorenje koje je njihova duša i telo, kada dozvole da deca gledaju u njih kao u bogove, a oni se ponašaju samo kao prosečni ljudi… Život dovoljno čeliči, uloga roditelja je da bude ideal, uzor, ponos, da mazi i ispunjava obećanja.

Da imam dete, kao što ga nemam, ono bi na mene moglo da se osloni. Koliko god to meni bilo teško, neizvodljivo, detinjasto, neopravdano…

Divno je biti odrastao čovek i osećati taj neki oslonac, čak i kada ga više fizički nemaš.

Nije divno biti odrastao čovek i patiti za mrvom roditeljske ljubavi.

Da imam dete, kao što ga nemam, ono bi bilo čovek koji ne bi pisao pisma svojim roditeljima u kojima bi jedna od glavnih rečenica bila “osećam se kao siroče”.
Ako ga budem jednom imala, ovako ili onako, neće biti nikada razočarano u mene. Jer, suze ne treba naslediti.

Napomena: Ovaj post ne odnosi se konkretno na mene i moje roditelje ili poznate mi osobe i njihove roditelje. Post je nastao samo kao razmišljanje uz kafu. Za to služe blogovi, zar ne? 🙂

 

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