Nothing remarkable here.

At a dinner last night, one of our hosts began to talk about
his memories from childhood. 
His was an English education, boarding school from the age of
twelve, a life I have long wondered about, but then I asked his wife about her
education and my curiosity tripped me up. 
What was it like for you as a child? I asked.  Too broad a question perhaps but her response
was immediate.
‘I had an ordinary, a normal childhood, nothing remarkable there.’
My friend went on to say something about her mother as a
divorcee and that this was not the thing in those days, but that was all.  
I sensed a trapdoor shut with the words, ‘Mine was an
ordinary childhood’.
It puts me in mind of the times when my husband and I once interviewed
would-be nannies for our children.  If
any one of them uttered the words ‘I love children’ I struck them off my list.
I distrust such sentiments. 
Who ‘loves’ children and who has an ordinary childhood? To me there is
no such thing.
Childhood is that magical and terrifying place where life is
its hardest, full of pitfalls, full of tricky and incomprehensible adults.  Full of the hypocrisy of life, when even if
you can figure out something of what’s going on, the rest is still in
darkness. 
To me there’s a hole in a narrative when someone reports on
a happy childhood.  A happy
childhood.  A normal childhood, an
ordinary one.   There’s no such thing, I
reckon, though of course there are degrees.
My mother spent our lives insisting that her childhood was happy. The oldest of seven children, the first girl with only one female
rival, a sister, one of twins, six years younger, my mother was the apple of
her father’s eye. 
She told us stories endlessly of how she lived in a
two-storey house on the Marnixplein in Holland where even though it froze over
in wintertime there were always canals and lakes on which to skate. 
I sensed my friend did not want to go into any details about
her childhood, after all it was so normal, but something tells me there was much more
to it.
Life doesn’t begin in young adulthood when we step out into
the world.  It begins the
day we’re born, and the richest moments occur in those extraordinary years before we reach what people call
adulthood. 
Virginia Woolf talks about them as ‘moments of being’.  The moment when memories coalesce to form a
crystal of images that can take narrative form and become something like the
tip of an iceberg, underneath which the rest of our life’s memories form.
They point to something. 
Even a statement as bland as ‘I had a normal childhood’, hints at its
opposite. 
An ordinary childhood is a restricted childhood, one in which
a child is discouraged from going deeply into whatever experience life might
offer. 
I can see it in the form of one of my teachers, Miss
Fitzgerald, a woman who kept on her coat during classes in the grade three
classroom.  She spoke in a thick Scottish
accent and had an aura that made her classes the best behaved in the
school.  She gave us an ordinary
education, one that refused to feed our curiosity and imaginations. 
An ordinary childhood is a repressed one. 
Last night at the dinner, for a moment I felt like a poor
relative.  My friends come from other
parts of the world, from places far afield and perhaps some of my interminable
cultural cringe rose to the surface when I thought once more of the lack of
glamour of my own Australian education.
But then I have to check myself. 
We’ve all of us – those lucky enough or unlucky, as the case
may be, to have had an  education – experienced something of the Mrs
Fitzgerald’s of this world, the strict and sour women who control their classes
by instilling fear. 
And whenever it happens, there’s still a story to tell. 

There is no such thing as an ordinary childhood. 

Memory’s thump

After she died, my mother left each of her children $8154.94
as their inheritance.  She had wanted to
leave $10,000.00 each out of the proceeds of her rooms at the retirement
village where she had spent her last decade, but the way these things go, costs
and disbursements whittled some away. 
Throughout her life my mother was determined to give each of
her children something of significance, and each must have an equal share. 
Ironically, what she leaves can never be equal
For some of us, $8000.00 plus is a significant sum, for
others it’s a trifle.  For some it can go
into unpaid debts, for others it becomes part of their inheritance to their own
children, administered early.
They will give it away.
After my husband’s father died and left a small but more
significant inheritance size-wise, he wanted to buy something of substance as a
reminder of his father: a timeless piece of furniture that might stand up
against time. 
I have not been able to think of anything to honour the
memory of my mother other than through words on the page.
One of my brothers has been writing his ‘chronicles’ about
his life, which he had wanted to include in the family archive, but has since
withdrawn because some family members objected to certain of his
statements. 
The response to his writing, which he initially spread far
and wide among our extended family, was a bit like my mother’s
inheritance.  Some responded loudly – it
meant a great deal to them.  Others did
not react at all, or at least not in company.
Last night, I read the second section of my brother’s
chronicles in which he addresses some of the contentious areas where people
have challenged his view of what really happened in our family and I wonder yet
again about the nature of fact and of fiction. 
The ways in which one person’s story can seem so very
different from that of a sibling, when both occupied the same space in
childhood, when both shared the same parents. 
But in many ways, my brother’s parents were not my
parents.  All nine of us have different
parents, given that our parents – despite our mother’s best intentions to treat
us all equally – behaved differently with each one of us. 
My father prized the boys above the girls; at least as far as
academic achievement was concerned. 
Girls were good for housework and sexual favours. 
My mother, on the other hand, preferred her sons.  Especially, the first and last-born, though
the first might say that our mother preferred the second born son. 
These distinctions put differential pressures on each of us
as girls and as boys. 
Years ago, Helen Garner wrote a story about her sisters for
an anthology on sisters in which she gave her sisters names based on
chronology, second sister, third sister etc. 
I have a similar impulse in relation to writing about my brothers, given
there are five of them, and each is unique. 
Here, too, I try to protect their identities in order to make
a point about family experience, but this emphasis on family chronology can make
for dull storytelling, so the critic in my head pulls me up and says ‘fictionsalise’.
Does it matter that my brother writes in blunt words, that my
father penetrated my sister and raped her on a number of occasions, both for
its factual nature and that the statement seems to take it further than my
understanding of events. 
Did my father actually penetrate my sister? 
Does degree matter?  My
father penetrated my sister’s mind.  He penetrated
mine.  He penetrated all our minds but in
different ways. 
See these words on the page. 
See how they disturb, even as I put them down. 
See how much the reader wants to say,
‘No, don’t write that’. 
Don’t say that.  Don’t
speak of these events, they are too awful to consider.
Embellish them in a story. 
Give the reader some space in which to imagine.  Don’t leave it too open-ended. 
My brother writes about his own memory of seeing my father go
into my sister’s bedroom late at night.  Sometimes
my father was naked.
This one hits me with a thump.
My brother as witness and given that he himself did not go
into my sister’s bedroom, given he did not watch my father with my sister, but
could only imagine it, he may have taken his memories to this extreme.
When we witness events, we take in certain aspects of that
event and our memory and imagination then kicks in and rearranges the images
over time. 
When I read about my brother’s memory it puzzles me.  Only in so far as I do not remember my father
walking naked through the house until I was in my teens, by which time this
brother had left home. 
But when this brother still lived at home, it is possible
that he saw my father in ways I did not.
Does it matter, the truthfulness of all this, of who saw
what, of who did what to whom? 
I suspect it does.  But
when it comes to sexual abuse, the facts become murky, simply through the
overload of sensations that accompany our understanding.
When I read about the three year old boy who went missingfrom his home on the mid-north coast of NSW several months ago and of how
police later recruited the aid of Interpol to look out for a paedophile ring, I
cannot get it out of my mind: the sight of this little boy in the grip of a
group of paedophiles. 
In my imagination, they are a blurry group of dark clothed
men standing in a ring around this small boy, preying on his body as if they
are dogs fighting over a bone.
This is as much as my imagination can bear before I want to
snap it shut.  Stop the images.  They are too unimaginable.
My mother was a person who could not bear to see what was
going on around her, under her own roof. 
She could not contemplate what was happening to her
daughters, most particularly her oldest, even though she tells the story of
finding my father at my sister’s bedside and of telling him if she ever saw him
doing this again she would kill him. 
She thought that was enough to stop him.
It was not enough.
My father continued to visit my sister in the night and my
mother continued not to see, until it was too late. 
Even now in my family, and in the community at large, it is
hard to want to see these things. 
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I write about them.  I pick at them like an old sore, and there
are some who say, stop it, get over it. 
It’s done now.  Get on with your
life. 
There are some who might put our mother’s inheritance into
the bank – just a few extra dollars and nothing of any substance – and there
are others who might like to make the most of our mother’s inheritance, some
who might want to use some of the talent she passed onto her children, both for
observation and her ability to write, but also to fight against this tendency
of hers to turn a blind eye.