1 Parents! Stand Up! Prologue
Dogmatics, conceived as immutable doctrines, are not confined to the Church. They rule everywhere, in the army, in the courtroom, in the school.
Jan Ligthart, In Sweden, 1911
In our small house the fire is burning in the kitchen because winter is not over yet. Every day at about two o'clock we feel the heat of the sun increasing, but to my husband's delight it is absolutely necessary by five o'clock to light the fire. My grandson looks at me expectantly. In his blue eyes I recognize something that makes me melancholy. I allow it for a moment. Just a moment. Fortunately, his compelling hand gets me out of my thoughts in time. Come on grandma, play with me, it says. And I let myself be drawn. To his blocks. We build a tower.
Oh little boy, you have a whole life before you. It looks so wonderful now, that life. Safe with mom and dad, who will do everything for you. Your world is your toy, your garden, your sandbox. You don't know about all the worries that are yet to come, as you grow and your world expands. Luckily not! If you already knew how much energy it will take to discover who you want to be, to be able to resist the merry-go-round, to hold your ground a little, to be a little happy, then you might never have started this life at all. But hey, you don't have a choice. You have not been asked in advance. You are here! And you start with it. With all the fire you have in you. You will be unstoppable in your efforts to become happy. But will you know when you are? Will you recognize it? Or will you one day, after much hard work, look back with regret, because the happiness is gone without you realizing that you ever had it, and suddenly you have to fight, for your children, for your life and worldly goods.
And yet, like all foolish parents and grandparents, we hope that you will be fighting for a beautiful life. A full life. Because look how clever you are already! You immediately see how you can prevent the structure from falling over. Or, much more fun, how to make it collapse with a thunderous roar! What a pleasure!
My heart bleeds and glows, with love, with pride, with expectation and with sorrow. This beautiful child. I want to protect it, prevent it from having to grow, from having to go out into the world, from getting spoiled. Who gives me guarantees? Who will make my worries go away? All those organizations, all those authorities that have interfered with us. That told me that if I would listen, follow their advice, that I would be a good mother, and things would be fine. People who are paid to fail, who don't know any better themselves, who have nothing but their dehumanized expertise and stupid bureaucracy. Aren't we all an indispensable part of the production system of education and care? Mother, child and society? With every fiber we weave into the blanket of the system that should warm us and protect us from the cold. But it only suffocates and kills. Escape it! Child grow up strong-willed! Don't be fooled! Be independent. Be independent!
An impossible task. How can you tell a child to be suspicious when I know that suspicion is the beginning of all misery? How do you teach a child to be careful when his open-mindedness is the most valuable thing he possesses? How do you teach a child to be cautious when everyone knows it puts the brake on that wonderful curiosity?
I myself was an obedient, gullible fool. The greater the pain and disappointment. And then you become bitter. There is no escaping it. I realize it all too well. Getting old has many drawbacks. The physical wear-and-tear is the least of it. The head suffers the worst damage, it has to drag along memories of all sorts, and it is the first to cry out for peace. If only we could listen to it. If only we could be wise and sensible when it concerns ourselves. I fear that I have never gained that wisdom and that peace has not yet been granted to me. Or rather, that I don't permit myself any peace. I do that myself. "You're doing it all to yourself," my mother used to cry. But I can't make my head stop thinking. Or I'd have to cut it off. How many times have I dreamed of just that. Do away with the head, with this life, with the memories, the injustice. How tired I have been. And how resilient humans are. How dull a misery that resilience is. Always struggling to ones feet, always having to go on, always wanting to go on!
I prepare for my little boy, my Pat, a delicious white sandwich without crusts with cheese spread and cut it into small pieces. The radiant child pricks the pieces one by one on the small fork and stuffs them into his mouth.
'Oh, what a treat you have there!'. Jan, my rock and my support, the love of my life, comes into the kitchen and with his enormous hands tickles Pat on his small belly. Pat screeches with pleasure and returnes the crushed breadpieces to freedom. They fall on his plate and on the table. “What am I doing?” Grandpa carefully puts the messed up pieces of bread back into Pats mouth. His eyes betray the pleasure he takes in this. Always stirring things up a bit. Having fun. His greatest gift.
He looks serious for a moment. “Are you going to act on it? ” He has that typical look that says: I don't want to interfere, but please, don't do it, don't do it!
One thing that the years have brought me is that I have become milder. I used to get on my highest horse, but now I don't want to spoil his relaxing moment with his grandson. "I'm not going to put them in their place, no. Is that what you mean?”
"They're too stupid to worry about. You know that. You won't change it.”
'No.”
"I’ve made a different decision."
He lifts Pat high into the air.
“His food will come out again if you do that,” I warn him.
"Oh that mustn’t be, that mustn’t be," he babbles to the child and he lands spluttering kisses on the little neck. Pat screams with pleasure.
He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to know what my decision is. I have learned to wait. He will ask. Later. At a time when he thinks he's strong enough to talk me out of it. I don't want to tire him. Worry him. His worries are always about me. Am I getting desperate? Am I getting too sad? Will it cost me too much, this decision of mine? Does he have to protect me with all his might? No my love, my everything. There is no point. You know it's no use. If I know what I want to do, I will do it. Even if I have to drop dead. What's the point of life if you don't fight for it? I know that like no other.
A few years ago I had started a book. A book that would tell everything I wanted to say. Every aspect was covered. Every aspect I had been concerned about at least. But circumstances forced me to give up. An event that was so bad that I could not continue. My heart was too broken. Why should I care any more about those idiots?
Jan and I held onto each other during those difficult times. We didn't let go. And we just went on living . The air just went into our lungs. Our hearts just kept beating even though they were broken. And our child gave us a grandson. Who can resist such a thing? This sunshine in our lives, that must make you happy. That is bound to make you happy. You should. You should. And we are.
Yesterday I had two ladies visit me. They belonged to some organization that deals with research, with education, with government, with making reports, with the money-guzzling nonsense the world is fooled by every day. They conducted a survey, for the government of course, the umpteenth, into the fate of children who do not fit into the education system. They had heard from some official that I had a story to tell about the subject. Because my son, there was some issue with him, wasn't there?
The boundless stupidity.
I spoke to them but, as always, none of my answers matched the questions they asked. I answered them but they did not hear what I said. I explained to them what had gone wrong, but they had no idea what I was talking about. I gained my experience in my world, not in theirs. Mine is an unknown world because it does not exist in the world of training, protocols, jargon, legislation and regulations. And so it has always been as I recall. When I had finished teasing them with my cynicism, when they began to shuffle uncomfortably and the younger of the two began to utter her rehearsed pleasantries, "Thank you for this conversation. You have helped us a lot. Would you like to be kept informed of the research?” and I had assured them that I would very much like to know what the research would yield, I had made up my mind. I would finish the book. I have to tell what I know, or what I think I know, and then I'll stop. One more chapter. I can do it now. I owe it to myself and to Jan and the children.
Translation: B. Ton
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