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Here’s one for the kids – nothing to do with being a TCK, but just ‘cos it’s fun and I feel like posting it!

Monster-Man
Last night, when I went to bed,
I really did try
to tell my Dad the awful truth –
I hoped he wouldn’t cry.
‘Dad,’ I said, ‘A monster lives
underneath my bed!’
‘Oh!’ he said, and flicked the switch,
‘It’s all inside your head!’

I waited for what seemed like hours;
finally, he came –
that hairy, scary, horrible beast –
I still don’t know his name.
His hungry mouth and yellow teeth
glinted in the dark.
‘Hey, Monster-man!’ I said to him,
‘Let’s snack before we start!’

He gibble-gobbled down a treat
and turned the music on.
We jumped and rapped and boogie-woogied
almost until dawn.
Now, how do I explain to Dad
that TWO pairs of his shoes
are squeezed inside a monster’s tum –
can you give me some clues?

© 2008 S D Haydon. Acknowledgment is made of the assistance received as an Adelaide Centre for the Arts TAFE SA student in developing this poem.

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‘I’m a published writer!’ The shriek echoes through our house.

No, I haven’t got a book contract with Penguin or Knopf Doubleday – or anyone else for that matter. I am very excited because my blog article ‘I don’t knit!‘ (re-titled ‘Crochet by any other name‘), has been published in Passionate Hookers, a magazine-book put out by Brascoe Publishing.

‘Big deal!’ one might say. ‘If a 350-word reminiscence is what you call published, I was published by my high-school newsletter twenty years ago.’

Highly likely, but bear with me. I have never before been published anywhere, and neither of my high-schools ran to newsletters. There is something extremely seductive (I am getting into the swing of things here) in seeing one’s fallible words in beautifully typeset print. Even more alluringly, this publication has an ISBN! But, most of all, it is immensely satisfying to see an article about a TCK experience make it into a non-TCK publication.

This ‘mook’ is a pleasure to read, with contributions by some creative people with remarkable achievements. Well done Brascoe Books!

Now I just have to land that Harlequin contract for my romance novel.

I’ll leave it to you to work out what Passionate Hookers is all about. It is quite affordable (AUD 16.50), and can be ordered online at Brascoe Publishing. You can also get a sneak preview at Brascoe Publishing’s web-site http://www.brascoebooks.com.au/. You will need a flash player – most browsers should be equipped with one by default.

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Memories, you say? Well, I have plenty. But they are mixed up and out of focus.

Besides, they aren’t all for public viewing. Like the one of the verandah bordered by leafy trees where the teachers used to gossip. This was the scene of a childhood misdemeanor, and one of the few times my father punished me in public. Nothing traumatic, you understand, but quite embarrassing. I, of course, still hold to the view that I didn’t deserve it!

Memories are necessary. I have learned from mine. There’s the memory of the man who found I was home alone when my school broke up earlier than my parents’. He came twice and I gave him a cool drink each time. I told my parents about him, and they told me not to let him in. So I crouched and flattened myself under a window when he next came knocking, and prayed my limbs wouldn’t show if he peeked in. He went away and never came again when I was by myself. Did he see me hiding, and realise the game was up?

Ah, memories…

Perhaps we could begin with paper boats. Now there’s a memory that won’t jerk a tear or cause a litigation. It all began with an expatriate teacher who knew the art of origami. She gave me an instruction book with a little pack of papers. I wish I still had it. It showed one how to make a purse, a boat, a box, and several other things that I now can’t recall – all wonderful. My mother suggested that I not waste the precious coloured papers supplied, but use ordinary writing paper from my desk. You must understand that my favourite past-times were already to draw, write… and imagine.

The origami boat was the open kind, like a rowing boat. It was fun to make, but I preferred the paper sailing-ship that my mother taught me to fold, a child’s trick, the kind that could also be modified into a hat. I used to make both types of boats. When the rains came, fitfully but finally in the dry sub-Saharan climate, it caused the sandy lane in front of our house to run with hundreds of tiny streams. When the rainbow appeared, signalling the end of a down-pour, I would run outside and sail my boats.

I had read Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Paper Boats‘, and it fired my imagination. He was from India, which was close enough to home for me. The poem appeared in a book of literature from around the globe, suitable for children. It was meant to be used for an English syllabus somewhere – but for me, it was a book of stories to find pleasure in. In the poem, Tagore captures dreams, especially the kind that a wannabe writer has, in his evocative description of paper boats, filled with flowers, floating far away.

My boats never went far, which disappointed me. If they were sound enough to float, there was the inevitable sand-bank, or if they encountered no obstacle, they would themselves soak up the tiny medium that carried them, and sink. But perhaps Tagore had a real stream filled with currents to float his imaginations in.

I recently encountered paper boats again. Adelaide’s River Torrens is home to a visual arts display called ‘Talking Our Way Home’ by Shaun Kirby. Several glass forms have been erected along the river, representing paper boats made of letters written by South Australian migrants.

The sense of using paper – so fragile and yet versatile – to send a part of oneself floating along somewhere, anywhere, seeking something, perhaps never to land – well, something of that resonates with me. Memories and imagination, floating together somewhere forever.

Note: The ‘paper boat’ in this website’s header is from ‘Talking Our Way Home’ above.

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Minette Marrin has written an article on creative writers and political commentary:

Pinter and the odd literary law of geniuses with crazy politics

While not directly related to TCK matters, it is about perspectives, something TCKs grapple with early – and even, perhaps, grapple with all their lives.

Worth thinking about if, like me, you love creative writing.

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Last Monday I was special
fine hair
fair skin
I wished they wouldn’t touch, stare
my mother made beautiful clothes
with patterns from overseas.
That wasn’t home.

Today I am not special
plain hair
mottled skin
now I wish they’d look in my eyes
my mother makes outmoded clothes
with patterns ten years old.
Where is home?

© 2008 S D Haydon

This poem is about cultural transition, re-entry, reverse culture shock… all TCKs have experienced it, and know what it’s like. I went from being special in Africa, to very, very, ordinary (even downright unattractive) in my birth country.

I’ve also shared this at the My.TCKID Writers’ group, under Sharing Space.

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How reliable are memories?

Africa
empty sky
dun earth
plain dwellings
few chairs
broken cars
hot sun
dusty cities
picked pockets

Africa
timeless space
rolling plains
shining faces
cheerful voices
jewel clothes
open arms
fragrant stew
fading memories

© 2008 S D Haydon

Acknowledgment is made of the assistance received as an Adelaide Centre for the Arts TAFE SA student in developing this poem.

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Edit: This article has been re-titled ‘Crochet by any other name’ and published in Passionate Hookers, by Brascoe Publishing.

Moving half-way across the world can be daunting. People look different. They act differently. And they use words in unfamiliar ways.

It was time for our domestic science class. ‘We are going to knit,’ said the teacher, in her African-accented English.

She pointed at me. ‘Do you know how to knit?’

I shook my head. ‘But I can crochet.’

She looked blank. The other girls giggled. They had already established that I didn’t wear head-scarves, didn’t clean my teeth with freshly cut sticks from the bush, and couldn’t balance loads on my head like African girls. And they appeared uninterested in my books and games.

‘I will show you how to knit,’ said the teacher.

She handed round bright balls of wool from her bag. Then she took out the needles. They were shiny, thin, and………… hooked at the end.

I sat dumb.

She showed me how to hold one. I made my hand stiff so she wouldn’t suspect the truth.

She helped me make a starting knot, and then loop, pick-up, loop, pick-up – a chain stitch.

‘Do I hold it like this, or like this?’

‘Like this. Now you take this loop back here.’

She showed me how to do a double-crochet row, then a treble-crochet row. All the while I asked questions that I thought a beginner would ask, and she answered in her halting English.

‘See! You can knit!’

Next week, for domestic science class, we were ‘knitting’ again. The girls were amazed at my sudden proficiency. I had decided to confess.

‘You learn quickly,’ said Laraba.

I tried to explain. ‘We call this ‘crochet’. Knitting, for us, is with two needles. So at first, I didn’t know what the teacher meant. Then, I didn’t know what to say.’

Laraba looked at me strangely. Perhaps she couldn’t understand what had driven me to tell my little lie. Perhaps she didn’t get how knitting could be crochet.

It didn’t matter. I was ‘knitting’ along with the rest of them, and it was pure pleasure.

Don’t know what on earth this post is about? The page “What is the difference between knit and crochet” from WiseGeek may help clear things up.