Where are you REALLY from anyway?

Around 2 years ago during the depths of the COVID -19 pandemic and lock downs, I wrote an article that I never published. I think the sentiment is as valid today as it was 2 years ago, with one exception, they DID wear those costumes at Harmony Day !

In a never ending timeline of pandemic and lockdowns I find myself with two very demanding kids. My son is six, my daughter is 2.5 going on to 14. I often wonder how my mother managed my sister and I at the same age as a stay at home mum with limited economic freedom. Here I am, a working mother of two with access to childcare and a healthy bank account, yet I struggle to manage a simple visit to the local shopping centre with my son to get him a haircut and a pair of shoes. My 3 degrees did not prepare me for this.

In a bid to put an end to my self-pity I ask my son if he’s hungry. He says yes, he want to go to the Sushi Train restaurant. He’s been obsessed with trains since he was 18 months old. Something we thought he would grow out of, alas….

I recall the first time I went to a Sushi Train restaurant with my mum and sister. We were new arrivals, it was either 1997 or 98. A new restaurant had opened on the corner of Church street in Parramatta. I recall the taste of cheap wasabi and how it left my mouth burning for hours. I had a lot of sushi at a lot of expensive restaurants since then. I frequented Kabuki Shoroku, indulged in degustation menus at Tetsuya’s and even tried fresh eel in Tokyo during an extended layover visit. But none of them excited me or tasted as good as that Sushi Train in Parramatta.

I gaze over to the restaurant, there are at least 30 customers inside, some staff have their masks half way down their faces. “I’ll get you Sushi at the food court and we can eat outside” I say. His bottom lip curls down but he eventually agrees when I mention the play equipment.

We walk to the outdoor play area with picnic tables, packs of sushi in one hand, my son’s tiny hand in the other. As we walk to the play equipment the sun burns my eyes, I inhale the air through my mask best I could and taste the salt in the back of my throat. It’s a warm humid day in the Central Coast.

I doom scroll through my Facebook memories while he plays on the equipment. “1 year ago”

, “3 years ago”, until I hit “12 Years Ago Today”.?

is going to hide the remote control where her grandad can't find it. I have seen 5 minute excerpts of all the prime time channels, the happy cycle of life goes on.

I feel a knot in my throat, the kind they call Plumb Stone in China. The type of knot that makes it painful to swallow, one that won’t resolve from sucking on lozenge or drinking a warm cuppa. It’s the sort that stays there until its cause pours out of your eyes and through your soul in sobs. What I wouldn’t give to sit with my grandfather right now and aimlessly flick through dozens of channels.?

My last grandparent died just over a year ago. I made it to none of their funerals; being kept busy with uni and work and later in lockdown due to the pandemic.?

I find it odd that I can palate Japanese food and name my feelings in Chinese yet I have no words of endearment or encouragement for my children in my mother tongue.?

I look over at my son playing on the equipment with other kids he befriended almost straightaway. I feel guilty about bringing him up without the warmth of a large extended family, gradually getting fatter on a diet of baklava and borek.

His skinny white arms would terrify my aunties.?

I recall evening visits to family friends with my parents and remember the sweet taste of guest offerings and the songs we would sing to pass the night between political discussions, poetry and the occasional gossip about an old friend who became a reformist.?

My son returns to me with a look of defeat on his 6 year old face. There was a scuffle and the boys kicked him off the pirate ship. He didn’t want to call for mutiny, my sensitive little man. We decide to play I Spy while he sips on his apple and blackcurrant juice.

I begin.?

I spy with my little eye something that’s green.

He looks around him carefully, knowing that it won’t be a tree, piece of play equipment or anything that’s easy to spot. He starts listing green objects around him as I lose my way down memory lane, unable to focus on his observation skills.?

“Your sanitiser pack!” he calls out, tapping me on the hand. “Well done!” I say with enthusiasm, despite the fact that the bottle of sanitiser was in my bag, out of sight and out of mind until he reminded me of it. I cannot remember what green object I spied with my little eye.?

“Your turn” I say. He focuses his mind on the environment as much as a child with executive dysfunction can. “I spy with my little eye….something…that is………oh! Blue!”.?

I scan the playground for about 10 second and gasp. Loudly.?

“What’s wrong mummy?” he asks.

I cannot answer him. I am locked to my target. Something old. Something blue. It fills my heart with equal parts of joy and sorrow.

An old lady is sitting in the corner, peeling an orange for what appears to be her grandsons.

She has a shopping trolley from Kmart next to her. Her skin is wrinkled at the cheeks, her eyes are tired. Her hair is covered in a blue hijab…. The same kind my grandmothers and aunties wore. The kind where I can smell the polyester material as it scratches my cheeks every time I went over to give them a hug.?

I cannot take my eyes off the old lady, luckily she doesn’t notice.? My son’s getting anxious about his blue observation and wants my attention back.

“Was it that lady’s hijab?” I say. He looks puzzled. “What is a hijab?”.??I feel like a failure once againand explain “The headscarf that lady is wearing, it’s called a Hijab”.?

He observes the old lady. “Why does she wear that?”. I have no immediate answers for him. Being brought up without any religious education all I could say is for modesty reasons, which is only going to lead to more questions from a curious 6 year old.

“Why do you insist on wearing a Mario shirt everywhere?” I ask. “Also, your Mario shirt is blue”.?

“Yay! You win mummy!” He says. I am grateful that the questions stopped.?

I continue observing the old lady and my son finds a new friends to play pirates with. I am astounded as to how fast he can move on from one thing to another while I dwell on 30 year old memories.?

I wonder what her name is. Whether she is in fact Turkish. I can’t hear her speak, but I draw similarities between her body language and that of my relatives. I am comforted by her familiarity. But I am mostly comforted by the fact that there is a glimmer of hope that I can perhaps find and build a community here for my part Turkish children.

And even though I cannot immerse them in the culture and language of my upbringing, I can at least educate them and make them aware of a heritage they don’t yet realise they have.

The old lady finishes up with the oranges and shepherds her herd of grandchildren on either side of her. She waddles out of the play area with her trolley, leaving behind the scent of citrus and rose water.

I call out to my son “Gel birtanem”. He looks at me puzzled “What mummy?” I repeat in English “Come one sweetheart, it’s time for your haircut”.

As we walk to the hairdresser I catch a final glimpse of the lady in the hijab, I smile at her direction. She smiles back. I promise myself that my son will dance the Zeybek in full costume at this year’s Harmony Day celebrations. A promise I know I will most likely not keep, but I will try regardless.