MY FAMILY & WHY ONE WRITES A BLOG

Intro:

Why does one write a blog? I suppose there are many answers to this simple question. I was told by some – let them remain nameless lest they be embarrassed – that I should write, write about something, about my life, about my family. They – the nameless ones – of course meant my family back in Hungary and their history – never thinking that I could just as well write about them, the ones that live with me in the US.

But writing requires publishing and publishing means that it is easily measurable how successful or rather unsuccessful one is. If nobody buys your “work” that really is a sure sign of failure. But if I write a blog then the feedback could only be positive. Those who actually read it may comment leaving some positive remarks.  The majority, who never even start reading it or stop reading it after the first paragraph, remain anonymous and mercifully silent. A few will make nasty comments. They really are assholes letting me know that I suck or at least my writing sucks.  But then, who cares about assholes?

Anyway, I will not write about myself or my family, or I will, but I twist and embellish the truth.  I will write about whatever the hell I want to and nobody will know what is real and what is fiction. So I will not ever write in first person. I will pretend I am not me. It will be more fun for me. And the real truth is I am writing this blog for myself. For my own amusement. So I will call him, conspicuously, T.

After the Intro

First Attempts at writing:

So you struggled through the intro he wrote. Hopefully you don’t believe him. He always wanted to write, as far as he remembers.  He never forgets the first time he submitted a short text after 4^th grade.

It was the first day in school after the long summer vacation customary in his native country of Hungary. The teacher asked the class to write a short essay about the most memorable moment of their summer holidays. As soon as he had received the assignment he already knew what he would write about.  He already had the title ready. “A Smoke at 10 pm”. (A very clever title, he thought, but now almost 50 years later its cleverness lost in translation).

His uncle was visiting from the WEST, from the other side of the iron curtain for the first time in August. His Uncle. The mysterious young man on the picture hanging on the wall of his grandparents’ room. His namesake. The one he was named after. His only living close relative whom he had never seen. He knew he lived in England, that is why he had to start studying English at an early age, in hopes of meeting his cousins sometime in the future. He heard her grandmother talking to him on the phone occasionally late at night, but nobody else had the privilege to take the long distance call.

Long distance phone calls were not easy during the fifties and sixties. Not only they cost an arm and a leg but they had to go through the operator. It often took 3-4 hours to make a connection. And you could be sure that there was a third party listening in if you lived in Hungary. The ring tone for the long distance call was special. It had an urgency to it; it rang impatiently using short but sharp rings. “England is calling”, yelled the uneducated voice at the other end of the line, and they could not be sure if it was the operator or the AVO, the Hungarian equivalent of KGB. Then the wait would start. His grandmother reached for the cigarettes, those unfiltered strong ones that she broke in half and placed in her cigarette holder. This way nothing went to waste, she could smoke it all. Her face turned white, her hands were trembling with nervous anticipation. She took up her favorite position leaning to the radiator under the window.  Smoking, waiting. Then, the sharp, short rings came again and she could talk to her son. To the son whom she forced to leave the country at the age of 18, in order to save him from the Communists or just from growing up in Hungary. A mother who loved her son so much she was ready to make him leave even if it meant that perhaps she might not to see him again. But she knew it was for the best. Yet she suffered every day of her life, never regretting her decision.

Life improved slightly, she was able to visit him once in 1956. It was supposed to be a short visit, but again history changed her plans. The Hungarian “Counter Revolution” extended her stay in England. She returned after six months and continued waiting for the short and rare phone calls. But in 1960, her son told her he was coming to visit, because he was moving to America, and he wanted to see her and the family before he went.

So that is when it happened. He did not have to go to bed at 10 pm, or even retire to his room as his mother normally would have ordered him to do. The mother, a children’s psychologist by education, who could never actually practiced her chosen profession, did not like changing the rules. Perhaps because she only learnt everything from books and was not allowed to practice. Just before she graduated, she was called to the office of the Communist Party of the University.

“Comrade – said the official – are you ready to treat the children according Lenin’s Reflection Theory?” She had no idea what this meant, even though she read Marx, Engels and Lenin extensively, but she knew she was not ready. She liked Freud and Piaget and their methods, although Freud’s name was wiped out from all books and he was referred to as the "Viennese Psychologist",  if mentioned at all. So she became a librarian and practiced psychology only with her children. Strict rules – the baby was fed according to schedule, the baby was pushed out to the hall way if he cried at night. Supper at seven pm, never mind that all kids were still outside playing.

And here came her brother, the Uncle. He looked so different from the picture on the wall. He was tall and big, self-assured. So the family went out for dinner late at night. Everybody, children too. And there, at the most expensive and exclusive restaurant, the uncle offered an American cigarette to him. It was after 10 pm, he was not in bed, he was with all the adults, and he was included. What, if not this, was the most important moment of his summer vacation?

True, he went, just as he did every year since age 3 to a summer camp, that was special. It was in the middle of nowhere, only privileged children went.  Not rich but well educated families sent their children there. Children of musicians, playwrights, university professors, movie directors, actors flocked to the camp year after year. Top of the Hungarian society but no children of party functionaries. And the camp was run by one adult and her helps were all adolescents. There were fantastic games! It was an independent country, a principality. It waged fantasy wars against invaders, it had its own theater and opera productions every year. It had its own Olympics but not in real sports but in mental sports, such as age appropriate knowledge about history and literature. Honor system, no cheating. Everybody had their own name, nicknames acquired in the camp different from their own. Life outside of the camp, life in the Communist Hungary did not exist, did not affect events. Talent was appreciated, in fact nothing else mattered. Talented kids ran the camp, they supported the weaker ones, but nobody cared about those who were strong enough to stand on their own but not talented enough to make it to the top. All learned a lot, all enjoyed the games and the adult-free life.

As a ten-year-old he did not really comprehend the magic and the brutality of this camp where he was a little bit of an outsider, not talented enough to be recognized. Yet he loved it and returned every year for 10 years. But smoking a cigarette for two minutes after 10 pm was certainly more important than winning the Olympics at the camp. (All he got is a gold paper coin that he lost before getting home).

So he wrote his essay, but received no special praise for it. He might not even received an A because as always he turned it in without carefully reading it leaving some spelling mistakes for the teacher to find and mark with her thick, red pen. He thought it was good, but maybe not good enough.

His second attempt of writing came at the age of 13. His mother played some role in this one, as she did in many things in his life, which readers who keep on reading will find out on their own. She decided that it was time for a professional evaluation for her younger son so she took him to the Career Choice Advisory Institution. This place, kept in high esteem by those who worked or ever aspired to work in the field of children’s psychology, asked children between the age of 12 and 14 to take all kinds of tests. In return, they were supposed to tell the eager parents in which direction they should steer their offspring. The institute was kept in high esteem by only those who worked in the field, others scarcely knew about its existence. Chief among the tests that were supposed to tell the hidden talents of the applicants was creative writing, except it was probably not called as such. Nonetheless, he had to write an essay about any subject he fancied. He was into science fiction, so not surprisingly he chose to write a short story in that genre. The truth is, it was pathetic, and even he knew it. Aside from a feeble attempt to describe a futuristic city, there was no plot. He cannot remember any more if he actually ran out of time, but for sure ran out of ideas. He also had to manipulate some balls, square and triangular object with sticks that were inside a cage. That was supposed to check his aptitude for engineering, perhaps. It is best that he was never told of the results of these, or if he was, he conveniently forgot it.

Yet, deep down he always wanted to be a writer, but as he stated it many times, he “was smart enough to realize the lack of talent”. Sounds like a Facebook profile self-description.

Then life changed dramatically, he moved from Hungary to the US. Writing was out of the window, English was only a second language for him. Not only he knew he could never be as good in writing in English as he was in Hungarian, he realized he could not even enjoy poetry as much. In any case, creativity was not his stronghold.

Yet, certain events pushed him writing a couple of short essays. First, his wife told him that it is customary in her country to make speeches at weddings, but she did not have the inclination to do so. And her daughter was about to get married. His step daughter. He flat out refused even to entertain the idea of writing a speech. But then, he was driving in between the corn fields of Iowa, with no decent radio reception available, and his mind started racing. Two hours drive and he was writing this speech in his head.

“It is very difficult to find words when you make a spontaneous speech but because I wrote this months ago my task is a bit easier. Shortly after E. told us that she is getting married, J. was talking about her speech, which she must prepare. She had to do that, she told me, because it is customary in Finland especially in her ex-husband’s family. Well, I thought, this wedding is everything but a customary Finnish wedding, but I said nothing. Little did I know that I would get the urge in Burlington, Iowa, to write a speech myself. (By the way Burlington has the windiest street in the world, now this claim to fame is amended with a dubious new bragging right, which is that the longest and maybe even the windiest speech ever written for a couple with a Swedish Finn baroness bride and a Palestinian would be PhD groom who are having their after wedding party in the city of Wyoming in the state of Ohio was written there.)

My speech had to be long and boring to meet all criteria of the tradition. So I set out to find a speechwriter.  Smarter people than I (George Bush or Clinton) have done that. I googled, speechwriter. The first link that showed up was a how to.  How to write a speech for G.W.B. The advantage of this site was that I could not find any words there that had more than 2 syllables or 6 letters.  I can do that.  The first four expressions (which I could have incorporated into my speech) were: Foreign nationals, every immigrant, our friends, destroy the peace….  I wanted more, so I solicited Carl Rove.  However, after a thorough background check he declined. Here are some of his reasons: I cannot work for a bride with past association with foreigners, liberals and socialist. Notwithstanding Scandinavians who don’t even know if they belong to Finns or Swedes. They have sex education in elementary school already and they learn the word sex in math class, 4 words before they can count to ten. And on top of that the groom is not even a Christian. No problem, damn Republican I thought. Anyway I did not want my efforts to bring the same result for this wedding as his speeches did for the Republican Party during the November elections. So I solicited Bill Clinton. He had some objections as well of which I cannot elaborate now. (Maybe "don’t ask" "don’t tell" was one of them).

So I had to employ a well-assimilated Hungarian Jew, myself. I came to America in search of a mixed cultured society and tolerance. I found it, if not in America, but in my own family. Where else can you celebrate Christmas with your wife’s ex-husband, his new wife, with your ex-wife’s father in the mix of Lutherans, atheist Jews, Muslims, and Wasps and a barking Belgian inspector disguised as a miniature cow? Where else can you go to the wedding of your wife’s ex-husband marrying your wife’s friend and having in the crowd the second husband of the new bride with her two daughters each from a different father and also a granddaughter whose father is not the husband of the grandchild! Follow me?

This is a crazy family, but I would never have it any other way. It is almost like the meeting place of a bunch of random dudes. But I assure you, it is not random. You have to work hard to qualify, unless you were born extremely weird, in that case it is your birthright to join our extended family. And we feel that many of you here have already done that, we are very proud and happy to have so many good friends here from all over the world.

E. you speak many languages and you studied many cultures. A. you are working on your PhD; you are a student of history and survived many years in the US even in Ohio. There is a long road before you two, but having seen what you two have already been able to learn and tolerate I am sure that you will have a long and happy marriage. I wish you both happiness, tolerance and that neither of you ever forget where you came from and where your spouse came from.”

So this speech, although its predictions vastly overstated, served as a base for some who heard or read to encourage him to continue to write.

So he did. Unfortunately the next piece came when his uncle passed away. He could not make it to the funeral, but wanted to make sure that all who loved his uncle knew what he meant to him. He wrote a few lines to him even though he does not believe in the afterlife. But maybe those who are still here can find some comfort in these lines to his uncle.

Last picture with my Uncle 2010

“Your parting saddens me deeply but what makes it especially difficult is that I was not able to say good bye properly. One often wonders whether the final good bye is more important for the living or for the ones who just left us. I would like to think that my last phone call reached you and you recognized my voice although I was incapable to express what I felt.

You were my uncle, my only real living relative during my childhood. We always called you Big T. and whenever I think of you I still use this name in the back of my mind.  I was named after you because everybody missed you in Hungary after you left. I think your mother showed the real love, the best love a mother could show for her child, when she was able to let you go and in spite of the sadness and pain caused by not having you around, she was able to be happy for you because she knew that by “sending” you away she was making your life happier.

We had no pictures of family hanging around in our apartment in Budapest, except yours in your parents’ room. As a child I never understood why my grandmother, your mother, was so nervous every time you called from England or from the US. The operator announced that we would have an international call. Huge thing in Communist Hungary, great event in our home. Then your mother started pacing around, smoking one filterless cigarette after another. It took hours before the connection was made. Today I understand why she was so nervous, today I understand, although cannot comprehend the feeling when a mother thinks she may never see her child again, yet she is happy because she knows he is free.

Big T. was not only a name referring to you as the older T., but also the one who was physically bigger and somewhat mysterious, living in the West.  A Big Thing. Then you came to visit us.  I was ten years old. All of a sudden Big T. was real, larger than life for me.  I never let you out of my sight. And as I found out later, you noticed that, and it did not annoy you.  I think a special bond was built between nephew and uncle who only saw each other on rare occasions. Over the years, I think, our few meetings were life changing experiences for me. Unknowingly or unconsciously I decided that I will follow your footsteps and will leave Hungary.

I never forget that during your first visit I smoked a cigarette with your permission, which granted the permission of my parents as well, at a public place, at the famous Hotel Gellert. Later, in school, I chose to write about this as my most memorable adventure during the summer. I titled it: “Smoking at 10 pm.” Now I know, it was not the smoking that was carved indelibly in my memory, but the fact that you were the one who made a child’s dream possible. And dreaming I did, to follow your footsteps. They were too large for me, but I have been and still am trying.

You were instrumental in helping me learning English by paying my two summers in England. When I arrived in the US you took me in your family, and I always felt that I was welcome, that I belonged there. Your teasing sessions at times were too harsh, cutting in the bones but I always knew that there was love behind them.

I learnt the ins and outs of life in the US from you. You were always ready with advice, most of the time good once. Our personalities were hugely different but that did not stop us from loving each other. Over the years the phone calls became less frequent but never less important. I will miss you and always remember you Big Tommy. Who will I call now?

I talked to V. and M. They took your passing very hard. They are alone, most of their friends who knew you are gone. Their English is not as good any more. I speak for them too when I say we will all miss you.”

So he continued writing. About his family, as it was or as he remembered or as he wanted to remember and wanted it to have been. Or imagined.