"I miss that village of mothers that I've never had. The one we traded for homes that, despite being a stone's throw, feel miles apart from each other. The one we traded for locked front doors, blinking devices and afternoons alone on the floor playing one-on-one with our little ones."
This morning, lying in bed, with the tingling of a migraine starting, probably caused from the last two days, on my own, with Emma and Ben, I came across this article, I Miss the Village, on Huffington Post. It resonated with me on so many levels and I found myself reading it over and over.
In an age where we are SO 'connected' I don't think we've ever been more alone, on our own. I remember growing up in a neighbourhood where everyone knew everyone else. We'd get home from school, drop our bags, lie about homework being complete and dash off to no. 7, 11, 8, 15 or 16 Hammond Road, to swim, pick peaches from trees, play catches, hide and seek, red rover, cricket and or tennis. School holidays were a blast. Our road was a cul de sac and so days were spent outside, from 7 am until some annoying parent ended our game of 'skop die emmer' at eight or nine at night. If a kid was missing you didn't think the worst. You didn't alert police. You sent siblings to the various houses to find them and chances were they were having supper because aunty Norma, Sally or Betty had made their favourite meal.
Our little 'village' raised us. Even if our own parents were out of sight, being spotted by a neighbour snogging the local hottie, puffing on a forbidden cigarette or skipping school meant we were in trouble, because that very same neighbour would pop in or call the offending kid's parents to let them know. Visiting at a friend's house meant abiding by that friend's mom's rules. We listened and heeded their telling off. And if we were stupid enough to misbehave or be cheeky or rude, our mom would know about it before we had even gotten home.
I don't remember ever hearing my mom say to a friend or a family member "let me check my diary to see if we're available". People 'popped in' and stayed. For lunch or dinner or umpteen cups of tea. There was no Facebook or Instagram or Twitter. Instead people sat opposite one another, laughing (not LOL'ing), crying (not *insert emoticon with tears*). We didn't know what each other was up to without spending time with them.
Phone calls were long. To friends, boyfriends and family members. Because there was lots of catching up to do. Even if we had seen them two or three hours earlier at school. Aunts were visited every Sunday but during the week a lot could happen and would need a half hour conversation of telling and retelling what was said, what was done. We didn't cut people short with a "I'm busy, can you whatsapp me?"
Emma and Ben have spent some time with Ester, our retired nanny, in Cosmo City and they have loved it. From the laughter and banter on the taxi to the endless stream of visitors at her house. People chat to one another, neighbours borrow sugar and eggs, there's grannies and grandpas and big sisters and grandchildren in a house and everyone shouts at the TV during the soapies. When they get home they talk about all the kids in the park and the people in the neighbourhood. They love the hustle and bustle and the togetherness. I don't know, maybe you feel a part of something in all that busyness. We, in our houses with high walls, decorated with electric fences, wifi and ADSL, facebook, email and twitter, are alone. Dogs barking at the gate means that a 'stranger' is dropping off the community newspaper, not that there's an unexpected (very welcome) visitor. After shushing them we go back to our laptop, desktop cell phone, to continue being 'social'.
"The days would be full of conversation as we expertly flexed a muscle that has since gone weak: the art of listening. Quiet empathy in lieu of passive judgement, and when called for, gentle, sincere advice. In our village, our members are our estate and we build them up."
I too miss that village. The one from not that long ago.
I was raised in that village too. Where front doors stayed open, and kids kinda congregated wherever someone was making lunch. I miss that, for my kid. I miss it so very much.
ReplyDeleteI remember our house always been a hive of activity. We'd jump over (very low) walls, to our friends next door and spend hours playing. In our street there was one family with a pool and whether they were there or not, we were always allowed to use it
ReplyDeleteOh man, what a great post. Lots to think about.
ReplyDeleteI am so sad that life has changed so drastically from when I was a child (only 20 years ago) till now. I miss that village too.
missing my childhood so much! Missing it that our children don't have it! xxxxx
ReplyDeleteI loved that article and your post is just spot on. I truly miss it. Just these past holidays hubby and his parents were reminiscing about it. He even made a Facebook group for his old street at home and all the people that were part of that village.
ReplyDeleteTo some extent we have re connected with our neighbors thanks to crime - we now do get together (to discuss crime and combating it) we hear our neighbors on the radio every evening checking in (because of crime). But at least we know them now, we ask each other to feed our pets when we go on holiday and we take each other cupcakes and muffins - not like 5 years ago where you had no idea who lived next to you or across the road. It will never be for our kids like we used to have it but in our little suburb its better that it were 5 years ago - mine even helped our young neighbors plant their seedlings this autumn.
Oh and we unite around our street chickens, guinea fowl and bunnies - that the community feeds.
ReplyDeleteI blogged about this sometime ago. It's very sad and I miss it! It was almost 7 years before I knew who my next door Neighbour was! 7 years ridiculous. I grew up in the era of village raising the kids and it fills me with so much nostalgia and sadness that our kids would never have the same thing
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