This blog was heavily influenced by two random things, one is a cartoon that my kid likes to watch and the other is a book that I am currently reading. Both so different, but at the same time making me think and write about it. Sure, the cartoon part was for kids and so I obviously had to watch it.
The rabbit said: "Stories are all around us!"
and went on to spy and write about other animals he knew. Writing just a fraction of what he saw, making it look like a totally different situation than it was. My kid didn't understand (of course), but I liked the idea that the writer had in mind.
In the book that I am reading, on the other hand, the main character is obsessed with homeless people, their point of view and the "truth" behind their way of life. He sees a bit of sadness in everyone except in homeless. Everyone else pretends to be happy, and they pretend to be sad.
These two totally different but interesting situations made me think. People for sure like to talk about themselves, they even like to add certain juicy details to their stories, as if life isn't complicated enough without it. I have a very good memory, and almost always remember every single word someone would say. It's a blessing and a curse. So, I began to notice, when and why certain stories were told. They all had a place and time.
Was it to prove a point, to pick yourself up, to pick someone else up? Maybe it was when you are bored with your life at the moment and needed some "old glory day" to re-live again. That would all be fine, if I hadn't met one man who spoke VERY little.
He was my cousin on my mothers side, somewhat peculiar man, but one feature stood out the most, he rarely ever said a word. I remember thinking to myself when I was younger, that he wasn't what I would call a "fun" to be around. He never insulted anybody, he was more than helpful, traveled a lot, took care of his family, but never really shared any stories. He did listen very well, smiled a lot and gave amazing advice when asked. On the other hand his wife was a total opposite, talking all day, swearing, laughing out loud. Someone you can have fun with. Or so I thought..
When I moved to another city, he was the only one who visited us, just to make sure we were settling ok. He wanted to see where I live, how my husband was treating me, to see if I needed some help. Since he never spoke a lot, and his wife told us stories only about her life, I assumed that he just didn't have anything interesting to say. He died very soon after that and I only overheard at his funeral something about him. He had an abusive father, barely anything to eat when he was a boy. He got kicked out when he was 10 and had to work since then to stay alive. My mother and grandmother were the only people who helped him then.
Why wasn't he talking about it, why didn't he complain like everyone else? He was more than comfortable being silent for his entire life, knowing people can assume many different things. It was him who made me realize what stories can do to ones life. They can make us and break us. We all have one, it's up to us if we want to share and relive it, or decide it's better to write new ones.
Thank you uncle,
forever listening to the silence in someones life, before I judge them.
With love,
Tamara