These are the things for which children (eventually) forgive their fathers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
These are the things for which children never, ever, ever forgive their mothers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
When I was in my teens and twenties, it was fashionable among girls to complain about your mother — despite the fact that these women had given their lives over to rear us. It was never fashionable to complain about your father, unless they were very drunk, all the time. At worst, fathers provoked a shrugging silence — presumably because this was what they gave.
So what about New Men? Will we need a new psychology in twenty years for children, now grown up, whose fathers were there half the time, who changed the nappies and sang the lullabies, half the time, or more? Is it possible that in twenty years or so we will find it is the caring father, and not the caring mother, who is ultimately to blame?
I doubt it.
I have met some of these maligned mothers since and it is great fun having a look at them. Some of them, to my surprise, really do seem wretchedly ungiving. But most of them are quite nice. Or ordinary. Or even dull.
A dull mother? There is no such thing. It is odd that, as a group, mothers are seen as a lardy wodge of nothing much; of worry and love and fret and banality. As individuals we are everything. Between these two extremes, where does the person lie?
In my thirties and forties, many of the daughters who gave out about their mothers started going shopping with them, talking about kitchen units, doing all the things that friends might do and more, while the mothers — I don’t know what the mothers did, exactly, but they shifted too. They let their children be. The battle was over. As though each side had fought its way into the light of day and looked at each other to find . . .
Now that I have become a mother myself, it is a great comfort to me to see how most of us come to an accommodation between the ‘MOTHER!’ in our heads and the woman who reared us. The whole process reaches a sort of glorious conclusion if and when the daughter has children herself. ‘Now you understand,’ says the (grand)mother. ‘Now you see.’ This is what they yearn for — as much as any adolescent, they need to be understood. They need an end to blame.
I take the baby home, and watch my parents with different eyes. My father likes looking at small children — just that. He hates disturbing them, or telling them to do anything, or scaring them in any way; he does not seem to believe in it. My mother loves babies — some women don’t but she does — even when they are very new; all raw and whimpering and scarcely yet human. Her love is more passionate than his; I think, she can be almost hurt by it. At any rate I know that this is where my current happiness comes from, that the better part of my mothering is compounded of my mother’s passion and of my father’s benign attention.
A woman asks me, ‘Are you going to have a typical mother-daughter relationship?’ You can tell that she thinks this would be a nice comeuppance. The world loves to remind parents that soon it will all go awry.
I think about this when the baby is eighteen months and every hug contains the idea of squirming away. She will stay on my lap if I sing to her, and she will stroke my face, but if all this loving becomes too damn lovely, she will push or pinch or kick her way out of it, and I think, with some trepidation, of the day she turns fourteen.
She also has a neat line in accident-on-purpose elbow jabs, and great aim.
What about sons. Are they the same?
Anne Enright, ‘Unforgiven’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 152-54.
To so stvari, ki jih otroci (prej ali slej) odpustijo očetom:
da hodijo ven,
da se pozno vračajo domov,
da smrdijo po alkoholu,
da berejo časopis,
da gledajo televizijo,
da jih ljudje na televiziji rahlo spolno privlačijo,
da se ne brigajo zanje,
da imajo druge pomembne opravke.
To pa so stvari, ki jih otroci nikoli, res nikoli ne odpustijo materam:
da hodijo ven,
da se pozno vračajo domov,
da smrdijo po alkoholu,
da berejo časopis,
da gledajo televizijo,
da jih ljudje na televiziji rahlo spolno privlačijo,
da se ne brigajo zanje,
da imajo druge pomembne opravke.
V času mojih najstniških in dvajsetih let je bilo med puncami v modi, da smo se pritoževale nad materami – kljub temu da so one žrtvovale svoja življenja, da bi nas vzgajale. Pritoževanje nad očeti nikoli ni bilo v modi, razen v primeru, da so bili res veliki pijanci. Najhujša reakcija, ki so jo sprožili očetje, je bil brezbrižen skomig – najbrž zato, ker je bilo to vse, kar so sami ponudili.
Kaj pa generacija Novih moških? Ali bomo čez dvajset let potrebovali novo psihologijo za takrat že odrasle otroke, ki so polovico ali še več časa videli svoje očete, ki so jim polovico časa, ali celo več, očetje menjavali plenice in jim peli uspavanke? Je mogoče, da bomo čez dvajset let odkrili, da krivdo navsezadnje nosi skrbni oče, ne pa skrbna mama?
Dvomim.
Nekaj teh zlobnih mam sem že srečala in res jih je zabavno opazovati. Nekatere so na moje presenečenje res bile videti grozno nepopustljive. Večina pa je kar prijaznih. Ali povprečnih. Ali celo dolgočasnih.
Dolgočasna mama? Kaj takega ne obstaja. Nenavadno je, da mame kot skupnost večkrat izpademo kot en zajeten kup ničesar posebnega; sama skrb in ljubezen in sekiranje in banalnost nas je. Kot posameznice smo pa vse. Kje med tema ekstremoma se skriva človek?
V mojih tridesetih in štiridesetih je marsikatera od hčera, ki so se prej pritoževale nad materami, začela hoditi z mamo na šoping, se z njo pogovarjati o delih kuhinje, skratka početi vse in še več od tega, kar bi s prijateljicami, medtem pa je marsikatera mama … Pravzaprav ne vem točno, kaj so počele mame, toda tudi one so se spremenile. Pustile so otroke, da so pač takšni, kot so. Bitke je bilo konec. Kot da bi se obe strani borili, da bi ugledali dnevno svetlobo, takrat pa sta se zazrli druga drugi v oči in zagledali …
Odkar sem tudi jaz postala mama, me tolaži, ko vidim, da nas je večina dosegla spravo med »MAMAAA!« v svojih glavah in žensko, ki nas je rodila. Ta proces se nekako slovesno zaključi, če in ko hči dobi svoje otroke. »Zdaj razumeš,« reče (stara) mama. »Zdaj vidiš.« Po tem hrepenijo. Tako kot katerikoli najstnik tudi one rabijo razumevanje. Rabijo konec nalaganja krivde.
Ko novorojenko pripeljem domov, svoja starša opazujem z novimi očmi. Moj oče rad gleda majhne otroke – in to je vse. Nerad jih moti, ali jim reče, naj karkoli naredijo, ali jih na kakršenkoli način preplaši; očitno ne verjame v to. Moja mama obožuje dojenčke – niso vse ženske take, ona pa jih – tudi takrat, ko so še čisto novi; tako pristni in cmeravi in komajda človeški. Njena ljubezen je močnejša od njegove; mislim, da mamo od nje skoraj boli. Vsekakor pa vem, da od tod izvira moja sedanja sreča, da je moje materinstvo večinoma preplet mamine strasti in očetove dobrohotne pozornosti.
Neka ženska me vpraša: »Boš imela tipičen odnos mame s hčerko?« Očitno je, da bi se njej tak odnos zdel zaslužena kazen. Svet rad opominja starše, da bo kmalu vse skrenilo s poti.
O tem razmišljam, ko hčerkica dopolni osemnajst mesecev in se začne ob vsakem objemu truditi, da bi se mi izvila. Ko ji pojem, mirno sedi v mojem naročju in me boža po obrazu, toda če moje ljubkovanje postane pretirano ljubko, začne porivati ali praskati ali brcati, da bi se ga otresla, jaz pa nekoliko zaskrbljeno razmišljam o dnevu, ko bo dopolnila štirinajst let.
Dobra je tudi pri le na videz nenamernem suvanju s komolci in zna izvrstno nameriti.
Kako pa je s sinovi, so tudi oni taki?
These are the things for which children (eventually) forgive their fathers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
These are the things for which children never, ever, ever forgive their mothers:
Going out.
Coming home late.
Smelling of drink.
Reading the newspaper.
Watching the television.
Looking at people on the television with a vague sexual interest.
Not being bothered, much.
Having other important things to do.
When I was in my teens and twenties, it was fashionable among girls to complain about your mother — despite the fact that these women had given their lives over to rear us. It was never fashionable to complain about your father, unless they were very drunk, all the time. At worst, fathers provoked a shrugging silence — presumably because this was what they gave.
So what about New Men? Will we need a new psychology in twenty years for children, now grown up, whose fathers were there half the time, who changed the nappies and sang the lullabies, half the time, or more? Is it possible that in twenty years or so we will find it is the caring father, and not the caring mother, who is ultimately to blame?
I doubt it.
I have met some of these maligned mothers since and it is great fun having a look at them. Some of them, to my surprise, really do seem wretchedly ungiving. But most of them are quite nice. Or ordinary. Or even dull.
A dull mother? There is no such thing. It is odd that, as a group, mothers are seen as a lardy wodge of nothing much; of worry and love and fret and banality. As individuals we are everything. Between these two extremes, where does the person lie?
In my thirties and forties, many of the daughters who gave out about their mothers started going shopping with them, talking about kitchen units, doing all the things that friends might do and more, while the mothers — I don’t know what the mothers did, exactly, but they shifted too. They let their children be. The battle was over. As though each side had fought its way into the light of day and looked at each other to find . . .
Now that I have become a mother myself, it is a great comfort to me to see how most of us come to an accommodation between the ‘MOTHER!’ in our heads and the woman who reared us. The whole process reaches a sort of glorious conclusion if and when the daughter has children herself. ‘Now you understand,’ says the (grand)mother. ‘Now you see.’ This is what they yearn for — as much as any adolescent, they need to be understood. They need an end to blame.
I take the baby home, and watch my parents with different eyes. My father likes looking at small children — just that. He hates disturbing them, or telling them to do anything, or scaring them in any way; he does not seem to believe in it. My mother loves babies — some women don’t but she does — even when they are very new; all raw and whimpering and scarcely yet human. Her love is more passionate than his; I think, she can be almost hurt by it. At any rate I know that this is where my current happiness comes from, that the better part of my mothering is compounded of my mother’s passion and of my father’s benign attention.
A woman asks me, ‘Are you going to have a typical mother-daughter relationship?’ You can tell that she thinks this would be a nice comeuppance. The world loves to remind parents that soon it will all go awry.
I think about this when the baby is eighteen months and every hug contains the idea of squirming away. She will stay on my lap if I sing to her, and she will stroke my face, but if all this loving becomes too damn lovely, she will push or pinch or kick her way out of it, and I think, with some trepidation, of the day she turns fourteen.
She also has a neat line in accident-on-purpose elbow jabs, and great aim.
What about sons. Are they the same?
Anne Enright, ‘Unforgiven’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 152-54.
To so stvari, ki jih otroci (prej ali slej) odpustijo očetom:
da hodijo ven,
da se pozno vračajo domov,
da smrdijo po alkoholu,
da berejo časopis,
da gledajo televizijo,
da jih ljudje na televiziji rahlo spolno privlačijo,
da se ne brigajo zanje,
da imajo druge pomembne opravke.
To pa so stvari, ki jih otroci nikoli, res nikoli ne odpustijo materam:
da hodijo ven,
da se pozno vračajo domov,
da smrdijo po alkoholu,
da berejo časopis,
da gledajo televizijo,
da jih ljudje na televiziji rahlo spolno privlačijo,
da se ne brigajo zanje,
da imajo druge pomembne opravke.
V času mojih najstniških in dvajsetih let je bilo med puncami v modi, da smo se pritoževale nad materami – kljub temu da so one žrtvovale svoja življenja, da bi nas vzgajale. Pritoževanje nad očeti nikoli ni bilo v modi, razen v primeru, da so bili res veliki pijanci. Najhujša reakcija, ki so jo sprožili očetje, je bil brezbrižen skomig – najbrž zato, ker je bilo to vse, kar so sami ponudili.
Kaj pa generacija Novih moških? Ali bomo čez dvajset let potrebovali novo psihologijo za takrat že odrasle otroke, ki so polovico ali še več časa videli svoje očete, ki so jim polovico časa, ali celo več, očetje menjavali plenice in jim peli uspavanke? Je mogoče, da bomo čez dvajset let odkrili, da krivdo navsezadnje nosi skrbni oče, ne pa skrbna mama?
Dvomim.
Nekaj teh zlobnih mam sem že srečala in res jih je zabavno opazovati. Nekatere so na moje presenečenje res bile videti grozno nepopustljive. Večina pa je kar prijaznih. Ali povprečnih. Ali celo dolgočasnih.
Dolgočasna mama? Kaj takega ne obstaja. Nenavadno je, da mame kot skupnost večkrat izpademo kot en zajeten kup ničesar posebnega; sama skrb in ljubezen in sekiranje in banalnost nas je. Kot posameznice smo pa vse. Kje med tema ekstremoma se skriva človek?
V mojih tridesetih in štiridesetih je marsikatera od hčera, ki so se prej pritoževale nad materami, začela hoditi z mamo na šoping, se z njo pogovarjati o delih kuhinje, skratka početi vse in še več od tega, kar bi s prijateljicami, medtem pa je marsikatera mama … Pravzaprav ne vem točno, kaj so počele mame, toda tudi one so se spremenile. Pustile so otroke, da so pač takšni, kot so. Bitke je bilo konec. Kot da bi se obe strani borili, da bi ugledali dnevno svetlobo, takrat pa sta se zazrli druga drugi v oči in zagledali …
Odkar sem tudi jaz postala mama, me tolaži, ko vidim, da nas je večina dosegla spravo med »MAMAAA!« v svojih glavah in žensko, ki nas je rodila. Ta proces se nekako slovesno zaključi, če in ko hči dobi svoje otroke. »Zdaj razumeš,« reče (stara) mama. »Zdaj vidiš.« Po tem hrepenijo. Tako kot katerikoli najstnik tudi one rabijo razumevanje. Rabijo konec nalaganja krivde.
Ko novorojenko pripeljem domov, svoja starša opazujem z novimi očmi. Moj oče rad gleda majhne otroke – in to je vse. Nerad jih moti, ali jim reče, naj karkoli naredijo, ali jih na kakršenkoli način preplaši; očitno ne verjame v to. Moja mama obožuje dojenčke – niso vse ženske take, ona pa jih – tudi takrat, ko so še čisto novi; tako pristni in cmeravi in komajda človeški. Njena ljubezen je močnejša od njegove; mislim, da mamo od nje skoraj boli. Vsekakor pa vem, da od tod izvira moja sedanja sreča, da je moje materinstvo večinoma preplet mamine strasti in očetove dobrohotne pozornosti.
Neka ženska me vpraša: »Boš imela tipičen odnos mame s hčerko?« Očitno je, da bi se njej tak odnos zdel zaslužena kazen. Svet rad opominja starše, da bo kmalu vse skrenilo s poti.
O tem razmišljam, ko hčerkica dopolni osemnajst mesecev in se začne ob vsakem objemu truditi, da bi se mi izvila. Ko ji pojem, mirno sedi v mojem naročju in me boža po obrazu, toda če moje ljubkovanje postane pretirano ljubko, začne porivati ali praskati ali brcati, da bi se ga otresla, jaz pa nekoliko zaskrbljeno razmišljam o dnevu, ko bo dopolnila štirinajst let.
Dobra je tudi pri le na videz nenamernem suvanju s komolci in zna izvrstno nameriti.
Kako pa je s sinovi, so tudi oni taki?
Translation commentary
Mojca Petaros
Among the various texts proposed for translation, I liked ‘Unforgiven’ the most because it insightfully and often very humorously describes common situations which readers of different generations could relate to. Because of that, I really enjoyed translating this piece, despite encountering some difficulties. Humour and irony are always challenging to translate. I tried to use some colourful words and stylistically marked expressions in the Slovenian version to preserve the author’s desired effect, and I think this was overall the greatest difficulty of translating this passage (e.g.: raw babies, lardy wodge of nothing much…). The vocabulary as well as the syntax structures were not too complex.
The beginning of the text with its list of ‘unforgiven’ things already posed two translation issues. The first one is the -ing form, which I needed to loosen in Slovenian and create explicit relative clauses. The second one relates to orthography: Slovenian rules do not allow the same kind of flexibility English has with starting a capitalised sentence after a semi-colon or a comma. At first, I wrote the whole sentence in one line, but I later decided that there is no need for that because there is no reason to omit the visual effect of the list, even if I divided the listed things with commas instead of full stops.
I spent quite some time on the phrase “New Men”. I felt the need to make it more explicit for the Slovenian reader, since the concept might not be immediately clear, even if I left it capitalised. That is why in my final version, I used the phrase “New Men Generation”. At the beginning, I also misunderstood the meaning of this paragraph, because I was not sure if the fathers’ being there only half the time was a critique or a praise (because they equally took up half of their female partners’ work) – I asked a few colleagues opinions to make that clear.
Another expression that was difficult to translate because of the differences between Slovenian and English was ‘neat line of accident-on-purpose elbow jabs’. I always struggle when translating this type of structure, since English really loves to adjectivize nouns or even long strings of words, whereas in Slovenian this is not possible, and the phrases need to be changed completely.