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.
Otroci svojim očetom (s časom) odpustijo naslednja dejanja:
Večerne izhode.
Pozne prihode domov.
Vonj po alkoholu.
Branje časopisa.
Gledanje televizije.
Gledanje ljudi na televiziji z rahlim spolnim zanimanjem.
Relativno ravnodušnost.
Pomembnejše opravke.
Otroci svojim mamam nikoli in nikdar ne odpustijo naslednjih dejanj:
Večernih izhodov.
Poznih prihodov domov.
Vonja po alkoholu.
Branja časopisa.
Gledanja televizije.
Gledanja ljudi na televiziji z rahlim spolnim zanimanjem.
Relativne ravnodušnosti.
Pomembnejših opravkov.
V mojih najstniških in dvajsetih letih je bilo moderno, da smo se punce pritoževale nad svojimi mamami – četudi so te ženske žrtvovale svoja življenja, da bi nas vzgojile. Pritoževanje nad očeti nikoli ni bilo v modi, razen nad tistimi, ki so bili ves čas nažgani. V skrajnem primeru je ob omembi očetov nastala neprijetna tišina – verjetno zato, ker je to bilo vse, kar smo od njih dobile.
Kaj pa sodobni moški? Bo čez dvajset let treba razviti novo psihološko teorijo za zdaj odrasle otroke, katerih očetje so z njimi preživeli polovico časa in jim zamenjali najmanj pol plenic in zapeli najmanj pol uspavank, ali celo več? Je možno, da bomo čez dvajset let namesto na skrbno mamo s prstom kazali na skrbnega očeta?
Dvomim.
Od takrat sem spoznala že kar nekaj teh obrekovanih mam in moram reči, da jih je prav zabavno opazovati. Preseneča me, da nekatere res delujejo skrajno brezsrčne. Večinoma pa so kar prijazne. Ali vsakdanje. Ali celo dolgočasne.
Dolgočasna mama? Takšna ne obstaja. Preseneča me, da mame kot skupino ljudi dojemamo kot ogromno gomilo ničesar konkretnega; gomilo zaskrbljenosti in ljubezni in strahu in vsakdanjosti. Kot posameznice ne bi mogle biti bolj cenjene. Kam med tema dvema skrajnostma pa umeščamo mamo kot osebo?
V mojih tridesetih in štiridesetih je veliko hčera, ki so se prej pritoževale nad svojimi mamami, začelo z njimi hoditi po nakupih, razpravljati o kuhinjskih omaricah, početi vse, kar počnejo prijateljice, in še več, medtem ko so njihove mame – ne vem točno, kaj so naredile, ampak tudi one so se spremenile. Otrokom so pustile iti svojo pot. Bitka je bila končana. Kot da sta se obe strani prebili na svetlo, se spogledali in ugotovili …
Zdaj, ko sem tudi sama mama, me tolaži misel, da smo večinoma našle ravnovesje med predstavo o tem, kaj pomeni biti »MATI!«, in žensko, ki nas je vzgojila. Ta postopek se zmagoslavno konča, če in ko ima hči tudi sama otroke. »Zdaj razumeš,« pravi (stara) mama. »Zdaj veš«. Po tem hrepenijo – kot vsak mladostnik želijo, da jih razumemo. Da jih nehamo kriviti.
Ko otroka peljem k staršem, opazujem razlike med njima. Oče rad opazuje majhne otroke – drugo ga ne zanima. Nerad jih nadleguje, jim govori, kaj naj počnejo, ali jih na kakršenkoli način straši; to ni v njegovi naravi. Mama naravnost obožuje dojenčke – nekatere ženske jih ne marajo, ampak ona ni takšna – celo tik po rojstvu, ko so še posebej ranljivi, cmeravi in komajda človeški. Njena ljubezen je strastnejša od njegove; skoraj tako močna, da boli. Kakorkoli, vem, da me to zdaj osrečuje in da večji del moje materinske vloge dopolnjujeta mamina strast in očetova blaga pozornost.
Ženska me je nekoč vprašala: »Boste s hčerko imeli tisti pravi odnos mati-hči?« Očitno je, da se ji to zdi primerna kazen. Svet starše res rad opozarja na to, da bo šlo kmalu vse narobe.
O tem razmišljam, ko ima otrok 18 mesecev. Ob vsakem objemu pomislim na to, da bo kmalu bežal iz mojega objema. Ostala bo v mojem naročju in božala moj obraz, če ji pojem, če pa crkljanje postane preveč ljubeče, se bo z odrivanjem, ščipanjem ali brcanjem iztrgala iz objema. Telo mi drhti ob misli na dan, ko bo dopolnila 14 let.
Prav tako dobro ve, kako in kam zamahniti s komolcem.
Kaj pa sinovi? So tudi oni takšni?
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.
Otroci svojim očetom (s časom) odpustijo naslednja dejanja:
Večerne izhode.
Pozne prihode domov.
Vonj po alkoholu.
Branje časopisa.
Gledanje televizije.
Gledanje ljudi na televiziji z rahlim spolnim zanimanjem.
Relativno ravnodušnost.
Pomembnejše opravke.
Otroci svojim mamam nikoli in nikdar ne odpustijo naslednjih dejanj:
Večernih izhodov.
Poznih prihodov domov.
Vonja po alkoholu.
Branja časopisa.
Gledanja televizije.
Gledanja ljudi na televiziji z rahlim spolnim zanimanjem.
Relativne ravnodušnosti.
Pomembnejših opravkov.
V mojih najstniških in dvajsetih letih je bilo moderno, da smo se punce pritoževale nad svojimi mamami – četudi so te ženske žrtvovale svoja življenja, da bi nas vzgojile. Pritoževanje nad očeti nikoli ni bilo v modi, razen nad tistimi, ki so bili ves čas nažgani. V skrajnem primeru je ob omembi očetov nastala neprijetna tišina – verjetno zato, ker je to bilo vse, kar smo od njih dobile.
Kaj pa sodobni moški? Bo čez dvajset let treba razviti novo psihološko teorijo za zdaj odrasle otroke, katerih očetje so z njimi preživeli polovico časa in jim zamenjali najmanj pol plenic in zapeli najmanj pol uspavank, ali celo več? Je možno, da bomo čez dvajset let namesto na skrbno mamo s prstom kazali na skrbnega očeta?
Dvomim.
Od takrat sem spoznala že kar nekaj teh obrekovanih mam in moram reči, da jih je prav zabavno opazovati. Preseneča me, da nekatere res delujejo skrajno brezsrčne. Večinoma pa so kar prijazne. Ali vsakdanje. Ali celo dolgočasne.
Dolgočasna mama? Takšna ne obstaja. Preseneča me, da mame kot skupino ljudi dojemamo kot ogromno gomilo ničesar konkretnega; gomilo zaskrbljenosti in ljubezni in strahu in vsakdanjosti. Kot posameznice ne bi mogle biti bolj cenjene. Kam med tema dvema skrajnostma pa umeščamo mamo kot osebo?
V mojih tridesetih in štiridesetih je veliko hčera, ki so se prej pritoževale nad svojimi mamami, začelo z njimi hoditi po nakupih, razpravljati o kuhinjskih omaricah, početi vse, kar počnejo prijateljice, in še več, medtem ko so njihove mame – ne vem točno, kaj so naredile, ampak tudi one so se spremenile. Otrokom so pustile iti svojo pot. Bitka je bila končana. Kot da sta se obe strani prebili na svetlo, se spogledali in ugotovili …
Zdaj, ko sem tudi sama mama, me tolaži misel, da smo večinoma našle ravnovesje med predstavo o tem, kaj pomeni biti »MATI!«, in žensko, ki nas je vzgojila. Ta postopek se zmagoslavno konča, če in ko ima hči tudi sama otroke. »Zdaj razumeš,« pravi (stara) mama. »Zdaj veš«. Po tem hrepenijo – kot vsak mladostnik želijo, da jih razumemo. Da jih nehamo kriviti.
Ko otroka peljem k staršem, opazujem razlike med njima. Oče rad opazuje majhne otroke – drugo ga ne zanima. Nerad jih nadleguje, jim govori, kaj naj počnejo, ali jih na kakršenkoli način straši; to ni v njegovi naravi. Mama naravnost obožuje dojenčke – nekatere ženske jih ne marajo, ampak ona ni takšna – celo tik po rojstvu, ko so še posebej ranljivi, cmeravi in komajda človeški. Njena ljubezen je strastnejša od njegove; skoraj tako močna, da boli. Kakorkoli, vem, da me to zdaj osrečuje in da večji del moje materinske vloge dopolnjujeta mamina strast in očetova blaga pozornost.
Ženska me je nekoč vprašala: »Boste s hčerko imeli tisti pravi odnos mati-hči?« Očitno je, da se ji to zdi primerna kazen. Svet starše res rad opozarja na to, da bo šlo kmalu vse narobe.
O tem razmišljam, ko ima otrok 18 mesecev. Ob vsakem objemu pomislim na to, da bo kmalu bežal iz mojega objema. Ostala bo v mojem naročju in božala moj obraz, če ji pojem, če pa crkljanje postane preveč ljubeče, se bo z odrivanjem, ščipanjem ali brcanjem iztrgala iz objema. Telo mi drhti ob misli na dan, ko bo dopolnila 14 let.
Prav tako dobro ve, kako in kam zamahniti s komolcem.
Kaj pa sinovi? So tudi oni takšni?
Translation Commentary
Katja Palovšnik
There was a time when I wanted to be a writer. I soon realized I may not possess the necessary skills or the talent to live up to the greatness of this profession. By participating in this project, I wanted to try my hand at translating literature, thinking it will probably be much easier than writing a piece from scratch. It turns out I was wrong.
This translation was certainly a big challenge for me. Since this is a quite an eloquent and personal story, I had to read it a few times to really grasp its meaning. After reading the text several times I still was not confident if I got it right, so I decided to consult with a colleague.
Because English is somewhat of a simpler language I had some difficulties already at the beginning, trying to make the transition from the introductory phrase to the listed items sound nice and natural. Certainly, the list itself was challenging too – it is hard to be succinct in Slovene. Since in Slovene verb forms differ for each grammatical person, there were places where I struggled to make the text sound as uniform and free flowing. This was a challenge towards the end of the text, where the author talks about the baby, but starts the next sentence with she. In addition to that, because Slovene is much more verb-oriented, the sentences are usually longer and it is hard to deliver meaning in a short and concise way, like in the original. While the writer did a great job at expressing her feelings and opinion with the use of various expressional verbs and adjectives, I struggled to find their equivalents in Slovene – at least such that meet the same formality level.
Under normal circumstances I would have probably translated a text of this length in an hour. In this case, however, I took my time. I have read it a couple of times, then translated it and called it a day. The next day, with a fresh mind, I went through the text again, before submitting it for the first time. Even though I was fairly certain I understood the message of the text, when I received the corrections from my teacher and my colleague, it turned out I may have misunderstood some details. It was good to hear another person’s point of view on both the original and my translation. Reading through the corrections I realized there may be places in the text where more than one interpretation is possible. I considered all their corrections and notes and tried to combine them in the best possible way.
To sum up, the text delivers a powerful message, characterized by the use of conceptually rich words and phrases, which were quite an uphill battle for me, since I am not used to translating literary texts. Making the text sound natural, as though it was written in Slovene, and trying to put myself in the shoes of the author was my main focus.