...Met Haar Groot Toon Om
Vanoggend was ek steeds onder my komberse op my bed 'n halfhuur na dat ek wakker geword het. Dis saterdag; ek gryp die geleentyd om niks te doen as dit kom. Dit het saggies gereën. Soos met die wind, is dit lekker vir my om lanks my venster te sit en luister na die reën. Ek hou my venster juis 'n skreefie oop daarvoor, so dat ek aan die slaap kan raak met die reuk en klank van die druppels op die dak en die blare. Maar vanoggend het ek 'n ekstra verskoning gehad om daar lanks die venster te bly sit: my ma het my bederf met 'n lekker groot koppie koffie net na dat sy my wakker gemaak het. "Baie melk, een suiker?" Nog 'n bietjie deur die wind, glimlag ek maar net en gaap deur my "Ja dankie, Mamma..."
Dalk klink dit vreemd en ongesond, maar ek het werklik waar baie lanklaas tuisgemaakde koffie gedrink. Dit vat te lank, want as ek vir myself koffie maak, hou ek daarvan om dit presies reg te doen: "baie melk, een suiker," plus bietjies kaneel en vanilla en amandel geursel en wie weet wat nog. 95 sekondes in die mikrogolvoond. Ek maak eerder tee of appel cider: net 'n pakkie en water. Maar die somer wat verby is, Julie en Augustus toe ons in Suid Afrika was, het ek seker twee of drie koppies koffie daagliks in gepas... Dis moelik om anders te wees.
Met die beker op my knie en my ken op die beker, begrawe ek my neus in die warm, ronde reuk van die melk en die koffie. Stadig stadig val my oë toe.. Skielik is ek getref deur 'n golf nostalgie: daar sit ek op Nou En Dan se stoep, soos die golwe op die rotse breek en die dolfyne oor die water spring.
Die interesante deel van om drietalig te wees is dat mens elke dag waarskynlik in 'n verskillende taal mag begin. Ek droom in al drie, ek dink in al drie, ek bid in al drie, al is Engels tog die mees-gebruikde een. Dalk het ek gisteraand oor Suid-Afrika gedroom; toe my ma my wakker skut vanoggend was als in Afrikaans. Party dae drai maar net so uit. Ek verland vandag so na Suid-Afrika, na die familie, die kultuur.
Die aflope paar maande is al die Graad 11s in die 'College Search' proses ingestoot. Dis die heeltyd in my gedagdes: waar wil ek gaan? Wat wil ek doen? Wat is vir my werklik belangrik? Ek wil vreeslik graag vir 'n jaar of so in Suid-Afrika gaan swot, maar ek moet nogsteeds êrens in Amerika kry waar ek 'n tuisde kan maak, 'n 'home base.' So vêr is dit nog heel lekker vir my om deur al die websites te blaai, en foto's te kyk, en onderhoude met studente te luister. Maar in daardie oomblik waar ek op Nou En Dan se stoep gesit het, koppie koffie in hand, het ek skielik besef hoe moelik dit gaan wees om 'n Afrikaanse identietyd te behou as ek eers in 'n totale Amerikanse omgewing is. My hele lewe lank praat ek net Afrikaans as ek nie by die skool is nie. Ek kannie rerig sê dat my ouers vir ons Amerikaans groot gemaak het nie. Ons is 'n goeie mengsel van twee wêrelde.
Hoe sal ek ooit kan aanhou om my taal op te bou, as ek nie eers elke dag meer praat nie? Ek het nou net begin behoorlik reg kom met die skryf en die lees, sal ek dit kan behou? Sal ek dit verloor? Hoe anders sal dit wees om heeltyd ander kos te eet! Hoe anders sal dit wees om heeldag en heelnag, elke oomblik van my lewe vir drie jaar lank nooit rerig om Suid-Afrikaaners te wees nie! Ek oordryf sekerlik- hopelik sal ek nog met my gesin oor gaan in die somer, en ek sal nog dikwels genoeg met my boetie en ouers gesels. Maar dit is 'n intimiderende gedagde.
Nog 'n moeliker gedagde is die een wat vir my vluister dat ek dalk twintig jaar met 'n Amerikanse eggenoot en 'n paar Amerikanse kinders gaan sit, dat ek net nog 'n ver-Amerikanse ou vrou gaan word wat skaars haar eie taal sonder 'n aksent kan uitspreek. Dat Jaco die selfde sal raak. Ek wil nie "Mom" of "Grandma" of "Aunt" wees nie, ek wil nie "Silent Night" sing met Kerstyd nie. Ek wil nie hê my kinders moet dink biltong en Marmite is gross nie, ek wil nie hê dat boerewors en pap en sous vreemde konsepte sal word nie. Ek wil hê dat my kinders ook sal weet hoe dit voel om op Nou En Dan se stoep te sit met 'n koppie koffie in hul hande. Daar is in die hele wêreld niks waarvoor ek dit sou ruil nie.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
I apologize for awkward translations: I'm too lazy to rewrite it artistically.
This morning I was still sitting wrapped in a blanket on my bed half an hour after I woke up. It's Saturday; I seize the opportunity to do nothing when it presents itself. It was raining softly. Just as with the wind, I like sitting next to my window to listen to the rain fall. I keep my window open a crack for that reason, so that I can fall asleep with its fresh smell and sound on the roof and the leaves. But I had an extra excuse this morning to sit there lazily by the window: my mother had spoiled me by delivering a nice big cup of coffee just after she woke me up. "Lots of milk, one sugar?" Still a little out of it, I just smiled and yawned through my "Yes please, Mamma..."
Strange and unhealthy though it may sound, it's been a very long time since I've had a homemade cup of coffee. Truth to be told, it simply takes too long, because I like to do it exactly right when I make it: "lots of milk, one sugar," plus little bits of cinnamon and vanilla and almond flavoring and who knows what else. 95 seconds in the microwave. Normally I'd rather make tea or apple cider: just a packet and water. But this past summer, when we were in South Africa, I probably managed an average of two or three cups daily... It'd be an effort to be any different.
With the mug on my knee and my chin on the mug, I buried my nose in the warm, round smell of the milk and the coffee. My eyes slowly began to fall shut... Suddenly, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia: there I was on Nou En Dan's porch, watching as the waves break on the rocks and the dolphins skip over the water.
The truly interesting part about being trilingual is that you may quite possibly start every day in a different language. I dream in all three, I think in all three, I pray in all three, though I may use English most frequently. Perhaps I dreamed about South Africa last night; when my mom woke me this morning, everything was in Afrikaans. Some days just turn out that way. I miss South Africa so much today, the family, the culture.
The last few months, all the juniors have been shoved headlong into the College Search process. It's constantly in my thoughts: Where do I want to go? What do I want to do? What is truly important to me? I really want to study in South Africa for a year, but I still need to find somewhere in America to make my home base. So far, it's been a pretty pleasant journey: I like flipping through all the websites and looking through pictures and watching interviews and such. But in that moment when I was suddenly transported to the porch at Nou En Dan, cup of coffee in hand, I suddenly realized how difficult it will be to uphold an Afrikaans identity once I'm in a totally American environment. My whole life I've spoken only Afrikaans outside school. I can hardly say that my parents raised us American. We're a good mix of two worlds.
How will I be able to keep building up my language if I'm not even speaking it everyday? I've just started getting the hang of reading and writing, will I be able to retain it? Will I lose it? How different it will be always to be eating different food! How different it will be to spend all day, everyday, every moment of my life for three years, never really around South Africans! I'm exaggerating- hopefully I'll still go over with my family in the summer, and I'll still talk to my brother and parents frequently enough. But nevertheless, it's an intimidating thought.
The more difficult thought even than this is the one that whispers that just maybe, twenty from now I'll have an American spouse and a few American kids, and I'll become just another Americanized old woman that can hardly speak her own language without an accent, that Jaco will be the same. I don't want to be "Mom" or "Grandma" or "Aunt," I don't want to sing "Silent Night" at Christmastime. I don't want my children to think that biltong and Marmite are gross, I don't want boerewors and pap en sous to become foreign concepts. I want for my children to know as I know how it feels to sit on Nou En Dan's porch with a cup of coffee in their hands. There is not a thing in the world I would trade it for.
Dalk klink dit vreemd en ongesond, maar ek het werklik waar baie lanklaas tuisgemaakde koffie gedrink. Dit vat te lank, want as ek vir myself koffie maak, hou ek daarvan om dit presies reg te doen: "baie melk, een suiker," plus bietjies kaneel en vanilla en amandel geursel en wie weet wat nog. 95 sekondes in die mikrogolvoond. Ek maak eerder tee of appel cider: net 'n pakkie en water. Maar die somer wat verby is, Julie en Augustus toe ons in Suid Afrika was, het ek seker twee of drie koppies koffie daagliks in gepas... Dis moelik om anders te wees.
Met die beker op my knie en my ken op die beker, begrawe ek my neus in die warm, ronde reuk van die melk en die koffie. Stadig stadig val my oë toe.. Skielik is ek getref deur 'n golf nostalgie: daar sit ek op Nou En Dan se stoep, soos die golwe op die rotse breek en die dolfyne oor die water spring.
Die interesante deel van om drietalig te wees is dat mens elke dag waarskynlik in 'n verskillende taal mag begin. Ek droom in al drie, ek dink in al drie, ek bid in al drie, al is Engels tog die mees-gebruikde een. Dalk het ek gisteraand oor Suid-Afrika gedroom; toe my ma my wakker skut vanoggend was als in Afrikaans. Party dae drai maar net so uit. Ek verland vandag so na Suid-Afrika, na die familie, die kultuur.
Die aflope paar maande is al die Graad 11s in die 'College Search' proses ingestoot. Dis die heeltyd in my gedagdes: waar wil ek gaan? Wat wil ek doen? Wat is vir my werklik belangrik? Ek wil vreeslik graag vir 'n jaar of so in Suid-Afrika gaan swot, maar ek moet nogsteeds êrens in Amerika kry waar ek 'n tuisde kan maak, 'n 'home base.' So vêr is dit nog heel lekker vir my om deur al die websites te blaai, en foto's te kyk, en onderhoude met studente te luister. Maar in daardie oomblik waar ek op Nou En Dan se stoep gesit het, koppie koffie in hand, het ek skielik besef hoe moelik dit gaan wees om 'n Afrikaanse identietyd te behou as ek eers in 'n totale Amerikanse omgewing is. My hele lewe lank praat ek net Afrikaans as ek nie by die skool is nie. Ek kannie rerig sê dat my ouers vir ons Amerikaans groot gemaak het nie. Ons is 'n goeie mengsel van twee wêrelde.
Hoe sal ek ooit kan aanhou om my taal op te bou, as ek nie eers elke dag meer praat nie? Ek het nou net begin behoorlik reg kom met die skryf en die lees, sal ek dit kan behou? Sal ek dit verloor? Hoe anders sal dit wees om heeltyd ander kos te eet! Hoe anders sal dit wees om heeldag en heelnag, elke oomblik van my lewe vir drie jaar lank nooit rerig om Suid-Afrikaaners te wees nie! Ek oordryf sekerlik- hopelik sal ek nog met my gesin oor gaan in die somer, en ek sal nog dikwels genoeg met my boetie en ouers gesels. Maar dit is 'n intimiderende gedagde.
Nog 'n moeliker gedagde is die een wat vir my vluister dat ek dalk twintig jaar met 'n Amerikanse eggenoot en 'n paar Amerikanse kinders gaan sit, dat ek net nog 'n ver-Amerikanse ou vrou gaan word wat skaars haar eie taal sonder 'n aksent kan uitspreek. Dat Jaco die selfde sal raak. Ek wil nie "Mom" of "Grandma" of "Aunt" wees nie, ek wil nie "Silent Night" sing met Kerstyd nie. Ek wil nie hê my kinders moet dink biltong en Marmite is gross nie, ek wil nie hê dat boerewors en pap en sous vreemde konsepte sal word nie. Ek wil hê dat my kinders ook sal weet hoe dit voel om op Nou En Dan se stoep te sit met 'n koppie koffie in hul hande. Daar is in die hele wêreld niks waarvoor ek dit sou ruil nie.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
I apologize for awkward translations: I'm too lazy to rewrite it artistically.
This morning I was still sitting wrapped in a blanket on my bed half an hour after I woke up. It's Saturday; I seize the opportunity to do nothing when it presents itself. It was raining softly. Just as with the wind, I like sitting next to my window to listen to the rain fall. I keep my window open a crack for that reason, so that I can fall asleep with its fresh smell and sound on the roof and the leaves. But I had an extra excuse this morning to sit there lazily by the window: my mother had spoiled me by delivering a nice big cup of coffee just after she woke me up. "Lots of milk, one sugar?" Still a little out of it, I just smiled and yawned through my "Yes please, Mamma..."
Strange and unhealthy though it may sound, it's been a very long time since I've had a homemade cup of coffee. Truth to be told, it simply takes too long, because I like to do it exactly right when I make it: "lots of milk, one sugar," plus little bits of cinnamon and vanilla and almond flavoring and who knows what else. 95 seconds in the microwave. Normally I'd rather make tea or apple cider: just a packet and water. But this past summer, when we were in South Africa, I probably managed an average of two or three cups daily... It'd be an effort to be any different.
With the mug on my knee and my chin on the mug, I buried my nose in the warm, round smell of the milk and the coffee. My eyes slowly began to fall shut... Suddenly, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia: there I was on Nou En Dan's porch, watching as the waves break on the rocks and the dolphins skip over the water.
The truly interesting part about being trilingual is that you may quite possibly start every day in a different language. I dream in all three, I think in all three, I pray in all three, though I may use English most frequently. Perhaps I dreamed about South Africa last night; when my mom woke me this morning, everything was in Afrikaans. Some days just turn out that way. I miss South Africa so much today, the family, the culture.
The last few months, all the juniors have been shoved headlong into the College Search process. It's constantly in my thoughts: Where do I want to go? What do I want to do? What is truly important to me? I really want to study in South Africa for a year, but I still need to find somewhere in America to make my home base. So far, it's been a pretty pleasant journey: I like flipping through all the websites and looking through pictures and watching interviews and such. But in that moment when I was suddenly transported to the porch at Nou En Dan, cup of coffee in hand, I suddenly realized how difficult it will be to uphold an Afrikaans identity once I'm in a totally American environment. My whole life I've spoken only Afrikaans outside school. I can hardly say that my parents raised us American. We're a good mix of two worlds.
How will I be able to keep building up my language if I'm not even speaking it everyday? I've just started getting the hang of reading and writing, will I be able to retain it? Will I lose it? How different it will be always to be eating different food! How different it will be to spend all day, everyday, every moment of my life for three years, never really around South Africans! I'm exaggerating- hopefully I'll still go over with my family in the summer, and I'll still talk to my brother and parents frequently enough. But nevertheless, it's an intimidating thought.
The more difficult thought even than this is the one that whispers that just maybe, twenty from now I'll have an American spouse and a few American kids, and I'll become just another Americanized old woman that can hardly speak her own language without an accent, that Jaco will be the same. I don't want to be "Mom" or "Grandma" or "Aunt," I don't want to sing "Silent Night" at Christmastime. I don't want my children to think that biltong and Marmite are gross, I don't want boerewors and pap en sous to become foreign concepts. I want for my children to know as I know how it feels to sit on Nou En Dan's porch with a cup of coffee in their hands. There is not a thing in the world I would trade it for.
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