by Amal Awad
This is not to say that either of her parents are living a life less valuable. Who is anyone to determine that? But the pathos runs deep. We sat opposite each other in a café, Stephanie gradually pouring out her grief, the way her parents’ losses have become her own, the way each limitation pares away her freedom and ability to live a full life. But the love, so powerful and full, remains.
My phone rang when I was with her, and because it was my brother Hossam, and Dad was only freshly out of hospital, I took the call. Hossam let me know that Dad and he were back at the hospital, though it might be ‘nothing’. Yet that surge of emotion, that plunging emotional grief still took me by surprise and wet my eyes in an instant. Stephanie nodded, knowing, when I had to excuse myself. She had already been moved to tears during our conversation, but she started afresh as she took in my sudden change in composure. No longer compassionate interviewer; now a grief-stricken daughter.
You get used to it, I remember thinking. But it was Stephanie’s kindness that I left with; it was her enquiring, empathetic message to me later that uplifted me with a feeling I can’t quite put a name to. And months later, it’s the agony in her expression that stays with me.
It is this commonality that is so affecting; the way, as humans, we so often smash into each other, but also stand beside one another. You might get used to it, but you’re changing and learning as you go. That much I understand. Sitting alone in my hotel room, enveloped in sadness, I really do understand. We seek a life of meaning, connection and purpose. Loneliness kills, and disappointment at our mortality shreds us. Life is a series of negotiations. Me, ever the deep diver into what motivates people, our flaws and hopes, I’m coming to a sense of equilibrium, of being okay with life not always being okay. All of these negotiations and explorations take on new resonance as I excavate the fears and beliefs that surround the body’s descent, even when the mind remains fresh – or vice versa.
My mind locks on to the many Fridays that have passed in the last couple of years, Fridays that have profoundly changed my life and how I view it. I have learned not only how to listen, to provide and be present without forcing others to be something they simply are not, but I have also received an education in elders’ experiences. My mother, and her grief, are taking shape in new ways in my mind, and I think hers as well. My father’s dogged determination to be a success became multi-layered in light of his relationship to his father, an at-times difficult one that can bring tears to his eyes in a moment. He is a son in the way that I am a daughter. My brothers and I, all finding our own ways to navigate a new reality.
My parents are dispossessed in Australia, yet so at home. Their similarly dispossessed daughter, I am between worlds, between cultures, looking for meaning that isn’t always there, but somehow learning, growing, seeing the different shades of colour in every experience.
The dispossession in Alice Springs is not the same, of course. It is a place populated by many people who are far from home, family and community. It is a place where grief is deep and fresh. Where so many are grappling with the failures of body and the way it affects the mind.
When the minister calls, he gives me a generous amount of time. His voice is sincere, clear. He seems to care. He says the right things. Even if a lot of what he says is to be expected, he speaks like a human being invested in his portfolios; he, too, has a stake in all of this. That in itself is enough for me. But then, as we approach the end of the interview, he surprises me. He asks me about my book. I explain Fridays with My Folks: now I am speaking to him less as a journalist and more as an ordinary Australian citizen who has ageing parents.
I’m touched by his empathetic response. ‘You’re speaking like a daughter who loves her parents, and who is now giving back to them time; but in doing that has gained an understanding of them as individuals who contributed to her life, but, more importantly, contributed to the society in which they lived. And they are two unique people who still contribute to your knowledge, and your growth. And through that process, the closeness you have with them is because you now understand the two adults who gave you your uniqueness. And that’s a very powerful emotion, and a very powerful recognition of acknowledging that, “Hey, my mum and dad are two incredible people.”’
As I hang up, an odd memory takes shape in my mind. Watching the Food Network with my parents during one of Dad’s hospital stays. It was normal life in an abnormal setting. It was ordinary joy wrapped in a bit of sorrow. But there was a fullness to it all, bolstered by moments of communion, even in simple things. Like a plump fruit that is both sweet and sour.
A segment came on about an American brand of jelly beans famous for its whacky flavours. We laughed at some of them – barf, rotten egg. And the moment also proved bittersweet. I realised that I’d never look at those jelly beans and not remember this. An association had been forged. The way bagels are synonymous with the hospital, because that’s the only place I eat them, usually with Mum. The way Sydney’s reconstruction never looks like a series of cranes and detours because I hear Dad’s observations as I pass them by, so now his perspectives are inextricably linked to them.
And Fridays with my folks and all each one of them conjures. The flooding of vibrant purple that comes with the blooming of jacaranda trees in Sydney. Mum’s stories and observations from the back seat, the occasional Arab proverb thrown in (‘The camel doesn’t see its bump’, ‘Before he eats me for dinner, I’ll eat him for lunch’, and so on).
I am far from where I began, when I felt like I was stumbling through a fog, subsisting on fumes, going through the motions. I’m more grounded now. More grateful for the little things, and the large. More attuned to improving my own health, to broadening my mind on how I can seek and achieve a life filled with purpose and meaning, a healthy life.
But what has shifted most is my relationship with Mum and Dad. After all this time, my parents have become increasingly, simply, more themselves. People whose emotions aren’t solely measured by their connections to their children; whose experiences are not bound by their roles as parents. They don’t exist for me, for their other children. Their own histories are as rich as my own; their spirits as complex and wandering.
My mind travels again to the millions of people dealing with similar situations, or worse. My heart has stretched out as I’ve lingered on my daily treks into town in Alice Springs, the punishing heat beating down on me, the land seeming at odds with its population. The way some people are out of place, like their spirits are elsewhere, far from their physical bodies.
I am heartened and amazed and moved by human resilience. By the compassion we exhibit to others (a choice, given we can also withold it). The way humans try to mend fractured relationships, to re-energise spaces so that life remains beautiful and hopeful. So that people feel they matter, even when they are dealing with the ephemeral nature of life. Among our most complex negotiations in life, surely, are those of our relationships with our parents and close family, people we may one day become carers to, regardless of our history.
And of course, our relationships to ourselves must be negotiated. This deep-dive can happen at any time, perhaps, but certainly much of it comes tumbling out when we start to see evidence of our mortality.
It seems clear that if we’re ever going to truly get to know our parents, in particular, it’s most likely to happen during adulthood, long after we’ve tested each other’s limits and found a meeting place. We feel tied to family members through fate. But when certain events bring us closer together, often a more enriching journey begins.
After all this time, I am seeing my parents as their distinct selves. I’m not romanticising them, or spinning false narratives about their lives. We exist in the same space together, developing new ways of being and dealing, and seeing each other. I’m meeting them where they’re at, as a daughter, not a carer. I’m getting to know them.
And I think to myself, what a gift.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not have
been possible if it weren’t for my Fridays with my folks. They have changed my life, and I am immensely grateful that my parents have allowed me to share their stories, and our Fridays, in this book.
Thank you to my husband, Chris, for being the patient partner of a writer. Thank you to my family and friends, who have shown great support and offered invaluable insights during the process of researching and writing this book.
There are so many people who have been extremely helpful in my research – from suggesting interviewees, to sharing their own stories, no matter how difficult. Thank you for your contribution, whether directly or simply through your support. I hope this book offers something to you in return.
Finally, a heartfelt thank you to my agent, Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown, and the wonderful team there, especially Caitlan Cooper-Trent. And at Penguin Random House, immense gratitude to my publisher, Meredith Curnow, for shepherding me through this exploration from its inception with so much empathy and good advice, and to my editor, Catherine Hill, who is always a guiding voice, insightful at every stage.
Also by Amal Awad
The Incidental Muslim
Courting Samira
Coming of Age: Growing Up Muslim in Australia (anthology)
This Is How You Get Better
Beyond Veiled Clichés
Some Girls Do (anthology)
A Vintage Australia book
Published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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penguin.com.au
First published by Vintage Australia in 2019
Copyright © Amal Awad 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, modified, stored or distributed in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd or its authorised licensees.
‘Rain’ from Collected Poems by Jack Gilbert, © 2012 Jack Gilbert. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
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ISBN 9780143789802
Cover image of car © Depositphotos; image of Amal Awad courtesy of the author
Cover design by Alex Ross © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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