Alone in the family jungle

(DE) In the spring of 1953, seven adults reportedly cheered, “A Deandl!” (That’s Bavarian for “a girl.”) Well, the jubilation among my two grandmothers, my 19-year-old parents, and my mother’s two siblings had not been as vocal as the anger over the mishap nine months earlier when my arrival was announced. But I must say, one accepted the situation and could then actually be happy about the new member of the family. Illegitimate children were also not uncommon in my family, rather a tradition.

However, as it turned out years later, the sudden fatherhood had been a shock for my father. The trauma certainly determined his further family planning. I remained an only child.

And this position was a special one in this family.

Little doll and bone of contention

My mother with her doll and I with my doll

My paternal grandparents and my maternal grandmother lived in the same settlement on the same street just two doors away from each other. While my maternal grandmother still had her three children living with her, the other grandparents were alone. My father was away for weeks at a time on a job, and my mother worked as a textile saleswoman. For a long time, they didn’t have their own apartment.

My mother’s family jealously guarded their little doll, me. The other grandma was excluded and was reluctantly allowed to participate. She in turn complained to grandpa and to my father when he came home every few weeks. Then they made the sparks fly. When I watch Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” and the Montagues make life difficult for the Capulets and vice versa, I always have a kind of déjà vu. My life as a cute little chubby bone of contention was pre-programmed.

My mother, my aunt and my paternal grandmother liked it very much to dress me nice. There was often a dispute about it.

And it must be said, as a toddler I was also good to use as an accessory. The photos from that time show that I was always lovingly outfitted. Little dresses, little coats, little hats and little shoes, everything matching! My mother’s big sister, my godmother, unlike my mother, had always loved to play with dolls and therefore had her genuine joy in me. My uncle, my mother’s older brother, also knew how to make an appearance with me, the little one.

As soon as I could walk, he would show up with me on his hand wherever girls and boys met, I was told. A young, handsome soccer star who carried his little niece with him! To kneel down! The girls melted!

Soon my uncle with his wife and little son were living with my grandmother and me in my grandmother’s two-room flat.

I loved my little cousin, with whom I grew up together for three years. And even later, when we were allowed to or had to live with our parents we sometimes treated ourselves to comfortable and quiet days together at our grandmother’s house.

Although for a while we grew up almost like siblings and liked each other very much, each of us was alone with their parents. We could not support or comfort each other. Our points of reference, father, mother and their relationship, were not identical and that made all the difference. Each of us was and remained an only child - alone in the family jungle.

A child with responsibility

My life as an only child was extremely exhausting. As I said, constant storm clouds were hanging in the family sky and sometimes I was to blame for their discharge with my sheer existence.

I still remember one scene. When I was maybe four or five years old, I was waiting in the house entrance in front of the basement stairs for my mother, who wanted to get something from the basement. My grandfather came and went down into the basement. Shortly afterwards screaming and shrieking could be heard from down there. Then my memory breaks off. Blackout! Self-protection! It resumes but as a vague memory of a completely distraught mood around me. Anger. Bewilderment. Threat. From later narrations, I conclude that there was probably fisticuffs and that only, because my mother had taken off the dress that my grandmother had dressed me with and had put on another one, chosen by herself. So easily war-like conditions could arise with us and I was always in the middle of it. All alone as a dwarf between the giants.

Sitting between my parents was like being caught between two stools

Some years later, when we as a family had our own apartment and my father was quite regularly at home on weekends, it was often even worse. I hated those weekend stays with my parents as they were always arguing. One of the two possible reasons always came into play. Either there were jealousies between my mother and her mother-in-law, who were both very similar and both wanted to pull my father on their side. Or it was about money. My father wanted possessions and my mother simply couldn’t handle money. Although they both earned money, so there would have been enough money for the living conditions at that time.

But no matter what it was about, the little daughter was consulted as a witness. “Be honest, did your mum, your grandma, say that?”, “Did you see your dad do this or that?”….

I was both proud and tormented by this trust and this great responsibility given to me. No sister or brother to share the burden with me.

In more relaxed times and especially after reconciliation after a heated argument, my parents made it very clear to me that such arguments were common in all families and that what happened in our family was nobody’s business. It was like the Mafia – omertà!

They put their trust in me, they made me responsible, expected understanding from me and, from today’s perspective, they burdened my child’s soul.

When my parents finally divorced in the 70s, my soul was no longer quite as childlike. I was almost 20 years old, but they did not let the opportunity to include me pass by. I was asked to look after my mother. I was called in to discuss the modalities of the divorce, as a moderator, so to speak. I was asked to be present during discussions with the lawyer. And I was held accountable if the outcome was not acceptable. I was sent from one to the other with jewellery. And, of course, I was regularly informed of each other’s bad behaviour with the expressed or unspoken expectation that I would put things in order.

And for the last time, I did as I was told. Instead of referring my parents to themselves, I advocated a peaceful divorce and failed miserably. I didn’t understand that they loathed and wanted to hurt each other and that they were using me for revenge or to compensate for their guilt. In the end, however, I did understand, but at that point, it didn’t help me any more.

Then I no longer had to mediate, but make sure that the two worlds, the mother’s and the father’s, did not collide. I constantly felt the scissors in my head. Watch what you say! Make sure that one doesn’t find out about the other! If you go to one, make sure that the other doesn’t find out right away! The war between the two went on for a while and I got ricocheted more than once.

Damage and …

Even today, at the age of 67, panic rises in me when my little family is sitting at the table and suddenly trouble is in the air. I nervously try to meditate, to do justice to everyone, to balance things out and be the referee that my parents regularly called on me to be.

Even in my love relationships, I had no idea how to deal with my partner without the world exploding. My experience had taught me that a simple no or criticism of the other, or by the other, could lead to vicious emotional upheavals. As a child, during such disputes, I often felt that this was the end of my parents’ relationship, of my family, and that there was no way back.

So later, for me, every controversial argument, whether with friends, within the family or with a partner, became an existential issue. I was afraid that after an argument there was no way the relationship could continue. For it had not been clear to me as a child how my parents or the two families could be affectionate towards each other again after all the nasty injuries. I was not aware of the process of post-conflict debate, forgiveness and reconciliation. Strangely enough, I was not involved in it. Suddenly everything seemed to be fine again. I have to say that I was very disturbed and also disgusted.

To this day, I’m still in the dark about how to argue without considering the end of the relationship, which is always accompanied by great fear of loss. But, now, I am more conscious of my weakness. Therefore, although I avoid criticising or saying a firm no, so as not to trigger an existential argument, I am no longer at the mercy of my original survival strategy.

This original strategy of mine was a little ridiculous and a little tragic and in any case not successful in terms of balanced love relationships and friendships. On the one hand, I kept my points of criticism back until I exploded. On the other hand, I only exploded when I felt that I no longer wanted to have anything to do with the other person. Then there was no need for me to come out with my criticisms, I could just leave, withdraw, isolate myself, disappear in the fog, out of reach.

This way I reduced the importance of the other person for me inwardly and unnoticed, step by step, criticism by criticism, until there was no longer any reason for fear of loss and no longer any reason to fight and stay in the relationship. And then I left, usually much to the surprise of the other person.

More or less, this pattern of behaviour applied to all kinds of relationships.

… Benefits

But this lack of ability to criticise without panicking has also led to positive behaviour patterns and skills. In the meantime, I no longer have to notoriously avoid arguments, but I frame them as much as possible in a way that my points come across as factual and sympathetic. I try to form a very informed opinion that takes into account as many perspectives as possible. Objectivity, knowledge, experience and observation, as well as listening and being open to counter-arguments, clearly help to avoid escalating arguments. I even love controversial discussions. It is exciting to consider other perspectives.

Only one thing must not happen, emotionality and irrationality. Blatant meanness, intrigue, personal attacks, indifference, ignorance, arrogance coupled with stupidity cause me to panic and lead to breathlessness and helplessness.

I am not addicted to harmony, but I find quarrelling people, including myself, simply repulsive. I can express myself very clear in writing because this avoids repulsive behaviour and my ability to analyse comes more into play. I have time to clarify the issues mentally and identify neuralgic points. When writing, I can also strive for the correct and unambiguous linguistic expression.

I take pleasure in struggling to find the right, precisely applicable words.

It is always important to me that my counterpart is informed as accurately as possible about my arguments and in a genuinely comprehensible way before deciding to engage in an aggressive dispute. So basically, I work towards peace, sometimes more, sometimes less successfully.

I have developed these skills and inabilities because of my quarrelling parents.

There is seldom harm without a benefit, as my grandmother used to say. My ability to analyse, my strong powers of observation and my honest interest in diverse opinions and points of view, as well as a certain talent for being able to express myself in a reasonably differentiated way, have certainly been useful to me professionally – as a reporter, as a teacher, as a saleswoman, as a copywriter etc.

For example, I was often alarmed when, as a teacher, in discussions with parents I was confronted with marital problems and divorce situations. Sometimes there seemed to be an instrumentalization of children and I tried to separate the conflict of the parents from their responsibility for the child. Whether it was of any use, I don’t know. After all, teachers are usually not psychologists or therapists.

As a mother, I tried very hard to keep my child out of marital disputes so as not to repeat my parents’ mistake. My ex-husband and his wife have been my best friends for many decades and we all enjoy spending time together as a family.

I am very happy about that.

My parents – children of their time

In the 50th live startet for my very young parents, but with a child!

As a grown-up woman, I tried for a while to blame my parents for their behaviour. I so much wantedthem to repent and apologise to me. But I don’t think that can be expected. They didn’t know any better. They were simply children of their families and their times and did their best within this framework.

At the beginning of the 1950s, life was just beginning for them. Born in 1933, shortly after the Nazis came to power, their childhood had been marked by uncertainty, threat and war. When the war ended in May 1945, my parents were 11 years old and had spent the last months more or less in air-raid shelters and had not seen the inside of a school very often.

Today, in 2021, we worry about the damage done to children by school closures and thus the lack of face-

Marriage of my parents 1955. They are 21 years old. I am 2 years old.

to-face teaching and social contact as well as structuring of everyday life.

At that time, hardly anyone thought about the fact that these children had to experience and endure the fear of death, deprivation, fear of loss and losses as well as the insecurity and powerlessness of their parents in this chaos. All this left its mark on them and they didn’t have the time or opportunity to process anything.

Father

My father, whose story I would like to tell elsewhere, had to take responsibility for himself and his family at the end of the war and in the post-war period, although he was still a young boy. His father was a war invalid, his mother was not prepared for times of crisis in a practical way, his little sister died of typhoid fever, his big sister emigrated to Australia with her husband. He was alone and a fighter.

Therefore, care and livelihood security, as well as furnishing his home with everything good and beautiful, was his top priority later on. He said of himself that as a child he was always hungry. Metaphorically speaking, he tried to satisfy this hunger all his life. He did everything he could to ensure that his family – his parents, mother-in-law, wife, child, brother-in-law, sister-in-law – was well off and he hoped to receive comfort and care in return. His child was therefore more of a buddy to him who should support this effort. As long as he lived with my mother, however, he could not achieve his goal.

Mother

My mother, whose story I would also like to tell elsewhere, can also be described as needy. She was fatherless almost from birth. As the youngest child of a single mother who struggled to support her three children during the war and post-war period, she was constantly looking for a father who could provide security and safety for the family. However, in her search for a security, she remained fixated on her family of origin throughout her life.

My father remained alone with his desire and his dreams. My mother tried to take care of her mother first and foremost. She provided for her as best she could and also had good reason to do so because grandma raised me while my mother worked. You could almost say she gave her mother a child. In 2020, when my mother, already suffering badly from Alzheimer’s, did indeed recognise my son and me, she still looked long and hard into my eyes and said meaningfully, “My mum!”

But my mother had something of her own that she did not share with her mother, nor with her sister. She attached great importance to her outward appearance. Being beautiful and well-dressed was an important statement in the 1950s and this was in line with the spirit of the economic miracle. Dressing up her little daughter was her way of being a mother. Later, as she got older, she added other qualities, but she wanted to be my girlfriend. I always resisted this and envied my real friends for their mothers who only wanted to be mothers.

The joys of being an only child

My friends, who had several siblings and only one breadwinner in the family, envied me for all the luxuries that surrounded me. And it was true, I had lots of dolls and other toys, the prettiest clothes, scooters, bikes, skis, a tape recorder, a record player and heaven knows what else. We went on holiday to Italy and the mountains for skiing.

I thoroughly enjoyed it all, but I would have loved to share it with someone. So I was overjoyed when my girlfriend was allowed to go on holiday with us to Italy in the late 60s. That was a big deal for both of us for different reasons and is a wonderful memory that we revisit almost every time we see each other.

I was happy about a lot of things, but it was also natural that I got things even before I could wish for them. My father liked to please himself by giving me, or us, something special. I could have become very demanding, a typical spoilt only child, who can’t do without anything and wants to have everything for herself.

But for whatever reason, that’s not what I became. On the contrary!

Shared joy – double joy

Oh, there is another person like me! It would have been nice not to be a single child .

When I went to play in the sandpit, equipped with all kinds of buckets, shovels, baking pans, etc., I sat down at the edge and watched the other children playing with my things. They took such pleasure in my toys, so I took pleasure too. My parents didn’t understand. They thought I was being taken advantage of and interfered much to my dismay.

I always felt misunderstood in this respect, until I was a grown-up, middle-aged woman, playing virtual bowling on the TV one New Year’s Eve with the mentally disabled (trisomy 21) son of a friend. He had taught me the game and it was really fun. We played against each other and whenever he won, he cheered and I pretended to be downhearted. When I won, I cheered and so did he. When I finally asked him why he would cheer if I won, he replied, “I taught you the game, so that’s good if you win.” I immediately understood that to the depths of my soul. And I think the boy would have immediately understood my contented sitting on the edge of the sandpit too.

I just wanted so much to share with someone. I lacked this experience in my childhood and later I always tried to make up for it. Living in shared flats, for example, was an attempt I made several times in my life. You share the joys and sorrows of everyday life with like-minded people. In my experience, that holds fewer dangers than a nuclear family like mine, or so I thought. Well, now I’ve been living alone for a long time. But at least I tried!

And I think the fact that I like being a hostess also has something to do with it. For example, in the recent past, I sometimes invited many people to my small flat for an aperitif. And they all came with pleasure and felt comfortable with me until the early morning. What did I like the most? I went from one group to another as hostess and was pleased to see that everyone was comfortable, well-fed and talking brilliantly. I sat again contentedly at the edge of the sandpit and watched the others happily playing with my things. When I’m a guest myself, I never feel as relaxed as when I’m a hostess, because it’s not me sharing what’s mine with someone else.

And how was it with you?

So that’s my only child story, which I experienced in the 50s and 60s, which shaped me and which still has an effect on my life today. Nowadays more positively than negatively.

I know it was common in the 50s for teenagers to become unwanted parents. I would be very interested to know how other only children of my generation may have experienced similar or very different things under different circumstances. (TA)