Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

healthy. And cheerful — or, at least, not bad-tempered enough that something has to change. We’re still at the stage when taking out your bad temper on others is enough — on the ones who don’t behave the way you think they should.

What sucks: calling this good life ‘a mess’.

In the darkest moment, instead of telling stories about the sun and the colours, I talked about how dark the moment was. Only some mice found this comforting, whereas others didn’t; and some, who played a role in my story of the darkness, felt betrayed and exploited.

‘Who do you think you are to impose your views on others?’ they asked. ‘And who, may we ask, gave you permission?’

I gave myself permission, the poet mouse.

In the darkness, it’s dark, and in my broom cupboard, it’s lonely.

The statutory period of notice on a lease is three months. We have to leave this place by the end of the year.

Do you even know, Bea, that the lease is in Frank’s name? I’m afraid I’ve left you as much in the dark as my parents did me. I’m afraid you might also take our kitchen floor for granted.

I took a gamble on the flat. And lost. Only myself to blame. What comes around goes around.

No one talks about things, at least not the important things, such as personal hardships and your own part in them. Twenty-five per cent of the whole sum — I wonder what that is in euros?

I can write what I like. The only sound I can hear is the humming of my laptop. The humming is disturbingly loud these days. Who knows, maybe it’ll give up the ghost soon. I need a back-up, a security copy.

Did you know that writing provides security? It’s an insurance, a reassurance, a linchpin for the future. There it is in writing, see? Yes, I remember!

I can’t provide you with a house, Bea, not even a flat; but I can tell you everything I know.

I don’t care if you want to hear it or not. I’m Resi, the narrator of this story and a writer by profession. Sucks for you: why did you choose a mother like me?

Because that’s another widespread myth: that children choose their parents. That before they’re born, they are little souls floating on their way to find the right couple. It’s like the idea that parents get the child they deserve — or need — to become real grown-ups.

Do you like stories like these? I don’t.

But you see, I’ve heard people telling them and seen their effects. That’s another thing I realised too late: the strength of stories and the power of telling them.

I remember that parents’ evening at your school a few years ago when things got slightly out of hand, and men with greying temples and strident voices kept interrupting each other — late-in-life fathers who, as I found out later on, were all journalists for big broadsheets.

Of course! I thought. Some people are journalists because they like the sheer power of it. It isn’t just the medium of choice for introverts and stutterers. It can also be a way of hammering home your point, opinions, and analyses.

In any case, the tone of the statements at that parents’ evening was: ‘I’m going to wipe the floor with you’, and the circle of chairs formed an arena into which the talkers stepped and flexed their muscles to scare off the others. In their children’s best interests, it goes without saying.

Back then I didn’t have a book to my name yet. No one said afterwards: ‘That’s Resi, the writer.’ They said: ‘That’s Resi, Bea’s mum’, and that should have meant I was qualified to have my say at the parents’ meeting. But no. In groups randomly thrown together by fate, who you are is what counts. And who you are is nothing less than the extent of the power you possess — which is especially depressing when the points on the agenda are: ‘Treating each other with respect’, ‘How to stop bullying’, and ‘Each person is an individual’.

You know, Bea, I’m a late-in-life mother myself these days. I notice how I run out of steam, especially at parents’ meetings. I’m not optimistic or curious like I was when I used to go to parents’ evenings at your kindergarten. I was in my early thirties then and all enthusiastic about being a mum. Now I’m in my mid-forties and want these dickheads to leave me in peace. I despise them, really. Fear seeps from their pores, and they throw their weight around and stir things up and try to find something in common with people who will protect their interests. They form little cliques, exclude the weaker ones, and lie in wait for the others to make fools of themselves.

I’m exactly the same.

There’s nothing you can do, it’s the fear. There’s nothing worse than groups randomly thrown together by fate, and nothing more terrifying than a bunch of people who think they have to come to an agreement at all costs.

But staying away isn’t an option. I have to protect you by marking my territory as a parent — and not just any old parent, but one with power! Enough power at least to get through a parents’ evening! Yes, that’s right, darling. It’s a vicious circle.

When it comes to being power hungry, children come in very handy. You can use them as a shield, even when they’re not your own. The line about it being ‘in the best interests of the children’ always works: who wants kids to suffer? The hypocrisy of it is shocking.

But what should I do? Stop going? Avoid parents’ evenings? Avoid parents’ social nights? No one seems to realise the irony of calling them ‘social nights’: they’re the most anti-social gatherings I’ve ever been to.

‘Don’t be like that, Resi!’ they say. ‘It’s just a name.’ ‘Don’t be so negative!’

I now know the power of words, clichés, and stories; but the solution can’t be to stop using them. I’m