CAKE | 18 — Winging it

I used to think that at some point I would know. Know as much as all the others who appeared to be in control and capable, always confident. I assumed they knew something I didn't. Turns out we're all just winging it.

It's been over twelve months since I travelled outside of the country. And it might just be another year before I will feel safe to do so again. Surprisingly not being able to leave reminded me of my childhood and of being confined to a tiny corner of the world in rural Poland where I used to dream of a place with a full range of colors. We heard of amazing things being available outside of our border. Of swimming pools and walkmans and chocolates and colorful scrunchies and freedom. We lacked so many things back then. We lacked words. Scarcity, anxiety, assimilation, stress. These terms were unknown to us. Their effects existed and we recognized them as challenges but we didn't name them. We hardly ever spoke of them. We brushed them aside. Some might think of us as naive. But that's not what we were. We were well aware of the demands set upon us by our circumstances. But perhaps by not naming and reflecting on them we didn't dwell on their repercussions since we could do little else than press on. Perhaps this illiteracy granted us the necessary ambiguity and innocence to overcome our pain. We didn't need linguistic signs to know that we needed to pass them. Perhaps this disconnect between our world and our language has even spared us more agony. Only later and by looking back did we acknowledge these difficulties. Realizing their scope when recounting a seemingly innocent story from our lives and leaving everybody at the table aghast. We immediately tried to brush the silence aside with an uplifting But I guess I learned a lot. Until somebody reassured us Honey, sometimes we don't need to learn that much. 

I wasn't the one who decided to leave. I came here as a child, together with my family. We were all clueless back then. We didn't know better but to desperately improve our lives. Upward mobility, another one of the words we didn't have. Oh, you were economic migrants. An artist I rented a room from in Berlin once passed this judgement upon hearing when and how I had arrived in Germany. I was in my late 20s, she must have been in her 40’s. She was dressed in a silk robe, standing in her kitchen and making espresso when she uttered this statement with an air of certainty and disregard that shook me to the core. We chose to move, yes, we weren't forced to. I see the indisputable distinction. But to her the step my parents took to facilitate more possibilities for my sister and me was something to condemn. After all how bad could have life in Poland been? There was no war, was there? Bad enough for my mother to be questioned by police for hours for crimes she had never committed due to her family connections in Germany. Bad enough that electricity and coffee were sometimes not available and herring in cream with boiled potatoes was considered a feast. Bad enough that if you really wanted something you had to bribe your way to get it. Bad enough that we queued up at our local store not knowing what was being sold that day. We just joined in and waited, at times for hours since we didn't have anywhere to go anyway. Sometimes we got sugar, other times wool socks, if they weren't sold out by the time our turn came. Until finally in June 1988 we refused to wait any longer and left.

My answer to the question where I was from has always been met with the same disregard. My native country did not elicit delight. Not even a curious Which city? or an elated Oh, I've been there once. Very few longed to see it and experience its culture. Poland seemed to remain forever tainted by communism and poverty. That has changed in the past years, as has my own perspective. But back then for some reason people thought we were good at little else than stealing. Though as a teenager I couldn't even manage to swipe a lipstick in our local department store on a dare. I was useless at being Polish and being Polish was nothing to be admired for anyway. So I put it aside like one puts away a boring book. To Poles I was the German girl. Yet I would never be accepted as fully German here, I already knew that much at the age of ten. And I still feel that way today. No matter all the accomplishments, my last name will always be regarded with subtle disinterest. And so I will forever suffer from a cognitive disconnect. Nevertheless it astonishes me to still be referred to as a young Pole, the last time by a highly educated man of all people. He presumed that as such I lacked the necessary knowledge to fully comprehend an allusion I was making in regards to racism. As if by granting me the status of a "young Pole" my alleged lack of knowledge of German history was excusable. I think he thought he was being kind. Admittedly, I was almost flattered by the adjective but the ignorance of being discounted as anything but German after having lived here for over 30 years is astounding. But that's a consequence of his effortless life. Of not having had to try harder. To some people we will always remain the other. It's hard to surpass privilege. 

Immigrating to another country is like hiking up a mountain. We know the view is better from up there so we keep on moving. Even if we cannot see the peak and the weather keeps changing. Even if our shoes are not water resistant, the jacket we brought with us turns out to be useless, our hair is a mess and our shoulders burn from the pack, we press on. Sometimes we have to pause to adjust to our new surroundings; to exhale and acknowledge our progress. Moving upward hardens our body (we form muscles we didn't know existed) and it might even harden our spirit. But here's the thing. We must not become bitter. So instead we try to keep in mind that everything will fall into place eventually. Yes, the air will become thinner and exert less pressure. And at the end acclimatization will become a way of life; the peak was never our destination anyway. We just keep on moving. Without knowing where the path will lead us. Who ever knows what's around the corner anyway? Even the most reliable prognosis can turn out to be false. And even the biggest disappointment can end in happiness. We cannot possibly anticipate what losses and tragedies await us. If we did we would not be willing to even take one step forward but instead freeze amid the certainty of imminent pain. For we all will lose at some point. We will lose loved ones, cities and keys, we will lose direction, memories and money. We might even lose ourselves at times. But we will always gain more than we expected. Resilience for one.

Turns out nobody ever really knows what's ahead of us. Possibly a devastating winter and another lockdown. Or an opportunity to reconnect with things forfeited in the rush of life. I think we all could use some negative capability; the capacity to tolerate pain and ambiguity and to revere in doubt and confusion. There is beauty in not knowing, in not being able to name things. In winging it.