I miss speaking Serbian.
Since mom died, with a sense of vague unease, I am realizing I might be the last generation in my family to understand this language - anything from jokes and movie quotes to prose, poetry and song lyrics, might be lost for the generation I birthed. At least for the youngest two. My husband’s Israeli, my kids are bilingual, but they speak Hebrew. Ajvar, pita, sarma, kajmak, kobasica and ćevapčići have been the only Serbian words in their vocabulary and I was content with them having at least the Balkan palate if not the palatalization. My homeland lifeline, these past few months, has been my Serbian women walking group. “Šetačice” - socially distanced yet soul-filling, they’ve kept my spirits along with the step count in all weather since the pandemic started. Their presence has been especially soothing to my grieving heart.
But lately, I’ve been missing on our walks — my youngest son, still only 10, has recently realized the meaning of “forever”. Just the other night, I’ve found his giant stuffed toy dog on the floor - it had always been guarding the wall sprawled on his queen sized-bed.
“Why is this guy on the floor?” I was coming to tuck him in for the night, “I almost tripped.”
“I wanted… to have some space… in my bed” his voice was quiet and deliberate and I noticed he was stretching his eyes, trying not to cry, “in case… Bajče comes… in my dream… to cuddle with me.”
My heart shattered. It is one thing for me to be dealing with the aftermath of a monumental loss, discovering the “void shaped of exactly her lines, characters and customs, that sits in her place and stares at me”; it’s another to witness my child suffer. So we’ve been going hiking—opening up comes easier when we are in nature, both facing forward. We talk about everything else first. The other day, at school-on-Zoom, fifth graders were discussing which one wish they would choose for themselves if it could come true - the task was to type their answer in chat:
“Becoming invisible” typed one.
“Flying” chimed another.
“Scoring more goals” came from the sportiest kid in class.
“Getting 100% on all tests.” There is always a class nerd.
My son wrote: “To bring my grandma back.”
So today, I opted out of my Cyrillic crowd for another walk with my son. We both need to learn how to find peace and cultivate joy in this new reality, without Bajče. We decided to try a brand new trail - something fresh and unknown, an adventure.
The parking at the ravine was full, but we were in no big rush. Chicken wings for dinner were ready and marinating, the rest of our crew on a long bike ride…
HOOOOONK, HOOOONK, HONK, HONK!!! A grey sedan that entered the parking lot behind us, clearly didn’t see that I had to wait for another car to move in order for me to proceed. An elderly woman was taking her time getting into the car in front. HOOOONK!
I looked over my shoulder and motioned there was someone ahead. I couldn’t see the driver well other than he had a red baseball cap — my bile stirred, compliments of the former US president. HOOONK!
“Jesus. Late for a Rally much?” I muttered and Joshua laughed—we still do Trump jokes. My boy was also pleased to have snatched the front seat for this ride. The car ahead moved and I slowly began to drive. I noticed a young woman busying around car seats on both sides of her van. She gestured she was leaving. I signalled, so the Honker would know to pass me, but he stayed behind. At the same time, another car, mere meters away pulled out and I moved towards that spot. As I pulled up, the Trump hat with a grey mullet materialized at my window. It startled me. The man yelled why was I going forward when I already signalled. I cracked the window open: “Umm, first car, first spot rule?” In lieu of an answer, the prickly man ran in front of my car blocking the spot with his outstretched arms--he looked like a cheerleader--so his wife could jump in front of me and pull in. The car that just vacated the spot stopped, the driver came out.
“This is not your spot, Pal. It’s hers.”
“Hey, it’s OK. Thank you." I was relieved. "This lady is leaving too.” Indeed, the mini van left just few seconds later and we’ve backed into a big, wide spot.
Professional moms coming out of the car, always make sure we have water, phone, sunscreen etc. As I packed, I noticed the red hat in front of me again. Thankfully, he wore a mask and instead of MAGA, on his hat was written CANADA.
More yelling at me ensued. Why did I signal and why did I move. I attempted to address the parking etiquette. 20+ pre-Covid years, my work life consisted of parking and unparking from tight hospital parking lots, where people don’t park for pleasure nor for free. No help. He yelled some more, then joined his woman, still riled up and fuming. At the end of the parking lot he abruptly turned around and started towards us again. I tensed, expecting altrecation and turned my phone camera on. Luckily, he only went back to his car. They had forgotten their dog.
I decided to stay a few minutes behind, not quite rattled but surely not wanting the “trumpers” in sight while Joshua and I have our “important talk” walk. I knew his kind, the perpetually angry and bitter man archetype, young enough to feel he could bully despite being old enough to know much better. From afar, I snapped the photo of his car and license plate — he had already approached us a few times. His is the kind that launches racial or homophobic slurs; he looked like a jerk that enjoys scratching other people’s cars. He’d seen me take a photo. He was expecting it and waited for me as we stepped on the trail.
“Why did you take a picture of our car?” this time, the wife yelled at me first.
“You behave like people that may resort to vandalism.” I was aware that my son was observing me. He had never seen drama like this unfold. “You already showed you’re not respectful of rules, nor my space.”
“Then we will take a picture of your car.”
“You’re welcome to.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this in front of your son!” the little man shouted.
“On the contrary. I am showing my son how to stand his ground.” A couple that was on the bench looked up from their phones. Other walkers stopped to witness the shouting match. “It’s you who violated the rules.” I continued. “And you’re not a new driver. Shame on you. I’m so disappointed you’re wearing CANADA on your hat!” He shouted something else, but I put my hand up, and told Joshua we’re beginning our walk.
The woman started going back towards the parking lot, yanking the poor dog along, ready with her phone, but paused to wait for her furious husband.
“Pička joj materina!” she addressed her husband. It’s one of the worst swear expressions in Serbo-Croatian. He agreed, with the F word, again in our native language.
“More pička tebi materina!” Honestly, this wasn't me. My mouth did it, I swear. I swear.
I laughed out loud at the irony — I ended up speaking Serbian on this walk after all. Joshi and I crossed the first bridge over the East Don River, as always, stopping at the top to take a selfie.
And we talked. We talked about bullies, and parking rules. We talked about what does expression “walking away with a tail between the legs” means. And we talked about afterlife and near death experiences. I shared what I’ve read in Anita Moorjani’s book “Dying to be me”. Joshua said that he feels better when we talk about these things and I said he can always ask me anything. Then we made plans to watch “Soul” on Disney+ tomorrow, because it will rain. We’ve done 6500 steps.
“Mama, what does it mean “materinu”” Joshua asked tonight at bedtime, as I was tucking him in. He dragged the long “e”, it sounded ‘matereeeenoo’
“That… Oh, that, I’m not going to answer.”
