Learning to Cry: A Journey Across Three Continents in Search of a Home.

By Louise Hyland

Learning to Cry will have you traipsing through the bush of South Africa, living the opulent Orange County, California lifestyle and enjoying a pint in middle class England. The sudden loss of her father in the middle of Africa creates a stirring in the author to discover who she is, where shes from and where she really belongs. The journey across three continents uncovers secrets, lessons about family and, finally, unconditional love and acceptance. The journey , both devastating and empowering, provides her with the courage to make life altering decisions in search of true happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481742191

Book preview

1

If enough tears slip onto my laptop, perhaps it’ll start a fire or, better yet, make the whole damn thing explode. Then the plane will come crashing down, and I won’t have to make this journey.

This is all I can think as I make the first leg of my journey from Orange County, California, to Atlanta on my way to Johannesburg. The tears spill onto my laptop as I try to write the words I will say at my father’s funeral—that is, if my stepmother, Edith, will allow me to even say anything. I can’t believe I’m crying in public. Actually, I can’t believe I’m crying at all. I haven’t cried in… well, I can’t remember the last time I cried. I taught myself not to cry a long time ago. I learned to squash my tears down in the oppressive heat of South Africa—my beautiful South Africa—as I watched my parents’ marriage disintegrate into the red dirt that otherwise created Eden-like surroundings: the magnificent shroud of greenery amid the dozens of melodic languages of the native people; the serenity of the hippos, crocodiles, lions, and springbuck living side by side; and the constant warmth. None of that was enough to save their marriage. Not even the promise of wealth bursting from the gold mines and not even me.

At age two, the hysteria around me was so dramatic that my mother’s doctor prescribed a sedative for me that allowed me to lie on the couch, doped up, while my parents divided their belongings. They then drove off in opposite directions with me sleeping on the backseat of my father’s car. I can only imagine that I must have felt like such a failure already, because I would spend the rest of my life trying not to disappoint them. If I wasn’t enough to keep their marriage together, I certainly wouldn’t be enough for them when they were apart. My dad’s frustration at my not being a boy, compounded by my mother spiraling into madness because of the stress of trying to parent me was enough for one lifetime. Being a weak little crybaby would never make them proud of me. It was time to toughen up. It was time to stop crying.

I notice a man sitting across the aisle from me, and he glances over repeatedly, watching my tears splash onto my laptop. I wonder how horrified he’d be if he knew that I’d rather have this entire plane go down in flames, with everyone on it, than have to cross the Atlantic and face what I must. I smile as I consider his incredulous face at the thought and realize it’s the first time I’ve smiled since I heard the news yesterday. Re-living the call from my half-sister, Grace, brings on a fresh eruption of tears, so I bite my forefinger in a desperate attempt not to wail out loud. I know I mustn’t do that. My mother used to wail at the height of her depressions, and I cannot allow the flight attendants to think I am mad too. If I appear mad, they might not allow me to board my connection to Johannesburg. And although I don’t want to make this journey, part of me desperately wants to get there to see for myself that my dad really is dead.

When Grace called from South Africa where she lives with my stepmother and dad, she told me my dad had died in the Congo, and no family member had seen him yet. What if it’s a mistake? What if it’s someone else’s father? Until I see his body, I won’t be able to accept it. His body is scheduled to arrive at the Johannesburg airport around the same time my flight lands. I have already promised myself I will not look out of the window when the plane lands. I will not scan the tarmac, looking for a casket being conveyed from the bowels of a plane, along with the luggage of the living. I bite my finger and the inside of my cheek, and my crying simmers down to a quiet whimper. For now, I am safe from the wailing.

When I spoke to Grace yesterday, I felt my knees crumple under me. The news of my daddy being dead had me sinking to the floor. I desperately hoped I would pass out and not have to deal with any of it, but my personally inflicted early training—how to be stoic; how to solve a problem and move on—kicked in for the duration of the call. I discussed details with Grace, and we exchanged timelines and made arrangements.

Once the call was over, I sat on my knees and sobbed into the side of my bed while Chris, my husband of eighteen years, did what all good South African husbands do in times of crisis: he made tea. Then he begged me to allow him to come with me, knowing how difficult it would be to face the family that hates me, particularly now that I would have to face them without the buffer of my dad. Eventually, we made airline reservations for me—and only me—to fly to Johannesburg. I knew I had to do this alone.

So here I sit, desperately trying to write a coherent eulogy, one that will honor my father but also dispel the notion held by my stepmother and her children that I am stupid or shallow and that I have sacrificed my family for a life of wealth and pompous class. Despite all my childhood memories and despite the terrified child that lives in me today, they are convinced that my search for a better life is a superficial quest for designer clothes, shoes, and South African diamonds. They will forever refuse to see that I purposefully searched out and married into a family so very different from my own, and they will forever ignore the often painful steps I have endured to create and be a part of a family that is very different from the example of my childhood.

But I cannot escape the internal nagging that they are right. Just weeks ago I was in South Africa with my daughter, Claire, as she competed at the South African National Gymnastics Championships. My dad would have liked nothing better than to watch his granddaughter… but I didn’t call, and I didn’t e-mail him to tell him we would be in South Africa, in Pretoria where he lives, one simple freeway exit from his home. In fact, I looked around hesitantly all the time we were there, hoping none of my family would see us there. I just couldn’t bear having to see Edith and feel so small, so insignificant, and so afraid, and I knew I would have to see her if I wanted to see my dad. I also knew that the stress this interaction would cause me would be impossible to hide from Claire, and she was under enough pressure to perform well without my being a wreck too. At the time, my reasoning made perfect sense to me, but right now, trying to write this eulogy, I hate myself and know I always will.

I know I must write this eulogy while I am still coherent enough, as I plan on being expensive-scotch-drunk by the time I board my connection. I plan on being as drunk as my mom was the night my dad came home to a filthy house, a filthy child, and a passed-out wife. I plan on being as drunk as my dad was when he reportedly hit her, and as drunk as she was when she retaliated by chasing him down the street with a bread knife.

The only difference is that I will be expensive-drunk, not cheap-booze-drunk, and right now, to me, that does make a difference. I’m convinced I’ll be allowed to board the next flight drunk, but being tearful at the death of my father will have me thrown off the plane. The logic doesn’t make sense, but years of equating crying to weakness or craziness allows it to make sense, if only to me.

2

Air travel has made possible the physical transportation of a person from Orange County, California, to Johannesburg in less than two days. No psychological or emotional transportation mode exists, so I must find a way to assimilate all my senses to emotionally be in Johannesburg. The overpowering odor that greets me is exactly what I need to drag me from my personal agony. It is a blend of wealthy white South Africans who bathe in hundred-thousand-dollar bathrooms decorated in hand-hewn Italian tile, with French milled soaps and imported shampoos, and black South Africans who live, bathroom-less, in locations—communities where tin-shack homes are made with found, stolen, and occasionally purchased pieces of corrugated iron and have no running water—and certainly no indoor plumbing. Bathing is not high on the list of priorities. Since. the squashing of apartheid, there certainly has been some crossover but not enough to quell the knowledge of which odor belongs to whom.

The air is heavy with the desperation of survival—a manic desire to retain a paying job. It is this desire that brings three or four men who are twice my age scrambling to help me with my bags. But I know the drill. I am, after all, South African in all but passport. I wave them away and load my bags onto a cart. I make it through passport control, where I am quizzed about my desire to be an American when I am South African-born. How do I explain? I am white, and the passport control officer is not. He thinks I have led a privileged life, free from the struggle of apartheid. I wonder if his parents helped him through the years of apartheid, assuring him of their unconditional love and his worth. I long to sit with him, have a drink, and compare notes on our childhoods. His confidence overpowers mine, so I already know he wins in the family arena.

I make my way through customs, expecting them to pull me aside to examine my baggage. I have far too many suitcases for the ten days I am scheduled to be here. One suitcase contains only shoes. As I was hastily packing, I couldn’t decide what to wear for my dad’s funeral. I pulled out two dresses that I knew would be appropriate, but then my thoughts started spiraling. Edith will think this is too short and too revealing. She’ll start criticizing me to everyone attending the funeral, just as she did at my wedding. If Patrick is there, he will think I am coming on to him, just as I’m sure he thought I was when I was six or seven, and he started coming into my room and touching me in a way I knew wasn’t right.

I am confident that all my step-siblings—Greg, Patrick, Helen, and Roger—will be there, and the eight-year-old inside of me cannot bear their taunting, even at thirty-eight years old. So I have packed almost everything I own, mulling over and over in my head for much of the journey, What will I wear? What will I wear?

I wheel my cart through customs—jet-lagged, hungover, and scared—realizing I am one step closer to facing the people who have hated me since they met me when I was four. Only this time, it will be without my dad. I once again desperately wish I’d have mustered up the courage to endure their taunting and their scorn just last month so my dad could’ve seen his granddaughter compete in the National Championships. My pathetic weakness has robbed my father of that experience. I tell myself his heart might have hung on a little longer; he might have had reason to live a little longer, knowing that I was back in his life and with me, my children. He might have lived long enough for us to make things right between us. Now, because I am a bumbling weakling, things will never be right. This makes me want to cry again. I know I mustn’t, so I bite the inside of my cheek, a trick I learned long ago. The flesh from my right cheek protrudes into my mouth from being bitten so often that dentists have asked me about it. I deny knowing what has caused it but truthfully, I know it’s the only thing that keeps me sane, the only thing that keeps me from losing it on a tsunami-level scale. It’s the only thing that allows me to forget. Until now.

Once I pass through the gate after customs, I know my sister, Grace, my stepmother, Edith, or any of my step-siblings will not be there waiting. I know this for two reasons: they did not offer to pick me up, and I did not ask. I walk into the arrivals lounge and fold myself into the waiting arms of the only true family I have known for the last twenty years. There, waiting for me, is my husband’s sister, Janet, and her daughter, Karen. I cry because I know it is safe to cry with them and I cry because they, too, have tears streaming down their faces. My pain is their pain.

I know I look like shit; my mascara is streaming down my face, my clothes are disheveled, and I know I smell of scotch—too much scotch.

Janet wraps her arms around me. C’mon, let’s get you home.

Home. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.

3

The next morning I pull up to the funeral home and check my makeup one more time in the mirror. I’m already driving on the left-hand side of the road with a raging hangover, and having narrowly escaped a few collisions, I’d like to avoid any more disasters—my makeup not being perfect would be a disaster.

I’m greeted by my dad’s sister, Aunt Wendy, and her husband, Uncle Rob, who lead me inside. I am suddenly face-to-face with my stepmother, her daughter, Helen, and my half-sister, Grace. I think how confusing the lineup must be to an outsider. Helen is Edith’s child from her previous marriage, I am my father’s child from a previous marriage, and Grace actually belongs to both of them. Aunt Wendy is my and Grace’s aunt but not Helen’s. It’s not your regular family tree but, if laid out, might look a little more like a baobab tree. The baobab tree was my dad’s favorite, with its gnarly branches that spike in different directions. It gives the impression of the roots growing above ground, giving it its nickname of the upside-down tree.

This family feels upside down to me.

We are all introduced to the funeral-home director, whom I immediately note has a traditional grandmotherly Afrikaans build—block-like, sturdy, and short. Her accent has the lilt of an Afrikaans woman who has learned English at school but who will never speak like an English woman. White South Africans are easily divided into two categories: those who are English and those who are the Dutchmen, as we called them when we were children. They are the Afrikaans-speaking descendants of the original Dutch settlers. Over the decades, the term Dutchmen has taken on a derogatory aura, insinuating stupidity and being uneducated. I think of how many times I hurled the insult dumb Dutchman at the Afrikaans kids in our neighborhood as they hurled back "blerrie rooinek." The term means bloody redneck and is a throwback to the Anglo Boer war, when the British arrived in South Africa less than suitably attired and had the back of their necks scorched by the brutal South African sun. In my case, it was also an appropriate insult. My fair British skin went from lily white in the winter to pillar-box red in the summer. The kids could tell whether I was a Dutchman or a rooinek before I even opened my mouth.

In their broken English, the Dutchmen would chase us down the street, rocks in hand, as they threatened to frow you wiff a stone! My tiny frame’s only defense was to laugh and mercilessly make fun of their bad English and their stupidity. After all, I would taunt them, they were too weak to pick me up and throw me along with the stone. I stopped making fun of them once the first rock made contact with my head. After that, it seemed the battle had been won, and the blood dripping down my face declared me the loser. We devised a plan for all the English kids to gang up and lie in wait for the Afrikaans kids. We would give them a resounding pounding and throw their bikes in the bushes with the most thorns. I remember feeling a little guilty about the carnage we left behind, but it was easily assuaged by my attendance at the weekly Wednesday afternoon youth Bible study. Showing up at the group run by Mrs. Smit and Mrs. Joubert began as a way to score a free meal. They would hand out sandwiches, biscuits, and sodas in exchange for an hour of our time. But I soon learned that if I showed up and prayed for forgiveness, all the rocks I had hurled, all the poundings I’d given, and all the bikes I’d hidden would easily be forgotten in exchange for a simple prayer. I was, once again, a perfectly nice little girl. Worked like a charm every week.

Today, I sit across from a Dutchman, and no insults are hurled. Instead, her lovely face matches her soft voice as she offers very genuine sympathy. She offers tea or coffee, and I know I should have some tea to help settle my alcohol-pickled stomach, but as no one else accepts, I don’t either. My dad’s body still has not arrived from the Congo, so all my worry about seeing the coffin at the airport was in vain. There is a brief conversation about why it has been delayed, but it all goes over my head. Apparently, South Africa has very strict regulations about how a body must be prepared and how the coffin must be sealed in order to avoid anything being smuggled in with it—drugs, money, or even an accidental insect. The Democratic Republic of the Congo has equally strict regulations about verifying that the correct body is leaving the country; the paperwork must be perfect. Someone makes a comment about how backward other African countries are. I hear it, but it means nothing to me. My mind is spiraling with fury. How dare he? How dare he fucking die in the fucking Congo? How dare he spend his life dedicated to providing electricity to countries throughout Africa? How dare he leave me for weeks at a time with a family that hated me while he went off to fulfill his career goals? How fucking dare he? But mostly, all I can think is How dare he fucking