Baltic Backbone

LIFE IS BETTER WITHOUT YOU

The Baltic Backbone

Eliza Burmistre

2017

Table of Contents Rajons 7 Spoguļattēls

8

Mamma 9 Auseklis 11 Laima 12 Sālsmaize

14

Mīlestība

15

Ceļojums

16

Lāčplēsis

17

Pirts 18 Barikādes

19

Josta 20 Little Brother 21 Sapņi

23

Māte

25

Virtuve 27 Ozols 28 Ziema 30 Anglija 31 Saknes 33 Glossary 35

LIFE IS BETTER WITHOUT YOU

To everyone who’s ever asked me what it’s like to be Latvian and not having lived there a lot of the time.

I hope this is enough of an insight into my life.

Rajons [n. your neighbourhood]

surrounded by red and white bricks in an open courtyard, my friends hang out by rusty monkey bars. they ride low trick bikes and snapbacks while cutting class and i join them. our conversations flow from slang that we developed years ago, to words stolen from other languages and made our own. it’s skateboarding, and smoking and staying out until mothers call over balcony edges to come home. i know all the alleyways like scars on my palms, scuffed up from tricks that landed me in the gravel. when it gets too cold to loiter, we crowd in narrow stairwells that smell of cats, urine and alcohol. we avoid glass from broken window panes. we know not to laugh too loudly because the russian lady living below will open her door on the chain to teach us a few new curses to use on the streets. but we run out laughing anyway, before she catches us. you’re only fifteen once.

8

Spoguļattēls [n. the truth reflected]

the mirror glints at me. a pale shape shrouded in bulky layers, frame of just about 5’8”. I promise. a curtain of Latvian grey hair from a square face, teal orbs glint from a nest of crow’s feet and under tell-tale eyebrows a broad nose pokes out a spot too far, steals the show from the immediate sun freckles and faded spot scars. a parade of soda-stained teeth brace the front lines of cheeky grin. the mouth that necks down bottles shoulders that hunch in and pop out, a straight back and red indents from bag straps and a light chest carrying a heavy load. a middle that wrinkles under baggy shirts squeezing over waistbands, buttons pulled over belly thighs wedged into stiff jeans, leaving train tracks on my sides at night. calves stuck in the material when it’s pulled up and the jeans rest an inch too high above my ankles, giving the world a glance at teal unicorn socks in ratty old converse.

“I have never felt better.”

9

Mamma [n. a worrying warrior]

The first beat, the first breath, the first hair on my head was my mother’s.

She put the words in my mouth, the bend in my knee and a hand to hold.

Every cry about the spaghetti being too close to the sauce, every knee grazed riding bikes and climbing up trees, every great teenage romance that ended after two weeks and the wrong emoji.

The late nights spent waiting in concert hall parking lots, checking the dashboard clock every five minutes and turning on the music a click louder when her eyelids felt like Velcro.

Every maths equation gone over twice and every essay proofread because class + teacher ≠ understanding.

Every Back-To-School trip with a list of requirements to look cool and they didn’t even help.

In return, a letter in shaky block letters about how ‘mommy iz purfict’, a macaroni portrait that could have looked like anyone, a clumsy crocheted potholder that hasn’t moved from its kitchen hook.

Then the calls get less frequent.

9 am lectures and late night studies, Friday night parties and Saturday morning hangovers, the New Years’ and summers spent with friends.

Because the concert is only in town tonight

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and mom and dad are always at home.

Because the 20s are for enjoying myself.

Because I don’t want to turn into my parents.

Then the visits are for birthdays and name days, a card for Mother’s Day and tulips on March 8th.

I come home for Midsummers and Christmas, opposite ends of the year with the family when everyone gets drunk on a keg of beer and crashes in the guest house at 5 when the sun has come up, or when everyone debates my career prospects after mulled wine and a 12-course meal my mother is still making.

My mother, just on the other side of a telephone line.

My mother, who makes the best cup of linden tea.

My mother, always ready with the right advice.

My mother, the person I’d be grateful to be.

11

Auseklis [n. deity of sunrise and new beginnings]

the windows cloak themselves in the remnants of yesterday. every putdown that plagued your sleep is now projected in the shadows. ‘you’re not good enough,’ ‘no one likes you,’ ‘why do you even bother?’ scrawled in your script with a shaking hand. the lines cut you deep, over and over. then the lines seem to join up in the light. only two at first lean against each other, then more until they form regular eight-pointed stars. under the orange shine, the taunts seem to burn and shrivel to dust. as the light softens into pink, peach, yellow, more stars appear on my firmly shut curtains. they spell out ‘you can do this. today is a new day. enjoy it.’

12

Laima [n. deity of fate and destiny]

laima sat on the mountain in the sky, weaving threads of fate for a baby girl. she was born on the hottest day of the year, demanding attention from the very start; she would be a fighter. laima wove gold into her childhood, long blonde tresses, fields of wheat to run through, warm summer days that seemed to never end. she stitched an eight-pointed auseklis to protect her from scraped knees and broken toys. laima wove blue into her youth, uniform school dresses, ribbons in braids and stacks of notebooks to scribble in. she embroidered zalktis onto sleeves, an adder wrapped around wrists to teach wit. laima wove red into her early adulthood, midsummer’s sunrises, smacked cheeks after run-ins with the cold breeze, and stop signs. she protected the girl with mÄ ras cross, a nagging conscience on bad dates, she tugged at strings on the tapestry, dragged her away from boys when she deserved men. laima wove white into her wedding dress,

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a hand crocheted lacy veil, the first silver hair among a sea of gold, the embroidery thread on handkerchiefs stained with mascara. she sneaked in a jumis in the pattern of the throw, planting fertile seeds into their family tree. laima wove green into her prime, ink-stained stamped passports, green knees on three jeans, pitched tents among pine trees. she scattered saules and rows were resolved before bed, intertwined fingers and hugs stronger than pride. laima wove black into her old age, into newspaper obituaries, mascara her husband bought her, hemming of the funeral dress. she sewed her own slotiņa into the tapestry, final stitches pulled taut, then laid to rest.

14

Sālsmaize [n. making a house feel like a home]

the couple greeted their guests in tandem, “hi hello it’s been so long, we’re glad you came, we’re really pleased with the progress, but of course it’s not done yet.” both sides of the family merged for the holidays, another knot in the family tree. they brought the essentials; loaves of sourdough and coarse salt, to warm the house up to being lived in. the new house with baby-bare walls, cupboards without doors or shelves and food in cardboard boxes on the floor. but they had a table to serve soup and pīrāgi, on plastic crockery because the china was still in boxes clinging to newspapers like it wanted to memorise everything about today. the house smelled of paint, chimney smoke and bittersweet sourdough bread. even though the new oven didn’t work, the counters hadn’t been put in yet and they were living out of suitcases, it already felt like home to them. after every relative expressed their expert opinion on how the air circulation in the fireplace was wrong or how the oak table was a “touch too grey”, they left the couple in their new home. step-up kisses on the stairs just like every day for twenty-three years.

15

Mīlestība [n. not hating someone even when you want to; love]

i taught you tenderness, how your fingers could have traced your last name down my body. you taught me patience, watching the typing dots bounce on dimmed chat screen windows i taught you kindness, to wrap your arms around me like vines up the trellis to my room. you taught me cruelty, your words still scour my cracks; you prick, just enough.

16

Ceļojums [n. an escape from your life]

When the cobblestones and the stone walls crash down on me, suck me in, I want to soar in a tin can propelled by fire to remind me why I love being alive.

The taxi, bus, wait in gate, my legs tap to my headphone beat, Dozing on the plane, daydreams of colourful parrots walking up and down beaches instead of riding on trains through graffiti neighbourhoods calling for unity and weed.

I get sucked into the local coffee shops, lost in different intonations and alphabets, confused among fluent tongues that don’t sound like duolingo, I blend into the wall, a spectator in the relationships of people whose paths intersect with mine, just this once – a reprieve from the looks and conversations about everyone and anyone back home.

My fingers itch to dig into the local soil, plant a flower or two and watch it bloom.

My tongue could learn to twist its way around guttural r’s, learn to drink espressos in cafes at 9:30 before work.

My skin could pick up the olive shine year-round and the sun could bleach my hair blonde.

If only my mind could clear memories of family I built from the rubble of the walls I knocked down around me.

I could move if I forgot how it feels to be happy here.

17

LÄ Ä?plÄ“sis [n. hero of the nation; Bearslayer]

a Viking on a ship refusing to pay tribute to a foreign leader in the front lines of village troops brandishing swords for his people saving them from traitors and crusaders with his bear ears fighting battles to stop the russification of a people who already have their own identity a soldier leaving home to fight for freedom for the first time an architect designing the statue to remind higher powers about resilience quiet patriot who wears the flag colours under his sleeve there at the barricades, holding hands in human chains a guardsman demonstrating his patriotism at school assemblies hockey players belting out the anthem acapella a blogger, businessman, bold Latvian these are all the people who keep the nation alive

18

Pirts [n. Latvian version of mindfulness; sauna]

we sit on polished aspen benches, heads almost touching the scorching ceiling. a ziemassvēku day with a twelve-course meal, a stroll along the sea with relatives and baking piparkūkas. dad heated the stones in the sauna. mom handed out towels and lavender pillows. we went in one by one, five of us fit in. sitting side by side, to keep idle minds occupied, we played the letter game. today it was ‘D’. doctor… data… dumbbell! dissertation… the sandglass on the wall ticked out after fifteen minutes and we left separately, stopping to rinse off in the cold shower. after a cup of linden tea, goose bumps appearing on my arms, we went back in. the air is thicker now. parched lips rest ajar, i refrain from panting like a dog to cool down. our topics turn to cousin this and cousin that and my parents’ school friend gossip. i can only follow the drops of perspiration gathering on my arm and how a small army trickles onto my towel at a downward twist. after another fifteen minutes, i’m the first to take a cold shower. i pour myself a cup of tea, drink it to the dregs without leaving the spot and pour another. we wait for our skin, now well-adjusted to the heat, to settle to a cool northern 36.7˚. i have another cup of tea before the last time. i walk in once more, the sauna now comforting suffocation. only dad came back for a third round. i get a lavender pillow and the top bench to lie down on. i leave after ten minutes and turn the shower on the coldest setting it has. i put on pyjamas and fill a glass up with water to take upstairs. i get into bed and sleep steals me away before i even manage a sip.

19

Barikādes [n. standing up for freedom; barricades]

i.

Firecrackers popped, polluting the air with juvenile sparks. Students and schoolchildren rush around, winding between stoic adults, wary eyes roaming the city square in case their peaceful protest ends in bloodshed.

Fronts, then backs, and fronts again warm around the bonfire while shivering fingers clutch already-cold tea in flimsy paper cups. Pižik-wearing guards man the alleys steel-eyed while young punks linger, adding to the mounds of cigarette butts in the gutter. A helicopter glides over Milda, bringer of freedom. Her weather-worn travertine relief on cheeks and flowers laid at her feet for grandparents, uncles, neighbours lost. She was a statue too important to destroy, but too controversial to praise. She got lost in the congestion. ii. three decades later, stoic adults and symbolic zemessargi stand in school parking lots. a below-zero morning when the sun is still tucked in her starry duvet. an army jeep shields a group of schoolgirls from the gusty windchill. a cauldron simmers over the impromptu campfire and the history teacher hands out cups of tea to shivering eleven-year-olds while the final years puff on cigarettes behind the chain link fence. sheet music is handed out, a group of six to a page. only those new to the school bother reading from it, everyone else sings with eyes closed and hearts open. after the unity and bravery speeches, the principal asks if anyone has any stories. each person standing on their own story; the original barricades; that’s where their parents met, their mum wouldn’t let dad go because a baby was on the way, they themselves were taken along when they were little. we sip at the cups of tea until the cold chills our bones and the bell rings for school to start.

20

Josta [n. holding things together before they fall apart]

Rainbow ribbon cinches my waist, holds my skirt above the hipbone in place as I dance; two metres; 25 woollen threads (cornflower blue for my eyes, rapeseed yellow for my hair and sunrise scarlet for exhausted cheeks). the belt wraps around me until only the tail trails down. It squeezes my waist, pressing under my diaphragm, I almost gasp for air. But I can’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Another step, another song, another dance. The Deju Svētki are in full swing, my parents stomping along to the beat, mouths form lyrics in tandem to the band. The blisters heal, the shoes stop pinching and I dance. A step, a hop, a jump, my sister’s arm links mine, my neighbour lifts me up by my waist and I’m flying. My lungs ache during the last notes of the anthem, my shoes pinch my toes as we step off the stage, my makeup has smeared from the sweat and tears and I can’t wait to do it again in five years.

21

Brālis [n. lifesaver]

Ten years I waited for you; climbed jungle gyms on my own, talked to toys in different voices and always played against the computer.

A little wrinkly pink thing, only laughing and crying for the first months, Mom and Dad spent all their time with you and I thought they liked you better.

Then came all the Saturday mornings, pancakes with funny faces for both of us the cartoons I grew up with on repeat and tickle wars that always ended on the floor.

But there were also fights over bigger cookie halves and time spent on the computer and how my hand was too close to your face but STILL NOT TOUCHING, CAN’T GET MAD. You never saw the days when my skin felt wrong, my body taking up too much space, when my brain told me I was too much, unnecessary and won’t be missed.

You cried with me in sympathy, big crocodile tears I couldn’t stop and confused, wet hugs from arms too small to hold that much love.

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The night you could have become an only child.

Six is too young to expect help from.

When too much sent my brain into self-destruct.

You were the override button.  

23

Sapņi [n. undeserved, not for us]

My grandparents wanted to travel, get into their little rubber boat and sail, push the motorbike to its limits and get lost, but they only saw soviet propaganda.

Instead they farmed. Learned to yank tractor gears, spent winter morning walking miles to the bus stop and planted the seeds for their children’s future.

I turned 18 and got on the first plane out, restless, ready to run from continent to continent.

I ran to follow my nerve, pen in hand, told to study, but at least I’d have the choice.

I didn’t have to dedicate my life to manual labour.

I stayed a hop away, 3-hour plane ride from home from the grandparents who can’t visit.

My brother had years on his side, he grew up with an iPad in the cradle, savvier online than an internet pirate.

He texts me changing the language three times a conversation.

He pursues life through a camera lens, immortalising every day, every moment made public for someone else to watch and share.

My brother and I will mould our words around us, armour in this age where a keyboard click can cut.

My brother and I will project a happier reality, focus on our families and improve what’s lacking.

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My brother and I will change the generation cynical and tired of never being enough.

My brother and I will change the world.  

25

Māte [n. someone who’s always looking out for you]

– Darling, don’t go near the lake!

Stay with your baba.

– Darling, what do you want from Santa this year? :) – Darling, have you done your homework tonight?

– Darling, I’m waiting in the car outside.

– Darling, remember you have violin and tennis tonight! :) – Darling, have you applied to uni yet???

The deadline is coming up…

– Darling, are you coming home this weekend? :) – Darling, did you get that job?

– Darling when are we meeting your other half ?

They’re welcome for dinner anytime this week :) – Darling, how’s the new job been?

– Darling will you spend christmas with us this year?

– Darling, how are my little darlings?

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– darling when are you next coming to visit?

– darling how old are my darlings? i dont think theyre little anymore – darling i miss you – darling where am i

27

Virtuve [n. the most important room in the house; kitchen]

the fan is buzzing overhead, over the crackling of pork in the frying pan and the boiling pot of potatoes. the ten inch tv is showing the six o’clock news. baba is cutting up a cucumber into slices for the salad, mixing a pinch of salt and pepper with a dollop of sour cream, before placing it in front of me for a taste test. the crunch, the runny dressing tastes like days off from school when i still needed looking after. i tell her about the brownies i had in the café today and how my best friend is doing in uni. she tells me about her neighbour with the one-eyed cat while stirring the chanterelle sauce. i take a biscuit from the sweet bowl – she pretends to not be looking. we finish cooking the meal just as mom, dad and opis pull up in the drive way. the five of us crowd around the table in the boxy kitchen, backs of chairs pressed up against counters. everything is an arm’s length away. the chatter of bad traffic and fussy colleagues turns into the cacophony of fork-scratching and knife-pulling to lips smacking while the fan is still buzzing overhead.

28

Ozols [n. the backbone of the nation; oak]

a behemoth stands before me, with veins weaving up his body. laugh lines, crow’s feet and wisdom wrinkles surrounded by a wreath of folioles perched on his crown. i come to see him every day on my way home. he tells me stories of people; he writes them down on leaves, reads them out, hoping they’ll live in pages of books instead of him. he tells me of the man who lived through four regimes, but never saw home again, always tucking burgundy-white ribbons in his lapel, for a country that no longer exists. he tells me of the brothers on opposing sides, pulled out of school at fifteen, a game of the reds vs the branded, who recognised their enemy a second too late. he tells me of the old woman who hid behind the stove in her youth, crouching, her legs numb, to avoid deportation to siberia in cramped cattle wagons because of her last name and farmland. this happened to one family, only three of the twelve babies born grew up to meet their grandchildren.

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he tells me of parents who sold everything for their children’s safe passage across the ocean, kids not yet waist-high sent off anywhere but here. he tells me how he sees men spewing hate for all to hear and he tells me it’s happening again. he tells me i should go before i don’t get a choice in leaving. i sit on grass in his shade, telling him my story. he nods along; he’ll tell the story of me too someday.

30

Ziema [n. when time moves slower as you speed up; winter]

steamy breaths flirt with cigarette fumes mixing on the streets over chapped lips and shivering fingers not swaddled in baba’s mittens for the nicotine break ashes fall to join the grimy remnants of city snow turning cancelled school days into slush that gets between wool wrapped, holey-leather encased toes when long blonde hair is tucked into coats double looped scarves under hoods the only word to describe the season is static i miss hating the summer heat

31

Anglija [n. a place I could call home]

i.

I remember the hills that left my feet throbbing, looking the wrong way when crossing streets and the days and days and days of rain.

The wind asked for three umbrellas as sacrifice.

I remember the cobblestone streets and the zig zags I’d memorised at night that cut short the walk home.

I remember the Georgian limestone, with touch-weary steps and secret alleyways that spring up on you.

I remember the quirky little corner shops and my bookstore just off the high street, overlooking the café and park across the road and with armchairs in front of the fireplace.

I remember our park, the swings where we flew out into the sky – that day we almost kissed. ii.

I spent spring’s first day in my garden. The concrete steps blossomed bluebells. Four picnic chairs and a holey round table, all stained with desolation. Weeds grew between the concrete steps that were only used to get to the tumble drier. The hedges hadn’t seen shears since the previous August (it was April now). The lush grass stuck up like cowlick. Deep cobalt sky only interrupted by electrical cables and three thin cloud puffs by the setting evening sun. It was still warm enough for flip flops, t-shirts

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and sunglasses, bright enough to be concerned about tan lines. The bird songs are scattered here and there, neighbouring trees rustle from the gentle breeze as it spreads the barbeque smell from next door’s garden party. iii.

The airport departures terminal has become my second home, the Starbucks staff almost family as they hand me the order I didn’t have to ask for.

You dropped me off at the airport, another goodbye you’ve said to me always one too many times.

I plugged in my headphones, sat down in my usual spot and the departures board rolls its eyes at me.

The tacky leather sofa by the stairs, next to Boots and far from the families wrestling with screaming children.

I tuned out the clamour and my brain telling me to stay with minor notes that send me back to being 15 and I don’t have to think any more.

‘Flight EasyJet 6223 to Paris is now boarding from Gate 11’

33

Saknes [n. a pair of shoes that always fit your feet; roots]

Every inch of homeland, coarse fertilised fields, amber-ridden sandy beaches, forests of tree roots, they beckon me home with a leaf flutter, the tide of waves and wheat-wreaking waft. I breathe in petrichor, pine, hear the gentle rustle of waves lapping the beach, I breathe out. The worries: politics and drama that tie their weight like anvils to ankles. Gentle wet taps on sinking sand chase me to and from the shore like a child. My feet leave a trail among the amber over the dunes. They disappear in the grove. The branches cling to me like moss, grabbing hold while they still can. My toes curl around the gravel, which pinches and pokes my blisters as I step out of the woods.

My feet brace for the cold, but it doesn’t reach them.

It only blows my hair into my eyes, the strands too wild or too short to be braided into a rope that hangs from my scalp.

When I reach the pasture, the grass comforts my feet.

My hands pull along the wildflowers, weaving them into a crown like my mother taught me; it shows off my nimble fingers and what my ancestors prided the family for.

At the end of the field is my house. Two stories, four walls, a floor covered in my stories, the roof that holds it all together.

Wooden beams to lean against, the roots to sink my feet back into.

The house remembers how my toes fit in to my slippers.

It will always help me settle in back home.

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LIFE IS BETTER WITHOUT YOU

Glossary: Auseklis – deity of sunrise; symbol is a regular eight-point star Baba – grandmother, shortened from the Russian Babushka Deju Svētki – Part of the Song and Dance Festival, an event that is essential to the culture and happens every 5 years.

Josta – belt or waist Jumis – deity of horses; symbol signifies fertility and prosperity, as well as luck on travellers’ journey Laimas slotiņa – a horizontal pattern to symbolise the deity Laima; literally ‘Laima’s broom’; ‘sweeps’ away bad information; the world tree symbol.

March 8th – International Women’s Day, especially celebrated in Latvia by gifting women with tulips Māra – deity of women and families Milda – the affectionate nickname of the Freedom Monument in the Brīvības square in Riga Opis – grandfather Piparkūkas – gingerbread; literally pepper-cakes Pīrāgi – small, crescent-shaped meat pies traditional to Latvian holiday meals Pižiks – A fur hat that covers the ears as well, typically of Russian origin.

Saule – the sun; protects the lineage, encourages constant movement.

Sālsmaize – housewarming, usually celebrated with sourdough bread and salt Zalktis – adder; symbol signifies wisdom Zemessargi – the National Guard Ziemassvēki – Christmas; literally winter-celebration

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LIFE IS BETTER WITHOUT YOU

2017