Johanna's Straddling Worlds: A Journey of Self-Discovery

“Did you say you speak Portuguese?”

I did, yes.

“Where are you from?”

New Zealand.

“New Zee-lant-an. Where is that?”

In the Pacific. It’s in the South Pacific, near Australia, and we speak English. And Maori. We have different names for most things though, like kangaroo is wallaby, and a bus is a coach.

“You mean like Wall Street?”

No, Walla-boy. Walla-boy is what we call a native person of New Zealand. And we don’t say ‘good morning’ or ‘good afternoon’ or ‘good evening’, just ‘hi’ and ‘bye!’

I was on a train from Lisbon to Porto, and this guy started talking to me in Portuguese because I was eating pao de queijo and he wanted one too. He offered to buy me a beer if I told him about New Zealand.

We went to a bar together and drank a few beers, then another guy joined us who spoke some English, so I didn’t actually get to tell him about my country after all—he just listened as the first guy explained why he thought I might be Latina instead of Maori.

It wasn’t until later that evening when they helped me find my hostel that I realised they were probably gay—but I didn’t think that mattered because I wasn’t interested in either of them (which was lucky because they both had boyfriends). But what was most interesting was that they seemed to do everything with each other: order drinks and food at the bar, hold hands while crossing streets (so many people doing that here!) And they always spoke Portuguese to each other even though the second guy knew some English. That made me wonder how much language had to do with being gay; how much something like language could make two people into more than friends but less than lovers.

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It was years before I saw my father again. He left New Zealand when I was four so he could work as a chef on cruise ships, travelling the world and writing letters home which never said very much except that he loved us very much. He said he would be back in eight months but it turned out to be eight years before he returned—and then only because my mother wrote begging letters herself (although she never used those words). She sent a map showing where she lived now; she sent photos of herself and me; she sent his birth certificate which had his new address on it; she sent everything she could think of to make sure her son still knew where his father lived. But all he wrote back were two letters: one for me saying how excited he was to be seeing me again soon, and one for her saying how sad it made him feel to know how lonely she must be living without him after all these years apart from him; how hard it must be for her without his strength to help her raise such an independent daughter who clearly only needed three months after birth before she learned to walk by herself instead of needing her mother there every step of the way...

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My mother brought me up by herself; at least that is what we both called it even though my grandmother lived with us too. She had moved in after my mother came back from England where she had gone during the war while my father served overseas in the Air Force as part of a bomber squadron based out of Lincolnshire. The war was over by then but there were still bombsites everywhere making it unsafe for children—so my grandmother took me in until my father got back from Europe himself and could take over looking after me properly again when we moved back home to Auckland. Except he never did move home—he said he couldn't afford it on his pay so maybe we should wait until he got promoted (and anyway he wouldn't have time for anything else if he had to look after his baby daughter alone), so we waited until she grew old enough not to need looking after any more before my parents finally got married... It sounds strange but that's how it happened: one day there was no marriage; then one day there was one again; then a few years later there was another baby...And meanwhile my grandmother stayed with us until she died (of natural causes) before having time even to get used to having grandchildren of her own...It's strange thinking about it now: the way families can fall apart or come together in unexpected ways...The way families can be born or die...The way parents can be fathers or mothers or neither...How sometimes someone can leave home only when they already live there no longer...Or how sometimes they can go away only when they will always belong there no matter where they are...Or perhaps even still belong there even when they arrive home again—or never arrive home again at all... * * * * In letters often punctuated with lots of kisses (the ones from him) or lots of love (the ones from her), my parents told us how much they missed us when we weren't around anymore but were also very proud of us for doing so well without them around all our lives; how everything looked different where they were now compared with where we were now; how nothing ever changed except everything except themselves; how life went on whether you were watching or not...But every year on Christmas Day, as well as birthday cards with money inside them for whatever I wanted next year instead (money which I spent mostly on books), there would always be an extra card with money inside it too which I would send straight back in reply—money which went straight towards the university fees I needed just before turning eighteen instead...And yet sometimes even that money arrived early enough to see me through some difficult times while at university too: times when I missed Mum so much it felt like losing Dad all over again whenever something reminded me of either of them separately but especially together too (like hearing their laughter outside my window even though everyone else around me laughed louder); times when I felt too far away from them both while still not far enough away from either one alone but especially together too (like feeling closer to Dad whenever someone showed interest in me without having met him first myself); times when life felt like nothing else but solitude after growing up without anyone else around except them both (like feeling their presence together whenever someone asked about their absence)...But by the time things changed for good between Mum and Dad once more later on in life—when Dad really did move back home at last—it didn't really seem relevant anymore whether someone called themselves Mum or Dad anymore: not because people don't matter any more than other people but because other people matter more than ever before; not because family matters less than other families but because other families matter more than ever before; not because history doesn't matter anymore but because future matters more than ever before....So although change has been slow-going sometimes, change has also been faster-moving than ever before: faster-moving than ever before between places (like moving country); faster-moving than ever before between lives (like travelling through generations); faster-moving than ever before between ages (like growing up suddenly); faster-moving than ever before between sexes and sexualities (like discovering your own)—perhaps even faster-moving than ever before between worlds itself: worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds...And perhaps this time round living won't feel so much like waiting—waiting for something better or worse to happen, waiting for things not changed quite yet either way—because maybe this time round loving won't feel quite so much like leaving either: leaving behind feelings lost long ago (like feeling like losing Mum all over again whenever something reminds you of Dad instead) nor quite so much like staying behind either: staying behind feelings found long ago (like feeling close to Dad whenever someone shows interest in you without having met him first yourself). Perhaps this time round love will finally feel like living somewhere exactly halfway between belonging nowhere else anymore and belonging everywhere else instead: belonging somewhere exactly halfway between loneliness once more later on in life and intimacy finally found once more now instead...Because perhaps this time round loving will finally feel like learning once more exactly what belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...What belonging really means once more ...Perhaps this time round love will finally feel like learning once more exactly what belonging really means once more ...Like finding home right here right now right inside ourselves instead ...*