The fairy egg mother

No fear of perfectionism

A few months ago I wrote about how my dad ended up living in Germany and I mentioned that he often tells this one other story that’s actually quite funny. If nothing else, it’s funny because he usually cries tears of laughter when telling it. So here it goes. Some of this is embellished by how I imagine it went.

Imagine an ordinary sunny day in Oberhausen, Germany, in the 1970s. Tucked in West Germany, it’s the center of industrialization with coal mines all around the area.

It’s a quiet day, as Sundays go, when a small group of men entered the restaurant. They all had dark hair, almond shaped eyes and a slim build. And they were talking on top of each other. About what? Who knows! They were rambling on in a foreign language. Maybe they were talking about friends and family at home. Maybe they were reminiscing about their home country - the walks they used to take through the mountains and the trouble they used to get into with the neighbors.

While they looked very familiar with each other - like an old group of friends - I imagine that none of them had known each other for long. It was their shared experience, their shared story, that bonded them. Starting a new life far away from home in a foreign country working hard to build a life for yourself while also supporting your family back home. They had arrived in Germany around a similar time period as part of the worker recruitment plan with Korea and shared the same hopes, hardship, disappointment and joy. The same harsh working conditions, the same sense of adventure.

They took a peak around the restaurant and found a table in the back. The waiter was just standing by, watching the group with curiosity. It was hard not to notice them, they were sticking out like a sore thumb. Once they settled, the waiter walked over pen and paper ready to take their order. He wasn’t quite ready for what followed though.

Instead of telling him their orders, they motioned onto the menu and spoke words that he had a hard time identifying. He had to focus hard to listen, but yet - no idea what that could mean. He tried listing out the popular menu items - Schnitzel, Kartoffelsalat, Sauerbraten. But he was only met with either shaking heads or blank stares. He had no idea what they wanted.

Finally one of them motioned to his notepad. He hunched over the little notepad drawing a circle. An empty plate? A potato? The waiter was waiting for him to continue drawing something more distinguishable. But instead he put the pen aside and tapped onto the circle with his fingers saying “Mother!”

Mother?? What on earth were they trying to say? Were they making fun of him? He scratched his head while they continued to say ‘Mother, Mother!’ and the pointing on the circle more forcefully. Finally one of them started to move his elbows in and out making a weird chuckling noise and he understood.

The circle was an egg. And they wanted the egg’s mother - a chicken! Brathähnchen!

And that’s how my dad ordered his first roasted chicken. It has remained a favorite of his along with the occasional Bratwurst whenever he gets a chance under my mother’s watchful eye.

Up until this day, he cries tears of laughter every time he tells this story, hardly able to finish the story through his laughs. And that’s the reason this is my favorite story he tells. It seems filled with nostalgia and good times, though the circumstances under which they all got to be there seem rough.

It’s also a reminder that you can make yourself understood no matter how. That there is no shame is using hands, feet, sounds, notepads and anything else to communicate. That your language skills don’t have to be perfect in order to use them to connect with others.

I have always looked at my cousins in wonder - cousins who live in Korea and are perfectly able to communicate in English. In writing. But are too shy to try to speak it in conversation because the pronunciation may not be perfect or they can’t think of the right word to use in the moment.

Having lived ‘abroad’ for the last almost 20 years I can confidently say, that I am more of my father’ daughter. I’ll explain, I’ll point, I’ll try. After all these years of working and living speaking English, there are still words that I haven’t heard. There are things I have a hard time pronouncing or that others have a hard time understanding. However you want to look at it. Like water, [woter] vs [wadder]. It’s a constant amusement point for me that’s usually resolved by Dan chiming in and pronouncing it in ‘American’ for the server to understand. Yes I could make more of an effort to take on the American accent. But it’s a fact that I am not American and I am not pretending to be. And I am ok if people can hear that.

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