Walking the Wall

We got DVD family videos from Mongolia this week and sat down to watch them tonight.
My brother has been living in Mongolia for almost four years now, but
somehow it hasn’t felt so real as it does tonight. We’ve had lots of
pictures since he left, pictures of him standing with children in front
of a ger, pictures of him standing in front of a wedding chapel with
his new wife, pictures of him holding my nephew, his first child–but
they seem so static. The very nature of a photograph is to capture one
brief moment forever in film, so what we’ve gotten from my brother is
lots of little moments caught forever frozen. It gave the feeling of
postcards, like he was on a long, extended vacation to Mongolia–posing
with the people around him, but not really being there. Somehow
watching him on the television, laughing and talking, picking up his
baby, putting a ger together with his in-laws, doing a magic trick for
his niece–these were living moments. It was a bittersweet moment to
watch, on one hand I am thrilled that he has made a life for himself,
that he has managed to blend his American-ness with the culture he has
chosen to make a life in. On the other hand, there is a disjointed
feeling watching this man that I remember being born! I remember
changing his diapers, and watching my sister-in-law walk their son on
the floor was so odd because I remember helping Craig learn how to
walk, and ride his bike, and yell at him for going to the bathroom in
the bushes of a neighboring apartment. He’s our Craig and yet he is living an entirely different life where we have no place.

BUT…for all that the languages were different, and the faces were
different, not to mention the idea of moving ones house for the summer
was different–I saw my nephew being mushed on by his mom in the way
that only mom’s can, irregardless of slobber, being kissed as if there
was no tomorrow, I saw him being bounced in the air by his grandpa,
cuddled by his grandma, being sung to with his arms pulled around to a
song that had the feel of the “itsy bitsy spider” type song with his
aunt; I saw my brother sitting and laughing with his wife on the couch
as he amazed his niece with magic tricks, I saw him working with his
family there, putting together a ger, doing things the traditional way
and pulling out the drill to give it some modern stability, and I
realized, yet again, that you can live a world away, speak another
language, eat different foods, live in different houses–and yet we’re
all the same. It’s all about family, we all want our children happy and
well fed, we want a roof (whether shingled or covered in layers of
felt) over our heads, we sing and we laugh together and sometimes cry
together. I’m happy that my brother has extended and blended our
families together, and I’m happy that my nephew has such a loving
support structure around him–I look at all those faces that I’m
starting to know by name and get to now see the movements and voices
and all the things that make them individuals–not just snapshots–and
I have the sense that these are not strangers–these people are family
and there is nothing more important than family.