Growing Up and Apart
In the fall of 2013, I packed up my childhood room and moved from my small hometown across the country to the second biggest city in Bulgaria, Plovdiv, to live with my sister. Soon after, she started leaving me by myself for extended periods of time as she went to work abroad. This was a new experience for me.
Up until my early teens, I was used to having people around me at all times. My sister and I even shared a room, which I didn’t mind at all. Being on my own in Plovdiv and having to adjust to my new surroundings so quickly was very lonely. All of a sudden, this newly acquired abundance of personal space started bothering me. It often had me thinking about my childhood and missing the family I grew up around.
As a child, my family was one of the things I was most proud of. I would often boast to my friends about our huge family tree and how close we all were. Our relatives were always present in our lives and we would often just show up at each other’s houses unannounced. One of my uncles and his wife used to live in the apartment next to ours and we kept our front doors unlocked so we could pay each other a visit anytime we wanted to. It was also a given that we celebrated every holiday together. Our get-togethers were filled with laughter and music, and piles of delicious food that our grandmas prepared.
My grandma Elena’s house in the village was the junction of all these holidays and celebrations. For a woman that lived by herself, she was almost never alone. Summer and winter breaks were her busiest times because our parents would drop us off at her house and leave us at her mercy. We wouldn’t mind, though, because almost everyone in that village was related to us in some way. That meant we always had someone to spend time with and that there was also never a moment of peace in our household.
One of my fondest memories is the summer when I graduated first grade. I got sent to my grandma’s place the day after my graduation and my parents told me they would see me at the next family gathering. I watched as their car disappeared around the corner, with a big smile plastered on my face. I was ready to sleep in late and be spoiled by my grandma’s cooking for the rest of the summer.
Pretty soon our small community was bubbling with young people’s laughs and screams. All my cousins, small and big, had arrived and were ready to stir up some trouble. During the day, I would play with them outside in the heat, with my grandma shouting at me about getting a sunstroke.
In the late afternoons, we went to the football field and my older cousins let me be the goalkeeper, my tiny body somehow being the shield between the flying ball and the goal. I liked to think that I was big enough and stronger than usual for my age, but I’m sure I looked ridiculous compared to the 20-something-year-old men that were my older cousins. I would come back to the house scratched up and dirty, with my cheeks and nose all rosy. My family used to call this the village glow.
What I dreaded most about my vacations in the village was dinnertime. I was the youngest of my relatives, so I was looked after the most. As Bulgarians would describe it, I was watched like a painted egg, protected from any harm. Setting up healthy eating habits was also a part of my family’s “protection” of me. My grandma wouldn’t let me play outside anymore if I hadn’t had dinner. But dinner was usually the last thing on my mind as I didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun the others were having.
After dinner was when my sister and my cousin on my dad’s side, Ellie, would sneak out and go hang out with our older cousins or other boys from the village. When we went to bed, the two of them would whisper to each other about their adventures that evening and seven-year-old me felt left out once again.
And there I was, shaking my imaginary fists at my parents for waiting so long to have their second child, condemning me to a life of boredom and missing out. But that wouldn’t bother me for long, because I was just happy to be able to spend time with all the people I loved.
The years passed quickly and before I knew it, my sister was graduating from high school. At that point, I was one of the few people from our family who would go stay in my grandma’s village. It had become quiet, I couldn’t hear children playing in the distance anymore. The football field we used to spend our afternoons on was now a bunch of wilted grass and farm animals. When I went to the store, I didn’t see children lining up for a chocolatey afternoon snack, there were only our old grandmas buying bread and drinking coffee, reminiscing over days long past.
But that didn’t last long either. Since I moved to Plovdiv, it’s become a special occasion to visit my grandma. I can’t seem to remember the last time I saw my cousins. Most of them are now married with children, whom I also haven’t met. Family gatherings and celebrations aren’t even considered anymore. But it seems that our family isn’t the only one in that situation. Having your family come over is now a highly anticipated event not only for my grandma but her friends and neighbors, as well.
Living by myself in Plovdiv often had me reflecting on how our family grew apart. I used to blame it on my parents’ divorce, but it seems that the process began years before that. Maybe the case was that as we grew up, we realized that not everything was hunky-dory in this little community of relatives we had, all the issues our families had surfacing as we came of age. Or maybe it’s because we just became too busy trying to make a life for ourselves that we forgot about the one we were leaving behind.
As I go out of my grandma’s cold and empty house today and look at the deserted village that once was the home of my favorite people, I can’t help but hope that one day I can have such a little community of my own.
Mihaela Miteva is a Journalism and Mass Communication student at the American University in Bulgaria. She hopes to have a big family one day.
