The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1982, Side 31

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
29
ON BEING ICELANDIC
by Kathryn Leonard
I happened to look up from the piano as
Mr. Fisher kissed Mrs. Fisher. She was
standing by the kitchen stove in her apron,
spatula in her hand. He kissed her hard on
the lips and she put her arm around his neck
— and I stared — mouth open. In all my
ten years I had never seen such a thing.
Dodie Fisher nudged me on the piano
bench. “Kathryn, you’re not supposed to
look,” she whispered. Guiltily, I turned
my eyes back to the sheet music she was
playing and stammered, “Dodie, I think
I’d better go home now. My mother gets
mad if I’m late for supper.”
I slipped out the front door, took a quick
turn and scooted toward home. I hopped
over deep ruts in the alley that hadn’t been
maintained in our town of Bowbells, North
Dakota, since the Japanese attacked Pearl
Harbor the previous winter. I jumped up
the steps into our back door and found my
mother busily preparing our evening meal.
“Kathryn, don’t run away. Set the table for
me,” she said. “Wash your hands first.” I
displaced her at the kitchen sink for a
moment and then in a preoccupied way, I
began gathering silverware and dishes from
the cupboard. I made several silent trips
from the kitchen to the dining room before
my mother asked quietly, “Something
wrong?”
“No,” I answered, wondering if I should
tell her. “But do you know what I saw at
Dodie’s? Right in front of us kids, Mr.
Fisher kissed Mrs. Fisher.”
“Humm,” said my unperturbable mother.
“Did the Fishers kiss like that because
they own the movie theatre?” I asked. “I
thought only movie stars did that.”
“No,” my mother said. “But you’re not
used to demonstrative affection. That’s a
problem of being Icelandic.”
I went on setting the table, finally
placing a glass of milk for each of us (Mr.
Fisher was also our milkman), wondering
what my mother meant — “problem of
being Icelandic.” My parents took such
pride in their Icelandic background, I was
unaware they knew there were any prob-
lems.
I knew some problems of being Icelandic
first hand. The main one was that there
weren’t enough of us. Every morning as
my mother braided my hair, she told me to
stand up straight, to make sure my shoes
were polished and my fingernails clean.
“Remember, you’re the only Icelander
anyone in your classroom knows — prob-
ably the only one they’ll ever know — and
you have to be a good representative,” she
told me. “Icelandic children study hard.
It’s part of our heritage. Now your dad and
I don’t expect you to be perfect, just do
your best.”
I liked school and I tried. I knew the
nationality of everyone in my class; we
were all second generation Americans. But
it was true — I was the only Icelander.
There were times I wished we didn’t live in
Bowbells. If we lived in Upham or Bot-
tineau near some of my cousins, we
wouldn’t be the only Icelandic family, so
we wouldn't have to behave so carefully.
While we were eating supper, I tried to
imagine my father kissing my mother. I
couldn’t.
“Stop fidgeting, Kathryn,” grumbled
my big sister. “Eat your carrots.” I hated
carrots. I tried a mouthful but kept
squirming with my uncomfortable thoughts.
My brother, Ted, kicked me under the
table and made a face. “Eat your carrots,”
he mimicked.
“Mama,” I appealed.
“All of you behave,” said my father
from the head of the table. We were quiet.