Moving from country to country isn’t
easy, and I get that it can be particularly hard for kids. We were truly shocked at the magnitude and longevity
of Hambones’ grief over the loss of his childhood home; at age 3, he remained
miserable for more than six months before he finally settled into island life,
and then, three years later, it happened all over again in reverse.
Once again, our poor boy was
miserable, and there seemed little we could do to coax out the happy,
inquisitive and courageous adventurer who’d enchanted us for years. His new cold, harsh, urban schoolyard was
like Compton compared with the lush, soft, nurturing gardens of Island Primary,
and his absent foundation in the machinations of supporting and/or playing Aussie
Rules left him bankrupt of the schoolyard currency; devoid of both a social network,
and a footing upon which to establish one.
For months we would hear from teachers that Hambones would be alone each lunchtime; wandering aimlessly
in some out-of-the-way concrete corner, talking to himself and staring at the
sky.
We were truly heartbroken for our
boy, and in the time-honoured tradition of the sad and helpless, we sought to
mend our damaged coronary muscles with greasy, fatty food form of
inner-city foodtrucks. It was Christmas 2015,
and we headed off to the Coburg Night Market to drown our grief in rare, gourmet
wagyu between seeded sourdough and cumin-infused Indian Pale Ale.
It was heartening to see the brief
stirring of embers in Hambones’ eyes when he glimpsed the offerings of fat
chips and tacos, but our shoulders slumped soon after when his shrugged at the
offer to play with some old family friends; instead asking to go and look at
the band. I lost sight of him for a
while as I chatted and looked after Waltzie, but when I eventually went to seek
him out, I couldn’t find poor lil’ Hambones anywhere.
I can tell you my previously
heavy heart leapt into action and thumped with increasing anxiety as I scoured
the park in search of my dear boy. I was
so pre-occupied with fear and dread at losing him, that I hadn’t registered the
conclusion of the atrocious, 28-piece El Mariachi Band’s ‘performance’, nor the
arrival on stage of a single, costumed female in thigh-high gogo boots and embroidered
mini-dress.
But it was at the very front of
that stage, before this screeching, gyrating 60s jitterbug that I finally clocked
Hambones. My instinct was to charge in there
and squeeze him close, but as I approached, I noticed that Hambones was staring
at the stage, grinning and completely entranced at this outrageous performer;
following her every direction and step to the tune of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On.
I can tell you the next hour was
one of my happiest that year, as I watched Anna Go-Go achieve in 10 minutes
what his parents, his teachers and his indifferent peers had been unable to do for
Hambones in three months. This five-foot-six,
second-generation Italian forty-something with the bogan drawl, powdered face, shock-lock
cowlick and crazy 60s get-up had captivated my son such that he had dropped all
his brooding, lonesome inhibitions, and was shaking his tail-feather, doing the
swim and the rocking the pony with all the abandon of a 1968 summer, and all the courage and flare that we'd been missing from him ever since he stepped off the plane in Melbourne four months earlier.
This enthusiastic commedienne-come-dance-coach had reached our son with warmth, humour, enthusiasm and encouraging
belief. It was a significant turning-point
for Hambones … and for us, and we have Anna Go-Go to thank for it.
Anna Go-Go brought our boy back home to us. It was a Merry Christmas in 2015!
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