On the record

Hollywood diaries

It’s impossible to pinpoint the moment you grow up, but I remember a day when I got a taste of what adults had to deal with. And it’s stayed with me ever since. I was 13. We lived in Tybjerg in the south of Zeeland, Denmark. Our house was part of what in the early 70s was to have been a big development in this tiny farming village. Instead, it began and ended with three bungalows. Ours was the first of the three. The whole village probably had 40 people living there. There was a church and a school, which also served children from the nearby towns.

Of simple living
Denmark is a Protestant Christian country. It has a state church. Confirmation is a big deal. It symbolises the move from child to adult and is a ritual confirming your baptism. I was the youngest, with two older sisters, and my parents had never gotten round to having me baptised. Church never played a part in our daily lives.

But I wanted to have my confirmation. So one week before the date, we went up to the church, and I was baptised by our local vicar. Confirmation means a big party and an occasion for big presents. The presents: that’s what we kids focused on for sure. There is a lot of pressure on parents to deliver. My mum didn’t have much money, but she threw a party for me. It was great. I got gifts from family and friends but my favourite was from my mum. She’d gotten me a Sanyo mini-stereo with speakers that detached. Unbelievably cool.

My oldest sister had left home by then, so I now had the corner room. I’d covered the walls with posters — Duran Duran, Human League, David Bowie. I’d even made a disco light — three-coloured bulbs in a box that blinked to the rhythm of the music. I could invite a girl over and woo her with my incredible setup. Welcome to the crib. (At this point the closest I’d been to a girl was an embarrassed shuffling of feet at a school dance, but in my mind I was ready.)

Then one day, an afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. This was a little weird, as our door was always open. We literally didn’t have a key. Anyway, a knock, and then a louder knock. Insistent. I opened the door. Outside two men were waiting. One was the county cop, the other from an electronics store. Back then the local cop had many tasks, one of which apparently was to escort local merchants when they had to retrieve goods when the payments had dried up. It turned out my mum hadn’t been able to really afford that mini-stereo, and now they had come to take it back.

I was shocked and horrified but let the men in. I walked them down to my room and unplugged the Sanyo, reattached the speakers and handed over my prized possession. I remember that it seemed the men couldn’t get out of there quick enough. I stared at the empty spot where my stereo had proudly sat just a few moments before. I couldn’t believe it. How could this happen to me? Why me? It didn’t seem fair.

And then it hit me. The shame. And I felt terrible. Not because I lost a stereo, but because I knew how the repossession would make my mother feel: that she had let me down. And I hated it. Suddenly all my pride disappeared. The stereo didn’t matter. I understood that my mother had felt this stupid pressure to deliver an amazing party, with all the right presents, even though she couldn’t afford it. I don’t remember my mother ever telling me she loved me. I also have never doubted for a second that I was loved. Actions speak louder than words, and our mum always had our back. Unconditionally.

When I was younger, I was very good at telling my mother why I had to have Adidas Copa Mundial soccer boots with screw-in studs to improve my game, or the right glove if ever I was to become a sports shooting club champion. I was the little brother, the youngest, and spoiled. So, I found my old cassette player. I put it right in the Sanyo’s place and decided not to care for stuff ever again. (I’ve negotiated an exception with myself for mountain bikes and mountain-bike gear; we agree that’s necessary for all sorts of profound reasons.)

Passing on the values
I have kids of my own now. They are more sensible than I was as a young teenager. I do spoil them, but I try to pass on the lessons from my mum, too, including one they experienced a couple of summers back. We have a big family from Denmark, England and Greenland, and every other year we rent a place in the south of Europe and all get together for a week of relaxation. On day one, we go shopping for the week. We go in three cars and raid the nearest supermarket. It’s amazing how much food and drink you suddenly can’t live without.

This specific year we shopped for a feast fit for Caligula. We drove back to the house and unloaded. It was an old Spanish converted mill, and the kitchen had one of those huge tables that could seat 24 people. We filled the table with bags. It was glorious.

My daughter came to me to say that grandma wasn’t feeling well. I rushed out to the patio where my mum was seated, drinking a glass of water. She had to sit down, she said, because she felt sick at the sight of all the bags. “It’s too much, the greed — we don’t need all this,” she said, a little angry with us.

I think her dislike of consumerism and deep-rooted fear of not being able to afford all we had bought played a part as well. I assured her that food for 24 people for a week takes up a lot of space. She calmed down. Later, I relayed the story of the Sanyo to my kids. We all had an amazing week. And when it was over, we left quite a bit of stuff behind.
The New York Times