We moved to Greenland in mid winter, almost three years ago today. Our son, then five, was culture-shocked by his sudden transposition from Australian summer to an icy darkness where he could no longer communicate with any of his peers. So one of our first priorities was to get him socialising with other kids. On our first weekend we took him out to a snow slope where some local kids were playing, climbing up and sliding down. Our son was keen to join in. On his first descent he came down way too fast on the steep slope and I rushed to intercept him before he reached the road below. Instead he intercepted me, taking out my legs and sending me face-first onto the ice. He was in tears. We gave up and went home, me nursing a throbbing cheek bone. But worse, sporting a black eye to work the next day, none of my new colleagues asked me how I got it.
In the end we need not have worried about our son’s social life. It turned out to be relatively simple as there were some girls of the same age in our building, who were regularly visited by other kids from adjacent apartment blocks. So there was often a pack of children in the stairwell. Quickly they learned of the presence of this new, blond-haired boy, loitering in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. Before long they came by to collect him as they bundled down the stairs in their winter clothes to go out to play. None of them spoke English or Danish, and none of us knew Greenlandic, but they got along fine. One in particular was a regular visitor. She and our son would play matching pairs on the kitchen floor. After a couple of weeks she didn’t knock anymore. She just let herself in, went to the fridge for a snack, and settled down to play.
While my son’s new social life was good for him, it was sometimes challenging for me. By four in the afternoon in January it is almost pitch black outside. I stood at the kitchen window, telling myself to be calm, as I peered through the darkness and blowing snow at the half dozen small children sliding down an ice patch by the side of the building, climbing back up and sliding down again. Inside one of those little all-in-one winter suits was my son. It was minus fifteen before the wind chill. This image of childhood play fell slightly outside my comfort zone, in more ways than one. For him, it was already normal.
