Canada / August 31, 2024
Many years ago, when we first met, Ansgar was an adorable five-year-old boy, born in Canada to a German family. Although his name was Scandinavian rather than German, it wasn't surprising—there was a trend among Germans of our generation to give their children Viking names. Ansgar's family consisted of five members—Ansgar himself, his mother, aunt, grandmother, and younger cousin Nicholas. All the women in the family were of German working-class background, though Ansgar's mother had managed to climb the ladder to a mid-level government position through years of hard work and persistence.
As you might have guessed, all the women in Ansgar's family were single mothers. That’s just how things turned out. Fathers were present initially but didn’t stick around for long. According to the women, all three fathers were also working-class, skilled in their trades, and even quite handsome (the almost angelic appearance of Ansgar and his cousin Nicholas was proof of that). But all three had the unfortunate habit of drinking heavily, getting into conflicts when drunk, and sometimes even resorting to violence. This behavior inevitably led to divorces and mutual estrangement.
We met Ansgar—and more precisely, his mother—because Ansgar and our youngest daughter Lisa attended the same daycare. We began to socialize because neither we nor Ansgar’s mom wanted our children to forget the German language. To achieve this, our children often played together, conversing with each other and with us not only in English but also in German. About once a week (usually on Fridays), Ansgar would be dropped off at our place around lunchtime. After lunch, the children would play until late in the evening, and then Ansgar would spend the night with us. The next morning, his mom or grannie would pick him up after breakfast.
There was nothing unusual about this routine, but one particular memory stands out: our first dinner with Ansgar at our home. Here’s what happened...
We were all sitting around the large dining table. The mood was positive as we looked forward to the weekend, and my wife and I were exchanging jokes and laughing. Suddenly, I noticed that Ansgar’s sky-blue eyes had widened, and there was a look of clear panic in them.
“What’s the matter, Ansgar? Is something wrong?” I asked the little boy, putting on my most reassuring smile.
“You... you’re all drunk, aren’t you?” Ansgar responded with a trembling voice, answering my question with one of his own.
To be honest, none of the adults in our family were teetotalers, and a bottle of wine was often present on our dining table. But of course, on this occasion, there was none—we had a guest child, after all, and we were well aware of the critical attitude many Canadians have towards alcohol consumption (this is partly due to the fact that many have some Indigenous blood, which makes them more susceptible to the effects of alcohol). It’s surprising that, despite this, Canadians are generally tolerant of various types of drug use, but that’s a different topic altogether.
“God forbid, Ansgar! We’re all completely sober!” I quickly reassured him. “But why did you think we were drunk?”
“Sober? But... but then why are you laughing?” Ansgar’s voice was still shaky.
The tension needed to be eased quickly, and after a brief moment of thought, I said to Ansgar, “Look, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, but you must promise not to tell anyone, okay? The secret is that sober people laugh sometimes too, you know?”
Ansgar still looked at me with some skepticism, but he gradually calmed down...
A quarter of a century has passed since then. Our children have grown up. Ansgar finished school and then university. Shortly after completing his education, he got his law license, got married, and became the father of two wonderful children. And I like to believe that by now, he definitely knows: sober people laugh too...
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