I don’t always understand J – a fact I apologise for regularly and profusely. He’s quiet and we’re often surrounded by noise. Afterwords, I listen to the recordings to fill in the remaining gaps, convinced I’m missing a crucial word, but I still hear the noise over J – cries and chit-chats, laughter, staff running around, dishes being washed, I can ever hear the kettle boiling sometimes. But I can’t always hear J.
I rewind, I apply another filter or two to the recording, ironing out the background. I discover the frequency of J’s voice is similar to the frequency of the kettle; I discover he often calls me ‘pet’. I close my eyes and focus and then, often, I burst into laughter – because J is a very funny man. He’s witty with a hint of deadpan, always focused on the loudest presence in the room; he soaks it in before turning to me to deliver his comment.
That was a pleasant surprise, wasn’t it?
You had to be there, really, witness the situation and J’s impeccable comedic timing to understand why I’m laughing out loud as I’m typing. I can’t tell you – it’s confidential and private I feel, but I’ll say this: it was at that precise moment, a difficult yet common, unsurprising moment in the everyday of a care home, that I realised how valuable humour is to J. He looks, he digests, and then he doesn’t sigh or ignore, he doesn’t accept face value; he offers the underbelly, in search of release of pressure. He’s the funny guy I think. The joker.
I’ve begun editing J’s words, slowly shaping them into his book. I edit, then scrap, get carried away by rhythms and form, symbols and repetitions…then I hit the delete button and start again. EDIT DON’T WRITE has become a mantra as I look for ways to reflect J. He is thoughtful and perceptive, he’s concerned; he also inserts jokes like he’s read a sitcom manual – setup, first comeback, punchline.
I worry I’m reading too much into his words – interpreting and layering them with meaning. I think J shields with humour, but also dread projection, because I know humour is my measure of fluency. If it was necessary I could make myself be understood in 5 different languages, but I can only be funny in two, three on a good day. Those other two (three on a bad day) feel like a part of my personality has been surgically removed, like I can’t really make myself known.
I’m not being mean, but you’re young pet.
Maybe you had to be there again. I want to find a way to inject J’s book with his own humour – as much as his speech patterns, favourite words and obsessions, feelings and dreads. I’m just not sure it translates.
Bojana Jankovic