Whitecaps and Marigolds
Swen Nater

I was born on January 14, 1950 in Huisduinen, a village in the northwest-most part of Holland (The Netherlands). Huisduinen is as far north as you can go on the west coast. Just beyond it is the opening to the Issel Meer, a huge inland lake that leads ships from The North Sea to the Amsterdam harbor. Because that area of Holland is 23 feet below sea level, ships must enter through the Afsluitdijk (closing dike) and go through the locks to be lowered.  As a very young boy, my father took me to the top of another dike close to my house. It’s difficult to fully describe the feeling when you stand on the dike, look to one side and see the water, and then to the other side where the homes are actually below water level. 

The North Sea is one of the most turbulent in the world because of the fast gushing and whipping winds.  As I stood on the dike with my father, I noticed, as far as the eye could see, thousands of violent whitecaps, equally spaced and, like people on a crowded train, each selfishly pushing in all directions to maintain the space it had a right to. Each white-capped wave, it seemed, was unique and worked hard to survive and keep its identity.

At age three, my mom and dad divorced. My mother had custody of her three children. My sister was 6, I was 3, and our little brother was 2. Fortunately, she had a profession, woodcarving, but only made enough to support one child. So, my sister and I lived with a friend of hers, a middle-aged woman, along with her elderly mother and father. About one year later, my mother came to visit (which she did often) and told us she, my little brother, and her new husband were going to America and would send for us.

A few months after that, because we were too much of a burden on my mother’s friend, we were moved to a foster home. After two more foster homes (I was about 6 by then), we were relocated to a complex that housed many children, all of whom for various reasons, could not live with their mother and father. For many, it was an orphanage. I don’t have too many happy memories about that place. Here’s an example.

Each of us had a 4 X 4 piece of dirt to plant things in. There was a greenhouse maintained by a very nice man who had taken a liking to me. One spring morning, he gave me a marigold (Each of us received one marigold) to plant that was taller and more beautiful than any of the others. I took it to my plot and with maternal love, placed it gently and proudly in the ground, making sure there was no air next to the roots. I watered it and went on inside to have lunch.

Immediately after lunch, I went to check on my magnificent flower. What I found was my marigold had been snapped in half by one of the other children. On my knees and crying, I tried to prop it back up, my tears dripping on the already wet soil. It was no use.

From that moment on, I was akin to a white-capped wave in The North Sea, watching out for myself, pushing and shoving to survive, establishing my identity, and trying to break free from my apparent fate of being absorbed into the belief that I was just a number—just another kid.

But you know what? I was just another kid. Like every child in this world, I was trying to become somebody. Through all the setbacks, I was determined to keep my whitecap a whitecap and was resolute to not become like my marigold—dead to hopes and dreams. I suppose that is why today, I can see the faces of children, feel what they feel, and show them, if you’re a wave in the sea, you are unique and special and it’s OK to have hopes and dreams. I tell them to make the effort to become the best waves they can be.  

Sad story, isn’t it? But it has a happy ending. Remind me to tell you how my sister and I got to America through a nationally-televised program called, “It Could Be You.”