I recall having several conversations with my mother throughout my youth about our heritage, and why it was hidden. Only a vague notion of being done to protect us was ever given. Just what we were being protected from, that needed such secrecy, was never made clear.
My family led a double life with respect to our background. Outwardly, we were Scottish. We spoke in a Scottish accent, we were born in Scotland, and to all intents and purposes we were Scottish. However, despite the fact my brother and I, my parents, and my grandmother were born in Scotland, there was no getting away from the fact that there was a strong Lithuanian ancestry. So, is it the place of birth, or one’s blood line that takes precedence in determining an individual’s nationality? My mother was single minded in her opinion to this question. If anyone were to enquire about our background, she instructed my brother and I to tell them we were Scottish and hide our Lithuanian background. All association with Lithuania would have been strongly denied.
There were complications with this plan, some of which have already been described, but it made life confusing for a child. Particularly, when attempting to deal with the opposing arguments amongst the adults. If the grown-ups couldn’t get it straight, what hope did a child have? “You are Scottish,” one of the relatives said, trying to reassure us. “No, we are really Lithuanian,” from another relative. And then from someone else, “Of course, you are Scottish. You were born in Scotland, what else would you be?”
There was little consensus amongst the wider family members. Some of my relatives hated everything to do with Lithuania or Lithuanians (Lithys, as we labelled ourselves), and they were embarrassed by their heritage. They refused to have anything to do with Lithuania or its culture. They excluded it from their lives as much as possible. It seems to me, that to hate one’s heritage is comparable to hating oneself. Others accepted their ancestry to varying degrees. To them, it was a fact of life. It was nothing to be embarrassed about, but it was something that hadn’t brought anything positive to their lives. Of course, others were proud of their background, and would speak of their experiences when asked, and could speak the language to varying degrees. My grandfather had emigrated from Lithuania to Scotland as a young man, and was fluent in the language. He had no reason to be ashamed of his homeland. My grandmother, though born in Scotland, was raised within a Lithuanian culture. She would have been in contact with the language from childhood. In fact, my parents knew a few words and phrases of the language.
My grandmother would always greet her sisters, when they called to visit, with a hug and a few words in Lithuanian. Our family often spent our holidays staying at my grandparents’ house in Glasgow during the school holidays. There were often lots of visitors to that house. I’m sure Susan loved her sisters, as I often saw them embrace warmly whenever they visited. I also liked to be there for a hug and a cuddle.
It was just such an occasion when one of granny’s sisters was visiting, that I noticed my brother was agitated. He must have been present when they had arrived, and heard them say something he couldn’t understand. He had run to his mother and confided in her. I happened to be present. He related how he’d heard granny and one of his great aunts greeting each other, and exchanging a few words in some language, other than English. “They’re not talking Scotch,” I think he said to our mother, or words to that effect. John would have been old enough, on hearing them, to realise that his failure to understand them was not merely a lack of vocabulary on his part. So, if they weren’t speaking English, what language was it, and of prime concern, what did this make them, and in turn, what did it make us, and what did it make him? I’ve no idea how my mother pacified him. No doubt she realised the time was drawing close to reveal the true state of affairs.
I have a memory of being in Rothesay sometime later, and in all likelihood may have been shortly after this experience. We used to often stay in Rothesay during the school holidays. I have an image of my parents walking along a narrow pavement in a Rothesay street. John was trailing behind them, and I was bringing up the rear. During this period of our childhood, my brother and I held little affection for each other. So, it was with some surprise that John allowed me to catch up, and he spoke to me. I suspect, with him following closely on my parents’ heels, he had been listening to their conversation. They may have been discussing how to broach the subject of Lithuania. John was apprehensive, and relinquishing his usual disdain, had confided in me. He drew close to me and whispered, “We’re no’ Scotch. We’re something else.” The truth was confirmed later that day.
Our heritage had been so well hidden, in fact, that I was unaware of my background for about the first ten years of my life, and when it was announced it was done in hushed tones. A few hours later, the reason for the peculiar sounding language my grandmother and others had been using, was explained. My brother and I were made to promise never to reveal our true background to anyone. We were allowed to ask our parents any questions about it, and to discuss it with each other whenever we wished, but we were ordered never to speak about it to outsiders. This was a secret that must be kept. The manner in which these instructions were imparted, and how earnestly we were instructed not to disclose anything was frightening to a child. I couldn’t quite understand the reasons for their concern. I distinctively remember being ambivalent over the issue, but it made no difference. The shock tactics had their effect, and I went along with it. Not only did I hide my heritage because I had been instructed to, but came to believe that keeping the secret was the right thing to do. Some ten or so years later, it took a real strength of will to shrug off this feeling. The fears of parents are not necessarily shared by their children, but they made us fear it. Consequently, our family heritage was seldom discussed, and when it was, it was seldom with pride.
Who’s to say what associates an individual with a particular culture. People have mixed with other cultures for hundreds of years. At what point can you say they or their offspring are no longer of the old culture but part of the new? At what point does the transition become permanent? Does it happen when people emigrate, when they go through a nationalisation ceremony, when they have been conquered as a nation, or after the passage of time? Who knows, but does it really matter? No doubt our experience has had differing affects on each of us. To every one of us, it was a burden. Stupid as it seems, it took me another ten years before I could accept my heritage, and come to terms with it.
I found it odd, as a child, to hear a friend talking about his other grandparents. What a strange thing to say. Surely people only have one granny and grandpa. How could there be any others. My experience at the time was only of my mother’s parents. I was completely unaware that an individual could have four grandparents. To me, granny and grandpa were the two people who lived in Glasgow. I gave no consideration to any other relationship. Never having known of anyone other than my mother’s parents I was unaware of any other possibilities. After all, both my parents referred to my grandparents as ‘mum’ and ‘dad’! It was quite a revelation to me when it was explained. Of course, there had to be someone. I wasn’t told that my father’s mother had had a fling with someone and her pregnancy resulted in the birth of my father; which was true. I was simply told that he didn’t have any parents, which was untrue. A better explanation could have been provided.
So, his mother had an affair and a child was born. This didn’t go down well at home (his mother’s home, that is), and a consequence of which was that my father, through no fault of his own, had a particularly difficult upbringing. No doubt his mother went through her share of troubles when the truth of the pregnancy became apparent. His mother’s husband was furious and would have nothing to do with the child. With this level of anger, it’s not surprising that there was no place for him in his mother’s home. His presence would have been a constant reminder of what had happened. This would have made an unhappy household. Other relatives raised him. He never met his father, but maintained contact with his mother, but there was never any kindness shown by his mother’s husband. “You are no son of mine,” he told him when he was old enough to appreciate the venom with which it was stated.
Certainly the background of my father’s father is unknown, but it’s reasonable to assume he was also Lithuanian. My father was never actually introduced to his father. Though, he told me he once saw a man in his mother’s company he suspected of being his father. This was someone he had never met before, and he could tell by the interaction between them that they knew each other well, but when he approached, the man moved away. His mother refused to say who this man was, and because of her refusal to elaborate, he suspected him to be his father. Of course, I have to wonder why she refused to say anything. My father had a short temper in the years I knew him. Perhaps that temper may have been fierier in his youth, and if that were true his mother may have feared the consequences of their meeting. She may have been worried he may have accosted him, and wished to protect him by sending him on his way. Another alternative is that she had met someone new and didn’t want this information going back to her husband.
From the information provided by my father about his background, I made contact with a some of his relatives. My interest inspired Olga McTavish to write to Madge Erdos in Canada who subsequently provided considerable detail on the Crichtons, and it was she who introduced me to the Buchanan family, a branch which was completely unknown to me. Olga also passed on my interest to William Millar in Sweden, and he made contact with me when visiting Australia. It was though William’s effort that I was able to include much information from work undertaken by Hugh Buchanan. In fact, the majority of the information appearing in the chart from my father’s side, apart from my father’s own contribution, was derived directly from Hugh’s work.