Jo isoisän matkimisen alkeiden ajoista asti An English-language column

Jo isoisän matkimisen alkeiden ajoista asti An English-language column

From the earliest days of childhood, imitation is our first language. Before we learn to speak, before we understand the rules of the world, we copy. We mimic the gestures of those who raise us, the rhythms of their speech, the small rituals that make up their days. And somewhere in that quiet apprenticeship sits a figure who, for many of us, becomes the first template of adulthood: the grandfather.

There is a particular magic in the way children imitate their elders. It is not analytical, not strategic. It is devotional. A child watching an old man tie his boots or sharpen a pencil is not studying a technique; they are absorbing a worldview. The slowness, the patience, the way the hands move with a memory older than the child's entire existence—these become lessons long before they are understood.

My own grandfather had a way of leaning on the table with both hands before he spoke, as if steadying himself against the weight of his own thoughts. As a child, I copied that stance with theatrical seriousness, unaware that I was rehearsing adulthood. He would laugh, but he never corrected me. I think he knew that imitation is a kind of inheritance.

What fascinates me now is how those early acts of mimicry become the architecture of identity. We grow up, we travel, we learn new languages, we adopt new habits. Yet in moments of stress or tenderness, we find ourselves repeating gestures that do not belong to us alone. The way we stir our coffee. The way we pause before answering. The way we hum a tune without noticing. These are echoes of someone else's life, carried forward through our own.

Imitation, in this sense, is not about becoming a copy. It is about continuity. It is about acknowledging that we are shaped by the people who came before us, even if we later choose different paths. The grandfather who taught us how to hold a hammer or how to listen to the wind did not intend to sculpt our future selves. But he did, simply by living in front of us.

And perhaps that is the quiet truth hidden in those early days of mimicry: we learn how to be human by watching humans. Not perfect ones, not heroic ones—just the ones who are close enough for us to see their hands, their habits, their flaws. The ones who show us, without ever saying it, that life is a craft passed down through gestures.

From the earliest days of imitating our grandfathers, we were already practicing the art of becoming ourselves.