When I was a child I thought my elder sisters were the coolest people alive.
I have three sisters, two of them about twelve or thirteen years older than me. Thus, when I was nine years old, they would be about 21. And that was just a very cool age.
To add to the coolness, these sisters lived overseas. And as we all know, anywhere but here is a lot cooler… independently on where ‘here’ happens to be.
I must have been quite an annoyance. Every time my sisters called to speak to my mother I was standing next to her, leaping up and down like one of those annoying little furry dogs what have an annoying squeaky bark. Mind you, long distance phone calls in the 80’s were the only means of communication for people abroad. Aside from the fact that this kind of communication monopoly must have meant that long distance phone calls cost a smaller fortune, my sisters called to speak to my mother. Not to Elena, 9 years old.
But this was not relevant. I could not imagine anything more fun than sitting on the other end of the line, speaking to a very excited nine-year old who, in one single breath, was summarizing her entire nine year old life. Yeah, can’t get any better than that.
One fine day, one of my sisters decided to come for an extended visit. I don’t know if her intentions were to stay long, or it just became that way. But the fact of the matter is, she did end up staying for a few years.
I would boast in school that I had the coolest sister on the face of the earth, and that she looked like all the Hollywood starlets put together. I vaguely remember bringing friends over to see her. I even tried to marry her off to one of the teachers in school (My reasoning being: “hey, he is an adult, she is an adult. Great- they have stuff in common”!)
My other sister (yes, let us not forget that there were others!) who was only two years older than me, who had been the coolest person on the planet in my eldest sister’s absence did not take very warmly on this trespassing of territory. I remember quite a lot of fights between her and my eldest sister. They would often be about clothes, as I recall it. My 21 year old itty-bitty sister would namely fit into my 11 year old sisters skirts (crazy 80’s fashion) making these be attractive goods in the family residence.
What really sent me over the edge was one day when my 21 year old sister was in the living room, MTV at full blast. I can still remember what she was wearing: there was this white t-shirt with cartoons on it, tucked in to this itty-bitty jeans skirt (property of my other sister).
A short note on this jeans skirt.
It was, by far, the most attractive garment of the house. It got sent around more than chain mail! No wonder, imagine this marvel of 80’s fashion:
Remember stone washed jeans? Well, it was that same material, only it had a patch of neon green cloth sown in to the front of it. It was one of those bell skirts, product of the Lambada era (remember Lambada?). To top it off, la piece de resistance was this broad neon pink elastic on the waist. The 80’s at their prime!
Back to the story. So there we were, my sister with MTV full blast in the living room, me staring at her in wonder. All of a sudden, there it was. A Pearl Jam video on the TV. My sister leaped up from the sofa, excitement in her eyes. She turned towards me…
And then, she uttered the sentence that forever would change my life.
Staring at the lead singer she dreamingly said:
-“Oh! He is so sexy, I could have his babies!”
I almost fell of my chair. Why, I couldn’t really believe it. Say what? Have his babies?
A whole new world had opened up to me. A world where you could say stuff like this and they could sound so remarkably cool. You see, it was not so much the message in itself. It was more the way she said it. If, for instance, my mother would say something similar, it wouldn’t sound cool at all.
From then on, I carried this with me. For a long time, I have been waiting for the right time to deliver it. To pass the torch. Share this wealth.
So far, I haven’t had the opportunity to. I guess the right moment to deliver it never really has come. Or maybe it just doesn’t really sound that cool to me anymore.
But then again, what do I know?
I suppose I just have never really been very cool.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
The Helmet
Acts of kindness are always remembered by their beneficiaries, how big or small they may be.
Before I tell you about this one, particular incident, it is better that I explain the background as to why this act of kindness took place at all.
Anticipating the mandatory annual spring field trip, it was decided that all ten year olds in school would go on a biking field trip. It was a pure stroke of genius from the faculty’s side. Not only would it be saving money on transport, as there was no need to rent buses for the purpose; It would also be a lot easier to keep track of disobedient children (such as me, who had wondered off and fallen into a pit of nettles the year before) if they were mounted on their bikes.
Someone employed at that school must have gotten a pretty groovy bonus that year.
Every kid in my year was sent home later that week with an information letter to the parents about the event. All children had to be equipped with field trip lunches (which in my case meant mayo-drenched sandwiches made from white bread, American style), a change of clothes (for hot weather, cold weather, rainy weather, hail storms…. A Swedish spring day can be very unpredictable), a bike (all kids in suburbs have one)… and…
A helmet.
“Well”, said my mother as she read the letter later that night. “Good thing you are all set. I will just have to buy food to make your lunch”.
Oh, dear.
Earlier that year, my mother had been at this enormous outlet type store just outside our town. I had been bugging her to buy me a helmet, just like the ones the other girls had. I had specified it had to be pink, and made of that plastic foam that helmets were made of back them. Everyone had one, and I wanted one too!
So there was my mother, shopping away at the outlet when she saw this sale box, full of helmets (pink) at less than half the price of the helmet I had showed her at the store.
Bargain!
She came home from the outlet, very excited, because she had bought me exactly what I wanted. Or so she thought.
For in her hand she had the ugliest looking helmet I had ever seen. Besides the fact that it said *SCHWOOSH” on the side of it in giant yellow letters, it was completely square. Remember how helmets back then sort of followed the curves of your head? Well this one didn’t, unless you happened to be Frankenstein’s monster. Completely square. To top it off, it was several sizes too big for my little head. I looked at her in disappointment. This was the best she could do?!
To this day, my mother says that she could never win when it came to presents for us. We are just never pleased. Us daughters have come to terms with the fact that she never could see the difference between things. Mainly because it really doesn’t matter anymore.
It sure did back then, though.
Nevertheless, in an attempt to please my mother, I wore the helmet to bike around the neighborhood. I hadn’t gone more than a few blocks when the first children started laughing and pointing at me. That did it. I tossed that silly thing in a dark corner of the garden shed and forgot all about it.
Nobody had given it a single thought ever since. But then came the field trip.
For weeks I was in agony about what yet to come. A field trip from hell. Every man and his dog were going to laugh at that stupid outlet helmet. I wanted to drop off the face of the earth.
One day, as I was putting on my jacket after a day at school, I felt a pair of eyes in my neck. I spun around to find a girl in my class contemplating me. As I was still fairly new to this class, I had not talked much to her before. And there she was, looking at me.
-“is something the matter?” she asked
Now, I didn’t really know this girl at the time, but for some reason it all came bursting out. Weeks of despair. I found myself telling her all about the square helmet, my fear of being laughed at, and the incomprehension of my mother.
“Don’t worry” the girl said, after listening to my story. “I have a spare helmet at home you can have”.
And so we walked off to her house, to find that her spare helmet was exactly the sort of helmet I always had wanted. Pink, curvy shaped. I was in heaven.
“You can have it” she said. “It’s yours to keep”.
The field trip did not seem so bad anymore. I had found a new friend. I have never forgotten this one act of selfless kindness, very unusual for a ten year old.
She saved my field trip. This incident has stuck with me for eighteen years.
Thanks for the helmet, friend. You know who you are.
Before I tell you about this one, particular incident, it is better that I explain the background as to why this act of kindness took place at all.
Anticipating the mandatory annual spring field trip, it was decided that all ten year olds in school would go on a biking field trip. It was a pure stroke of genius from the faculty’s side. Not only would it be saving money on transport, as there was no need to rent buses for the purpose; It would also be a lot easier to keep track of disobedient children (such as me, who had wondered off and fallen into a pit of nettles the year before) if they were mounted on their bikes.
Someone employed at that school must have gotten a pretty groovy bonus that year.
Every kid in my year was sent home later that week with an information letter to the parents about the event. All children had to be equipped with field trip lunches (which in my case meant mayo-drenched sandwiches made from white bread, American style), a change of clothes (for hot weather, cold weather, rainy weather, hail storms…. A Swedish spring day can be very unpredictable), a bike (all kids in suburbs have one)… and…
A helmet.
“Well”, said my mother as she read the letter later that night. “Good thing you are all set. I will just have to buy food to make your lunch”.
Oh, dear.
Earlier that year, my mother had been at this enormous outlet type store just outside our town. I had been bugging her to buy me a helmet, just like the ones the other girls had. I had specified it had to be pink, and made of that plastic foam that helmets were made of back them. Everyone had one, and I wanted one too!
So there was my mother, shopping away at the outlet when she saw this sale box, full of helmets (pink) at less than half the price of the helmet I had showed her at the store.
Bargain!
She came home from the outlet, very excited, because she had bought me exactly what I wanted. Or so she thought.
For in her hand she had the ugliest looking helmet I had ever seen. Besides the fact that it said *SCHWOOSH” on the side of it in giant yellow letters, it was completely square. Remember how helmets back then sort of followed the curves of your head? Well this one didn’t, unless you happened to be Frankenstein’s monster. Completely square. To top it off, it was several sizes too big for my little head. I looked at her in disappointment. This was the best she could do?!
To this day, my mother says that she could never win when it came to presents for us. We are just never pleased. Us daughters have come to terms with the fact that she never could see the difference between things. Mainly because it really doesn’t matter anymore.
It sure did back then, though.
Nevertheless, in an attempt to please my mother, I wore the helmet to bike around the neighborhood. I hadn’t gone more than a few blocks when the first children started laughing and pointing at me. That did it. I tossed that silly thing in a dark corner of the garden shed and forgot all about it.
Nobody had given it a single thought ever since. But then came the field trip.
For weeks I was in agony about what yet to come. A field trip from hell. Every man and his dog were going to laugh at that stupid outlet helmet. I wanted to drop off the face of the earth.
One day, as I was putting on my jacket after a day at school, I felt a pair of eyes in my neck. I spun around to find a girl in my class contemplating me. As I was still fairly new to this class, I had not talked much to her before. And there she was, looking at me.
-“is something the matter?” she asked
Now, I didn’t really know this girl at the time, but for some reason it all came bursting out. Weeks of despair. I found myself telling her all about the square helmet, my fear of being laughed at, and the incomprehension of my mother.
“Don’t worry” the girl said, after listening to my story. “I have a spare helmet at home you can have”.
And so we walked off to her house, to find that her spare helmet was exactly the sort of helmet I always had wanted. Pink, curvy shaped. I was in heaven.
“You can have it” she said. “It’s yours to keep”.
The field trip did not seem so bad anymore. I had found a new friend. I have never forgotten this one act of selfless kindness, very unusual for a ten year old.
She saved my field trip. This incident has stuck with me for eighteen years.
Thanks for the helmet, friend. You know who you are.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Stranger
I was new to the neighborhood and didn’t really know any children yet. To make matters worse, I attended a school in a different area to my own, making it even harder to get to know children in the area.
We had recently moved in to this new neighborhood, built on the very top of the hill that was our suburb. I have been told that now, more than 20 years later, locals still refer to these houses as Nybygget, ‘the new houses’. These houses were built despite local protests, as many of the inhabitants of this quiet suburban neighborhood felt that a large amount of houses looking exactly alike would uglify the neighborhood. This was during the times when houses that came in completed parts were still a rare sight.
As these houses were all exactly the same, they were in comparison quite a bargain. Thus, they were mainly populated by new families, young professionals with toddlers. As far as I knew, there were no children my age on my street. I was therefore a very lonely seven year old girl during the weekends.
I have always been much more of a reader and thinker than a doer. When I did set out to do things, I was usually up to no good, being a very curious young girl. Thus, on weekend afternoons, I would mostly sit up in my room, reading the latest acquirement from the mobile library, a bus that would come to the neighborhood a few times a week.
My mother would, every now and again stick her head in to suggest that I should go out and get some fresh air (but to stay close where she could see me).
One such afternoon I found myself on the porch of my house, accompanied by a tennis ball that I was bouncing towards the ground. I was so deep into my own thoughts that I did not notice that I was being watched. As I looked up, I found a few children, led by a girl, roughly my own age. It was a very skinny girl, much like myself, with cream colored skin and large brown eyes. She was staring at me, shamelessly curious, with an open mouth, the way nine year old children do.
Imagine me now. I had longed so for a playmate, a companion and a best friend in this new unfriendly toddler-infested neighborhood. Just as I had become quite convinced that the neighborhood was only inhabited by these toddlers and their parents, a girl my own age shows up at my doorstep. I was filled with all sorts of emotions that were too great for me to handle. “What should I do? What shall I say?”
I desperately wanted these children to like me.
Now, there are a number of things you can say at a time like this (the most obvious one being “hello”). However, I wanted to seem cool, to leave these children in awe, so that they would realize that they simply had to become my friends.
WHAT SHOULD I DO, WHAT SHOULD I SAY?!
Eventually, I opened my mouth and uttered this very intelligent phrase:
-“What the hell are you staring at? Did you have staring soup for dinner?”
Any hint of a smile that the stranger had on her face vanished in a flash. Instead, she looked at me with outrage and turned right around, sticking her tongue out at me. Then, followed by her little friends (well, they were actually her cousins, but I didn’t know that at the time) she proudly marched away, leaving me alone with my tennis ball yet again.
This was my first and very harsh lesson in the art of social skills.
As for the girl, you needn’t worry too much. She got over it. Next time I saw her, in a severe state of what only can be construed as a pure guilt trip (and part desperation), I followed her around, shamelessly sucking up to her. I think she thought I was a complete loon. In fact, I think she still thinks I am a complete loon.
That is why I am to be a bridesmaid at her wedding this summer.
We had recently moved in to this new neighborhood, built on the very top of the hill that was our suburb. I have been told that now, more than 20 years later, locals still refer to these houses as Nybygget, ‘the new houses’. These houses were built despite local protests, as many of the inhabitants of this quiet suburban neighborhood felt that a large amount of houses looking exactly alike would uglify the neighborhood. This was during the times when houses that came in completed parts were still a rare sight.
As these houses were all exactly the same, they were in comparison quite a bargain. Thus, they were mainly populated by new families, young professionals with toddlers. As far as I knew, there were no children my age on my street. I was therefore a very lonely seven year old girl during the weekends.
I have always been much more of a reader and thinker than a doer. When I did set out to do things, I was usually up to no good, being a very curious young girl. Thus, on weekend afternoons, I would mostly sit up in my room, reading the latest acquirement from the mobile library, a bus that would come to the neighborhood a few times a week.
My mother would, every now and again stick her head in to suggest that I should go out and get some fresh air (but to stay close where she could see me).
One such afternoon I found myself on the porch of my house, accompanied by a tennis ball that I was bouncing towards the ground. I was so deep into my own thoughts that I did not notice that I was being watched. As I looked up, I found a few children, led by a girl, roughly my own age. It was a very skinny girl, much like myself, with cream colored skin and large brown eyes. She was staring at me, shamelessly curious, with an open mouth, the way nine year old children do.
Imagine me now. I had longed so for a playmate, a companion and a best friend in this new unfriendly toddler-infested neighborhood. Just as I had become quite convinced that the neighborhood was only inhabited by these toddlers and their parents, a girl my own age shows up at my doorstep. I was filled with all sorts of emotions that were too great for me to handle. “What should I do? What shall I say?”
I desperately wanted these children to like me.
Now, there are a number of things you can say at a time like this (the most obvious one being “hello”). However, I wanted to seem cool, to leave these children in awe, so that they would realize that they simply had to become my friends.
WHAT SHOULD I DO, WHAT SHOULD I SAY?!
Eventually, I opened my mouth and uttered this very intelligent phrase:
-“What the hell are you staring at? Did you have staring soup for dinner?”
Any hint of a smile that the stranger had on her face vanished in a flash. Instead, she looked at me with outrage and turned right around, sticking her tongue out at me. Then, followed by her little friends (well, they were actually her cousins, but I didn’t know that at the time) she proudly marched away, leaving me alone with my tennis ball yet again.
This was my first and very harsh lesson in the art of social skills.
As for the girl, you needn’t worry too much. She got over it. Next time I saw her, in a severe state of what only can be construed as a pure guilt trip (and part desperation), I followed her around, shamelessly sucking up to her. I think she thought I was a complete loon. In fact, I think she still thinks I am a complete loon.
That is why I am to be a bridesmaid at her wedding this summer.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Mayflowers
Did you ever have to sell stuff for fund raising as a child? You know what I mean, for soccer clubs, school, charity… I think we have all been there.
I have. Many times. Usually though, it was things that people actually wanted. That could be cupcakes, Christmas cards (during the appropriate season) and things like that.
It could also be things no one needed at all.
One thing that sticks out in my memory is when we had to go around selling mayflowers when we were around ten years old. Mayflowers were these little plastic pins, sold by school children in April. The money, as I recall it, went to a charity that fought poverty amongst children in Sweden. A small percentage of the revenue went to the school class that actually sold the mayflowers, making it almost mandatory for all children in the class to go around selling these flowers (it is called solidarity to your class mates, we were told). You were given a certain amount of mayflowers to sell in a determined amount of days. These had to be sold. Only the lucky few with extensive families with deep pockets could sell these things without actually having to work too much for it.
Most children would team up two and two in order to not make the task of selling mayflowers in the arbitrary Swedish April weather less tedious. We would be given certain areas or selling points in order to not get in each other’s ways.
Maybe it is my memories merging together into one big solid goo (I am told this happens with age) but I remember always being designated the same area, year after year. It was the apartment buildings in the area, row after row with these big scary grey buildings, functional and damn ugly in their 60’s architectural style. Housing apartments in all different shapes and dimensions, this neighborhood was the home to everything from families in all different sizes to students and all round crazy people. I especially remember this elderly lady who owned a ferret that she used to dress up like a baby. Needless to say, neither students nor families nor elderly ladies are in dire need of plastic mayflowers. Therefore, we would spend hours knocking on doors, trying to sell them.
Did people buy them because they wanted to support the charity? Hardly. I think they actually took pity on us. Two rosy-cheeked elementary school children, standing in their doorway, looking up with supplicating eyes… “Do you want to buy a mayflower?”
I wouldn’t say no.
In fact, I couldn’t.
Yesterday, coming out of the supermarket, two rosy-cheeked little girls jumped me at the door. Now, the mayflower business seems to have bloomed lately (pun not intended), because these little girls had very cool mayflower bags flung on their shoulders, displaying their merchandize (far from the cardboard boxes we had to our disposal). Even so, I recognized the panic in their eyes as they with one voice asked me if I wanted to buy a mayflower. I dug in my pocket for change and found that I had just enough for a mayflower.
In the car my non-Swedish boyfriend, genuinely puzzled, asked me why in the world I would spend money on a piece of plastic. It’s not like we need it. I smiled to myself. He doesn´t know how it feels to stand outside a supermarket, or knocking on doors for hours and hours on your spare time (playing time) trying to sell those pieces of plastic for charity. Poor girls.
I was actually sad I couldn’t afford two mayflowers.
I have. Many times. Usually though, it was things that people actually wanted. That could be cupcakes, Christmas cards (during the appropriate season) and things like that.
It could also be things no one needed at all.
One thing that sticks out in my memory is when we had to go around selling mayflowers when we were around ten years old. Mayflowers were these little plastic pins, sold by school children in April. The money, as I recall it, went to a charity that fought poverty amongst children in Sweden. A small percentage of the revenue went to the school class that actually sold the mayflowers, making it almost mandatory for all children in the class to go around selling these flowers (it is called solidarity to your class mates, we were told). You were given a certain amount of mayflowers to sell in a determined amount of days. These had to be sold. Only the lucky few with extensive families with deep pockets could sell these things without actually having to work too much for it.
Most children would team up two and two in order to not make the task of selling mayflowers in the arbitrary Swedish April weather less tedious. We would be given certain areas or selling points in order to not get in each other’s ways.
Maybe it is my memories merging together into one big solid goo (I am told this happens with age) but I remember always being designated the same area, year after year. It was the apartment buildings in the area, row after row with these big scary grey buildings, functional and damn ugly in their 60’s architectural style. Housing apartments in all different shapes and dimensions, this neighborhood was the home to everything from families in all different sizes to students and all round crazy people. I especially remember this elderly lady who owned a ferret that she used to dress up like a baby. Needless to say, neither students nor families nor elderly ladies are in dire need of plastic mayflowers. Therefore, we would spend hours knocking on doors, trying to sell them.
Did people buy them because they wanted to support the charity? Hardly. I think they actually took pity on us. Two rosy-cheeked elementary school children, standing in their doorway, looking up with supplicating eyes… “Do you want to buy a mayflower?”
I wouldn’t say no.
In fact, I couldn’t.
Yesterday, coming out of the supermarket, two rosy-cheeked little girls jumped me at the door. Now, the mayflower business seems to have bloomed lately (pun not intended), because these little girls had very cool mayflower bags flung on their shoulders, displaying their merchandize (far from the cardboard boxes we had to our disposal). Even so, I recognized the panic in their eyes as they with one voice asked me if I wanted to buy a mayflower. I dug in my pocket for change and found that I had just enough for a mayflower.
In the car my non-Swedish boyfriend, genuinely puzzled, asked me why in the world I would spend money on a piece of plastic. It’s not like we need it. I smiled to myself. He doesn´t know how it feels to stand outside a supermarket, or knocking on doors for hours and hours on your spare time (playing time) trying to sell those pieces of plastic for charity. Poor girls.
I was actually sad I couldn’t afford two mayflowers.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Girl In the Tunnel
I have always enjoyed meeting new people.
It was a very rainy afternoon, and I was about to start my daily walk home from school. Living in a neighborhood with lots of children, I, a relatively new addition to the neighborhood, had been commissioned to another school. This other school wasn´t really that far away, but for a child at the age of seven, it felt like miles.
The school had a policy that children under the age of ten were not allowed to bike to school (this due to the higher risks for accidents and such). Thus, going home to school meant a smaller daily hike.
I had just embarked on this daily afternoon hike when a heavy shower surprised me. Knowing my way home very well, I knew that there was a tunnel coming up just ahead, and this is where I was going to take refuge from the rain.
Now, I was almost certain that I knew all the children in the area, being as I was the only one in school coming from another area. That’s why I was very surprised when I found a girl, roughly my age, taking refuge from the rain in my tunnel. It was a very tall girl, very fashionable. I still remember she had her sandy blonde hair in a very 80’s fashion style ponytail, you know, one of those to the side of the head?
She looked as though she came straight from one of those clothing catalogues with images of smiling, picture perfect children displaying the latest fashion for your purchase pleasure. I, on the other hand must have been a sight; rain drenched like a rat, big frizzy hair (it still does that when it rains, although previously straightened to perfection) and dressed in my sister’s layaway clothes (my mother did not believe in buying new clothes for children who grew like weed unless absolutely necessary). Adding to the picture that I was a very short and skinny kid.
The girl was skipping, alternating from one foot to the other. She explained that she only had a short walk left before she would reach her home, and that she really needed to use the toilet. Hence the skipping.
-“What’s your name?” I started, eager to determine whether or not she was friendly.
She answered shyly, much to my surprise. Here I was thinking that such a fashionable girl would have a world of confidence! She asked me for my name and yet again there was silence in our tunnel.
-“Do you go to the other school?” I asked.
-“Yes”, she replied quietly
It turned out that this girl lived just in front of my school, however she attended the school that was closer to my house. This girl had to do the same daily hike as I, only the inversed!
We had a short and pleasant conversation, the way children usually do, mainly about who we knew and who we didn’t know (it turned out we didn’t have any acquaintances in common). When the rain stopped, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
Next time I saw this girl (again, our paths crossed in the tunnel) she had a little friend with her. As I passed them they said hello, followed by a very loud whisper from the girl to her friend: “See? She is the one I told you about. That is the girl with the shining blue eyes”.
I still laugh out loud when I remember this moment.
It became a daily routine, crossing paths with my new friend. Exchanging a word or two. It was a very big deal back then, knowing a kid that was not a kid from school. Later on, when I was transferred to the other school, I already knew a girl. The girl from the tunnel.
To date, we remain good friends.
It was a very rainy afternoon, and I was about to start my daily walk home from school. Living in a neighborhood with lots of children, I, a relatively new addition to the neighborhood, had been commissioned to another school. This other school wasn´t really that far away, but for a child at the age of seven, it felt like miles.
The school had a policy that children under the age of ten were not allowed to bike to school (this due to the higher risks for accidents and such). Thus, going home to school meant a smaller daily hike.
I had just embarked on this daily afternoon hike when a heavy shower surprised me. Knowing my way home very well, I knew that there was a tunnel coming up just ahead, and this is where I was going to take refuge from the rain.
Now, I was almost certain that I knew all the children in the area, being as I was the only one in school coming from another area. That’s why I was very surprised when I found a girl, roughly my age, taking refuge from the rain in my tunnel. It was a very tall girl, very fashionable. I still remember she had her sandy blonde hair in a very 80’s fashion style ponytail, you know, one of those to the side of the head?
She looked as though she came straight from one of those clothing catalogues with images of smiling, picture perfect children displaying the latest fashion for your purchase pleasure. I, on the other hand must have been a sight; rain drenched like a rat, big frizzy hair (it still does that when it rains, although previously straightened to perfection) and dressed in my sister’s layaway clothes (my mother did not believe in buying new clothes for children who grew like weed unless absolutely necessary). Adding to the picture that I was a very short and skinny kid.
The girl was skipping, alternating from one foot to the other. She explained that she only had a short walk left before she would reach her home, and that she really needed to use the toilet. Hence the skipping.
-“What’s your name?” I started, eager to determine whether or not she was friendly.
She answered shyly, much to my surprise. Here I was thinking that such a fashionable girl would have a world of confidence! She asked me for my name and yet again there was silence in our tunnel.
-“Do you go to the other school?” I asked.
-“Yes”, she replied quietly
It turned out that this girl lived just in front of my school, however she attended the school that was closer to my house. This girl had to do the same daily hike as I, only the inversed!
We had a short and pleasant conversation, the way children usually do, mainly about who we knew and who we didn’t know (it turned out we didn’t have any acquaintances in common). When the rain stopped, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
Next time I saw this girl (again, our paths crossed in the tunnel) she had a little friend with her. As I passed them they said hello, followed by a very loud whisper from the girl to her friend: “See? She is the one I told you about. That is the girl with the shining blue eyes”.
I still laugh out loud when I remember this moment.
It became a daily routine, crossing paths with my new friend. Exchanging a word or two. It was a very big deal back then, knowing a kid that was not a kid from school. Later on, when I was transferred to the other school, I already knew a girl. The girl from the tunnel.
To date, we remain good friends.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
To fear the dark
I was terribly afraid of the dark at the age of nine.
There might have been a few explanations for this. Ever since I was little I have always had a fascination for things that scare me. The sadomasochist in me has an eerie interest in criminal history and inexplicable things. When I was nine, I used to sneak in to the grown-up part of the library and head right to the paranormal shelves. I especially remember this one book, quite large, and absolutely stuffed with what they called ‘ghost photographs’. These were usually photos of smiling families, with something blurry in somewhere in the pictures. The caption beneath the pictures explained stories surrounding the picture, usually that this blurry spectra was either a dead child or grandmother who had passed away just days after the picture was taken. The chills I got reading these books in my grand curiosity would urge me to read more.
In the evenings I was completely terrified, begging my mother to let me sleep in her bed. It ended with my father, muttering and frowning, having to spend the night in my child-size bunk bed while I slept on his side of the bed in the master bedroom. I wonder how many nights I deprived him of his sleep. Poor man, having to go to work the next day!
One of the girls in the neighborhood was my very good friend. We used to go to her house after school to have our afternoon snack (quite frankly a nice habit, oddly enough lost in the adult version of me). These would often consist of homemade microwave heated sponge cake, which my friend’s mother used to bake by the truck loads, and furthermore freeze so that her daughters could have them for afternoon snack. My mother, always the skeptic of things she regarded as ‘new’, had refused to buy a microwave. In fact, she did so for many years to come, until she finally yielded when my grandmother bought us one. I guess she took pity on her granddaughters, hopelessly lost in the dark ages (Today my mother uses her microwave on a daily basis).
After snack, we would always watch a movie. This was during the times only the lucky few owned a VHS. We were one of the lucky few (only because my father was obsessed with movies. Our VHS had a little dust cover and was not allowed to be touched by us children without adult supervision) and so was my friend. Thus, after our snack, we would rush to the video box and see if my friend’s older, teenaged sister would have bought and recorded a new movie.
It was one of these days that we came across a series of movies we had not seen in the box before. They were clearly rated R, which made us even more curious. This was our first and unforgiving introduction to the world of splatter horror. Promiscuous teens, brutally slaughtered by a maniac in a hockey mask who never seemed to die… Body parts flying everywhere! I had never seen anything like it. Oh, the scare, the thrill!
When the movie ended, we solemnly swore that we would never tell a soul what we had just seen. For one, because my friend’s elder sister probably would hang us by the neck, would she find out that we had been in her movie box. Second, because our parents would probably forbid us to watch these types of movies, would it be discovered that we did. And we really wanted to see the rest of this gory series!
It became a ritual, coming home to my friend after school, having a snack. Brazing ourselves for what was to come. Watching a movie that opened up a world, completely unknown to us. Mumbling a very unconvincing “were you scared? I wasn’t at all” and stumbling home. Not being able to sleep at night. Because although I never actually asked my friend (no way, I wasn’t a coward!) I am sure that she was just as scared as I was. I could tell. Looking back, she probably had just as much trouble with splatter movie conditioned insomnia as I did.
I think my mother never could understand why I was so afraid of the dark. She tried a number of things, night lights, music… even bedtime stories. But to no avail. For several years to come, I continued the habit of sneaking into their bedroom at night, desperately seeking refuge from the scary images that snuck up in my mind at night. Nevertheless, we kept watching splatter movies. And we kept being afraid.
I have remained a real coward when it comes to scary movies. But I am also hopelessly curious. I look across the room, where my boyfriend is setting up the television, because he is going to watch a splatter type movie. I know I am going to end up watching it too. This is just the way I am.
I will probably have trouble sleeping tonight.
There might have been a few explanations for this. Ever since I was little I have always had a fascination for things that scare me. The sadomasochist in me has an eerie interest in criminal history and inexplicable things. When I was nine, I used to sneak in to the grown-up part of the library and head right to the paranormal shelves. I especially remember this one book, quite large, and absolutely stuffed with what they called ‘ghost photographs’. These were usually photos of smiling families, with something blurry in somewhere in the pictures. The caption beneath the pictures explained stories surrounding the picture, usually that this blurry spectra was either a dead child or grandmother who had passed away just days after the picture was taken. The chills I got reading these books in my grand curiosity would urge me to read more.
In the evenings I was completely terrified, begging my mother to let me sleep in her bed. It ended with my father, muttering and frowning, having to spend the night in my child-size bunk bed while I slept on his side of the bed in the master bedroom. I wonder how many nights I deprived him of his sleep. Poor man, having to go to work the next day!
One of the girls in the neighborhood was my very good friend. We used to go to her house after school to have our afternoon snack (quite frankly a nice habit, oddly enough lost in the adult version of me). These would often consist of homemade microwave heated sponge cake, which my friend’s mother used to bake by the truck loads, and furthermore freeze so that her daughters could have them for afternoon snack. My mother, always the skeptic of things she regarded as ‘new’, had refused to buy a microwave. In fact, she did so for many years to come, until she finally yielded when my grandmother bought us one. I guess she took pity on her granddaughters, hopelessly lost in the dark ages (Today my mother uses her microwave on a daily basis).
After snack, we would always watch a movie. This was during the times only the lucky few owned a VHS. We were one of the lucky few (only because my father was obsessed with movies. Our VHS had a little dust cover and was not allowed to be touched by us children without adult supervision) and so was my friend. Thus, after our snack, we would rush to the video box and see if my friend’s older, teenaged sister would have bought and recorded a new movie.
It was one of these days that we came across a series of movies we had not seen in the box before. They were clearly rated R, which made us even more curious. This was our first and unforgiving introduction to the world of splatter horror. Promiscuous teens, brutally slaughtered by a maniac in a hockey mask who never seemed to die… Body parts flying everywhere! I had never seen anything like it. Oh, the scare, the thrill!
When the movie ended, we solemnly swore that we would never tell a soul what we had just seen. For one, because my friend’s elder sister probably would hang us by the neck, would she find out that we had been in her movie box. Second, because our parents would probably forbid us to watch these types of movies, would it be discovered that we did. And we really wanted to see the rest of this gory series!
It became a ritual, coming home to my friend after school, having a snack. Brazing ourselves for what was to come. Watching a movie that opened up a world, completely unknown to us. Mumbling a very unconvincing “were you scared? I wasn’t at all” and stumbling home. Not being able to sleep at night. Because although I never actually asked my friend (no way, I wasn’t a coward!) I am sure that she was just as scared as I was. I could tell. Looking back, she probably had just as much trouble with splatter movie conditioned insomnia as I did.
I think my mother never could understand why I was so afraid of the dark. She tried a number of things, night lights, music… even bedtime stories. But to no avail. For several years to come, I continued the habit of sneaking into their bedroom at night, desperately seeking refuge from the scary images that snuck up in my mind at night. Nevertheless, we kept watching splatter movies. And we kept being afraid.
I have remained a real coward when it comes to scary movies. But I am also hopelessly curious. I look across the room, where my boyfriend is setting up the television, because he is going to watch a splatter type movie. I know I am going to end up watching it too. This is just the way I am.
I will probably have trouble sleeping tonight.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Imposter
Every now and again, despite my mother’s genuine efforts to prevent it, we would come down with some kind of seasonal bug, and thus present flu-like symptoms. Being a nine-year old kid, I used to have quite a high threshold for pain (unlike the grown up version of me, who thinks she’s is going to die every time she contracts a common cold) and therefore quite looked forward to these sick-at-home days. To the contrary of what I always had in mind, my mother (a woman who has always detested the idea of wasting time) would always treat these days as opportunities to do chores around the house. As for me, I always pictured my mother as some kind of a Florence Nightingale-type figure, bent over me with an expression of agony on her face (not very unlike the expression you can find on old paintings of Mary Magdalene). Even so, being home sick would always involve lying wrapped up in blankets watching a few movies before having a home cooked meal. That sure beats a day at school!
This particular sick day was just as all the others. My mother had this theory that the flu is partly psychological, so she would spoil us a little bit more to take our mind off the actual disease. This meant that we could ask for candies mid-week (within reason) or any kind of food we craved. I remember always wanting seedless grapes. Anyway, this story takes place around one of these sick days that would have been like any other sick day and would probably have not even been remembered, had it not been for what happened next.
After two days of being sick, the inevitable return to school. It was one of those cold and rainy days, so typical for Sweden, and I remember my mother drove me to school (which she rarely did) because of my frail condition.
My first tip off was that all of my school mates were giving me odd looks. Nothing was said or suggested, but there was something odd. Being a kid, I just waved it off the way kids do and went to sit down on my seat.
It was time for morning assembly. This too, ran its normal course, and I was probably thinking of the sneakiest way to be the first one to run out to get the class communitarian basketball and thus be the queen of the recess then the teacher turned to me. With her eyes (and everyone else’s) fixed at me she says:
“…and let us not forget to ask Elena why, when we all spotted her on the grassy hill behind the school, she had the audacity to make a run for it. It is clear that as we all have seen her and that she certainly was not home sick in bed yesterday!”
Imagine my surprise! Here I was, a survivor of the flu, getting accused of having faked my ordeal! Ah, the shame I felt! I felt a million, no a TRILLION pair of eyes, glaring at me with contempt and a kind of “see, there, we got you” kind of triumphant look. I remember my eyes filling up with tears. I got up from my desk and ran all the way home.
My mother, being a warrior by nature, got completely and insanely angry when I told her about my predicament. She marched straight to the school, me shortly behind her, half running to keep up with her angry steps. When we arrived, she marched straight into the headmaster’s secretary’s office, have her and angry stare and demanded to speak to the headmaster or she would sue the school. Within minutes she had gotten an audience not only with my teacher, but also with the president of the PTA and with the headmaster of our school. You see, to date I have not encountered one single person who does not quiver with fear at the sight of my mother On the Warpath.
From the hallway, where I was sitting I could hear my mother’s angry don’t-mess-with-me-because-I-can-make-your-life-hell voice shouting things like: “if you call my daughter a liar, you are calling me a liar” and “I was home with my sick daughter all day long. Do you also think that I stayed home from work because I wanted a day off”, followed by muffled voices, with a deeply unhappy tone of apology and regret. After a long, long time, my mother came out from the headmaster’s office and, grabbed me by the hand and, speaking through her teeth, she said “let’s go home, child. It is all sorted.”
The next morning in school, my teacher issued a public apology to me, swearing that the girl they had seen on that grassy hill was a complete lookalike, but of course, if I (that is, my angry mother) said that it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me. I was an honest girl and would never lie (please don’t unleash your mother on me again).
The matter was not discussed further, or ever again. I must admit that I still today, every now and again think of this incident. I am still very puzzled over who this lookalike person was. Where did she come from?
I often find today that when someone claims that someone looks like me, I am highly disappointed. I do not recognize myself at all in these imposters. Maybe because I am still hoping to, one day, reunite with this person who looks exactly like me, to the degree that she was at some point mistaken for me. I wonder if she still looks like me?
And most importantly; is she still out there today, up to no good?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
