Slander; an ongoing story

Lately I have found myself trying really hard not to remember my days as a student, from middle school through high school. I didn't mind my teachers, but I can't remember I, at any given time, was given extra attention, either. I did well in school, and the extra exercises just kept coming my way. I remember both my teachers and the extra work very well.

I thought I had friends, not many, but I thought at least a few liked me. Now that I am an adult I fully understand how mean the other kids were. Never in an obvious or physical manner,
even though I did get into a fist fight with a boy I thought was my best friend.

I remember being tough and calling him a silly name trying to punch him in his stomach, but when he couldn't see me anymore I cried.

Somehow I think the teachers knew, they just didn't know what to do. I never got into any 
trouble for standing up for myself, even in desperate ways.

One time we had a party at school for 5th and 6th grade. We were 18 students in total. Only two of us were an audience when the other 16 gave a performance miming with playback, to one BoneyM hit after another.

I remember middle school being confusing, and hard. My life was challenging to begin with, the talking behind my back, their planning parties in secret and then let me know in detail after, the grown ups' indiscressions... it was all more convenient to ignore.

Some time in my late teens I tried to go see the worst rumormonger as much as possible, hoping it would limit her. It didn't. It got worse. On New Years Eve, she invited a lot of friends for dinner, and I was supposed to show up after they had finished eating. Unfortunately dinner wasn't finished on time, and I arrived in the middle of their dessert.I remember being blamed for ruining their meal. I just didn't know I wasn't really invited for the party.

There was this understanding between them to operate on the fine line between friendship and excluding me from the special events.

One time the conductor for the tensing choir introduced a new song. He played the song "Love of another kind" by Amy Grant, then asked who was brave enough to be lead singer. I was pushed forward, and I heard them giggle. So I decided not to make a scene, but to prove them wrong. And I did.

I have recordings, and know I am right when I say I did a good job.

Every day I am grateful we moved away and let our children grow up surrounded by nontoxic people. Even though it was work situation which caused the move, it was a blessing. I was so nervous thinking about my oldest son maybe should go to the same school I did, I often felt trapped, just like I did when growing up.

I can't remember anybody ever asking me if I was ok, if I felt sad, or if I needed anything. They never encouraged me... they weren't up front and told me not to bother them again, either. Guess they needed me to blame, perhaps. Or for conversation material.

As we all grew older and called ourselves adults, one should think the story would end. It didn't.

I was chairman of the board in a kindergarden, and had to tell one of the staff (who happened to own the facility) she could not arrange a party in the kindergarden serving alcohol, but she could arrange a party in her private basement (yes, same location) after working hours.

I felt like such an idiot after, when I was told I was petty and jealous, just because I was the only woman between 20 and 30 in the village not invited.

Eventually I stopped trying and just accepted they didn't want me there. I did both them and myself a huge favour getting out of there. Moving to a place with true people, who accept you are what you are, and you do what you do, and you are still worth getting to know.

I have a lot of issues, but I realize more and more how I am not the only one.

My friend (yes, I have a friend I trust) says it is funny we became such good friends, because during the first three years of our friendship I never shared anything personal with her. She didn't know anything significant about me, and that is what she took to in me, because that is what she is like too.

We both have issues from decades back.
So, getting older, mature and work for years and years in your field of profession as teacher, nurse, AD, secretary or.... or.... whatever profession you may think of, one should think the story ends, right?

It doesn't.

When I go to see my parents in the village where I grew up, nobody greets me or stop to chat or catch up. It's like the notion of exaggerated rumors and talking behind my back hovers over me like a dark cloud of guilty silence.

A couple of months ago, my husband received a message on messenger. The message was (translated): "Could you tell her we are having a reunion? 30 years since we completed secondary school. (The name of a different classmate) is arranging the event."

I thought I had forgiven and forgotten. But getting this message from my husband made it all come back to me. I have forgiven. Nobody asked my forgiveness, but to me it was important not to let hurt feelings run my life... and yet they do. The insecurity and hurt I remember from back then, rushed over me before he had even read the message through.

I can't say I felt invited. I felt as if he was told to inform me they were having a reunion.

He replied by sending her a message giving my contact information.

A few weeks ago, my husband received another message saying: "The reunion will be September 24. Enlist ASAP."

No information on to whom or how to give notice.

I still don't feel invited... perhaps even less now that I know they have my contact information.

There is no attempt to get in touch with me. There is no hint I will be welcome if I go.

If anything, it feels worse now, because this time they know what they do. This time there is no question about the deliberate thought behind their way of conduct: They chose to not contact me or really invite me, in spite they have no clue who I am, how I am or what I am today.

I will never know the extent of the stories and characteristics given of me. I can only speculate, but I know some, and that some is more than enough.

It's like a snowball impossible to slow down or crush, because it feeds off how words and stories catch the next even more scandalous one.


Then again: remember this is my side to the story. This is how my memory brings back thoughts on my past.

Maybe I was the terrible one, the one impossible to talk to or go on trips with.

Regardless my flaws: feelings can not be argued, because they are real. Your hurt and misery can not be disputed.

The nights I stayed awake, or cried myself to sleep, they happened.

And some day, maybe, I will be as strong about this as I am about everything else in life. I will do what I today do on behalf of others and confront them. Ask them what I did wrong.

But not this reunion.

This time I was caught off guard. I forgive, but won't forget. And I will be prepared and ready.

Maybe it turns out silence is the best defence and payback after all.
Or maybe I should just write about it.

We all dress accordingly: a bit of flamboyance a bit of sincerety.

When all is said and done, and the ring has come completed; we are ready for a new school year.
Grades have been set, we got the results of a long season's hard work and the only thing we look forward to is the vacation we get, knowing no long list of handed in files will have to be graded during nights and weekends.
This is when we fall apart, regain composure and slowly find the excitement to get started anew.
We have exams every year, sometimes it is more draining to us, than it is to the students.
Hope, nerves, excitement and disappointment, all at the same time, do take its toll.

To celebrate all of this, and to celebrate those of our coworkers who leave, for whatever reason, and those who have had an anniversary, we have one last gathering and then a big lunch.

The fun, unexpected twist this year, was a concert by the artist Tommy Fredvang. We knew he had been entertaining at the graduation ceremonies, and rumor had it he was ever so cheeky about our principal's red pants. Which we love!, by the way, but which we understand can catch anybody off guard. (I love that even more!) To me, those pants represent us as a school and staff. We are teachers.

Anyway, we understood fairly early on that this was going to be a concert with the theme "love lost".
Which could have become a mushy seance, but added a healthy portion of irony, sarcasm and jokes became a rather enjoyable time.

I just couldn't stop myself from thinking how young he is. Quite pleasant to look at, and fairly well dressed always helps. He appeared not too flamboyant, and not too sincere... just a healthy combination of the two. But to me he was first and foremost just very young. And funny.

Love takes many forms. Some times we mistake other affections and excitements for a romantic kind of love.
This summer I have been married for 24 years, to the same man. (Maybe he being away so much has something to do with that. Maybe it is all his credit, but we are still a couple.)
Back then I was young, and perhaps funny. And I thought that love would stay young, and new, as well. I thought that as long as I chased for forever living in delightful bliss, our sensation of being in love would be kept alive.
It doesn't.

I was fortunate to fall in love with my future husband in spite of a lot of things: it was 1986 and the cool guys had long hair with perm... among other strange fashion features. His hair was down to his waist, and yes: he, unlike me, had hair which took to perm very well! Today he has no hair at all... it is safe to say he has nothing but improved with age.

Through time, changes, weight and sickness he loves me. Some days in the quiet way, which holds no other joy than the assurance he accepts I have major flaws. Other days he is proud to be at my side.

Anyway, Tommy (I find that someone trigging that kind of soulsearching pondering must accept being called by his first name) sang and played one cheesy, sad lovesong after another. Very sentimental, and as it turned out fit for food for thoughts.

It was a great concert, regardless his theme.
Maybe it was his ongoing comments about our principal's pink pants. Maybe it was his honest sound with vocals and acoustic guitar, no room for hiding any notes out of key(... he had very few).
Perhaps it was his cover version of Ed Sheeran's Thinking out loud, maybe it was "Vampyrane", "Love is running low" or maybe it was my slight disappointment he didn't perform any Justin Bieber song... I mean, anyone who can bring Wham's old hit "Careless whisper" into a new and enjoyable era, can make decent music worth listening to, of anything musical, which has been wrecked before.
I would rather enjoy that, I think.

There is a good chance he thought we would be square and boring. Well, for anyone who hasn't encountered a crowd of teachers outside the classroom, I tell you a secret:
Square and boring just doesn't cut it. If you want to be a good teacher you need to be a bit of everything and everybody.

We were so happy it's last day at work we laughed just he asked how we were doing.
But on any everyday we are updated, easy going, good... no: great! at what we do and how we perform our work. We are firm, yes, yet we listen, show respect and show lenience. Our best feature is variety, and down the list of character treats you should have as a teacher you will find: remember variety is spice of life.

We deal with both hard working, serious students who strive to get good results and achieve both understanding and knowhow, and we deal with rascals who have spent years of their life to learn how to appear careless.
No day is boring, even though some days are hard.
(Some days, I admit, I hope one or two don't show up, just because I am tired... but they always show. And I love that about them.)
At one point Tommy wondered what we did to our students, who chose to stay behind, talking for hours, after the graduation.

We put on a show every day, and in that respect we are much like artists. The core is: We care. We show them that it matters to us they do well. And by doing well, I don't mean they should get top grades; I want them to become the best version possible of themselves. That is a form of love as well.

And we are not afraid to dress accordingly our job. With flamboyant sincerity.