Corny uni assignment

The kindergarten walls dressed in do-it-yourself posters and makeshift decorations hibernate in the blurriest, groggiest corner of consciousness; they tend to serve only as a sign of “Yeah, I was alive at that age”. I never cared for them. The memories, I mean. I’ve always known I’ve had some internal struggles, but who doesn’t? I had enough to go off of - the cross I drape around my neck as proof my 9 month old skin had been blessed with holy water, the stitches on the side of my face, and stacks of doctor’s notes littered in the dusty cabinets of a childhood home. All else about myself didn’t matter much to me. But I can’t find a date and mark “remember” in my calendar, because “remember” really does creep up behind you. The catch being that instead of “Boo!”, you tend to get a fistful of baby-hair grabbed and a head full of fog smashed against the pavement on memory lane. 

In hindsight, my tendency to only prefer one-on-one time spent together was less a sign of “my love language is quality time”, but more a manifestation of fear. I was at my friend Heidi’s place, already making myself at home. We fell into our usual routine of talking about any gossip I’ve overheard while she delights me with a look I can tell isn’t directed at me, but rather the protagonist of the story. It was genuinely peaceful, my own voice drowned out by the sizzle of pancakes on a rusty old pan you’d only see in the hands of a broke college student, her voice harmonizing with mine. We rarely meet and don’t talk much, that’s the way we like it. Heidi has her own friends, her own life, I have mine, and once in a couple of months we’d put them together like puzzle pieces that don’t actually fit, but you force them when you’re sick of looking for the right one. It’s important to note that this took place in December, when the centre of Riga was covered in thick piles of snow that lure you in with its soft touch, but push you out with the reminder that, right, hypothermia is, indeed, very real. But inside her tiny apartment the snow was out of sight, out of mind. Heidi had work the next morning, so we took the liberty of being responsible and going to bed early. We fell asleep.

Somewhere someone’s old grandfather clock declared the time. 1am. For us, though, it sounded more like the dreadful ringtone Apple shoves down our throats (yet we comply and open wider). It’s okay, though, the chime was interrupted by a russian-swear-latvian-noun-mixture with a question mark at the end. The most noticeable part was how it seemed the stench of cheap booze reeked even through the speaker. Heidi dealt the final blow (another swear) and pushed her phone away. We fell asleep.

The grandfather clock strikes 3, Apple sings its song again. More swears, this time accompanied by “No” repeatedly when the thick wall of alcohol was too much to comprehend what’s being said. Another angry sigh from Heidi, another aggressive press of the red button we all know means “Get me out of this phone call”, another phone toss. We fell asleep.

The sound of the door banging drowns out any old clock ticking. We both sat up, but I seemed to be the only one confused and somewhat fearful. Heidi, on the other hand, let out a loud grunt and forcefully shoved off her side of the blanket, which in Heidi language, translates to greeting someone with a punch to the face while your other hand holds up a middle finger. She unlocked the door and in fell a group of clearly overly intoxicated girls around our age, smudged eyeliner and drunken laughs all over. I didn’t dare say anything. Heidi started badgering them, telling them to be quiet, to which they responded in giggles and the sound of coats being shoved off. At this moment I knew to lay low, so I did what I do best - ignore it, pay it no mind, pretend I’m somewhere else. I pulled the covers up and faced myself to the wall, doing nothing but listening in on them. They chatted for a while, Heidi’s anger slowly dissipating. I was terribly uncomfortable at that moment, but nothing I hadn’t dealt with.

But here comes the curbstomp, of course. The uninvited guests weren’t so far gone that they wouldn’t notice another body in the darkness. They started talking about me. Fair enough, I’d ask a few questions too. But it felt like I was kicked back to my childhood self when I heard the footsteps coming around near me. When I said I didn’t care about anything else except knowing I existed as a child, it was more of a tactic to push away the frustration of not knowing. I knew they were staring at me, they were walking around the bed in all and every angle to get a look at me, still chatting away as if I wasn’t there, doing anything to avoid contact. It felt so familiar, like the memories I somewhat repressed. Sure, I dye my hair black and am terribly anemic, but that doesn’t help wondering what I did to get stared at like a vampire with razor sharp teeth chained up in a cage. I’m not a violent person, I don’t bite, I would never rip out their necks even if I were a vampire discovering that immortality entails more than just never dying. I found out that the feeling of being treated like a stand-up comedian unaware the laughter is about him, instead of with him, isn’t a stranger.

 The attention and eyes on me, remarks about me being this and that, it’s all far too familiar at times. I carry the memory of picking at my face until it bleeds in front of a primary school bathroom mirror in the cross around my neck, the muffled sounds of laughter in another room from kids my age as I kept to myself in the scar on the side of my face, the sound of extended family calling me weird or some other adjective I learned to ignore in the doctor’s notes. It was raw, embarrassing, stupid. 

But it’s OK. I’m collecting shards of acceptance in my lopsided smile. Bits and pieces of confidence in the childhood comic books that kept me company. Lessons on how to not care sewn into the black tights my 5 year old self wore when everyone else chose beige coloured ones.