Friday, July 1, 2011

Reunion, virtual - thank you, FB!

I just bumped onto an old school friend in the virtual space, and she's a poet now! One of the tasks to accomplish tomorrow is to buy her poetry book. My classmate the poet - a marked change from what I remember since she really talked in maths and maths only then. But she was kind. That hasn't changed. I last saw her eleven years ago, but before that I had last seen her when I was twelve, so another eleven years prior to that. When Russians left the country in the early 90s, there was no longer any point in staying in a Russian-instructed school. It was time to learn Mongolian properly. Which I did, by changing schools and undergoing a torment in the new school where everyone shunned me because of my skin problems and my suicide attempt. I was the crazy (I did try to kill myself, after all, there are 12 hours of my life I remember nothing of till date), lesioned and scaly, gangly, awkward teen. But the even deeper reason for changing schools was another friend, not this one... It's a long story in itself and needs another separate entry since I've been meaning to write about those months for years now, and to finally beg forgiveness from the one I had abandoned and had felt guilty about for years and years and years. To come back to this classmate of mine: it was amazing to touch base with her as it brought back many childhood memories. Like the extreme embarassment of my body, monthlies, breasts which I hated from the get-go (the shock horror of actually realising myself a girl) on the negative side, and on the positive, my first inroads into my true self. I don't remember which grade we were in at the time, but one winter I had an idea that we had to do a play, a modern Cinderella story. I chose the team of co-conspirators/artists in our class, chose one of the most beautiful girls - she was a Kazakh girl with soulful big eyes and raven hair - in the class as Cinderella, and I chose myself as the Prince Charming. I think I might've been nine or ten at the time. Or maybe even eleven. But I remember rehearsing in the snow outside the school building where I am kneeling in front of that girl, pretending to put the crystal shoe on her booted foot... We never did finish the play, but I remember so clearly my soaring imagination at the time: I was the Prince Charming, dressed in the medieval male gear, somehow light blue in my mind, with a flying cloak behind my shoulders, and I was a boy. I was the Prince. More than anything, I remember feeling so right thinking myself the boy that I must've by then realised I was not... I had not seen many of my classmates since then, just one or two, including the one I touched base with on the FB. And apparently they do meet from time to time. Reunions are an institution here, an excuse to get pissed, of course, just like anywhere. I might join them next time. Hopefully my voice would've changed more by then.

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