My performance in elementary school was excellent. I dropped to just average in grades 5-7 when I transferred to a private school. Grade 8 was spent back in the public school system, and I managed that year working to be not just average. In high school, I was either an A student or a D student. One grading period, I went from an A in Algebra to a D and I cried over my first D in my school career. It devastated me, but when my mother found out over what it was I was so broken, she laughed. She said she thought I was pregnant. “Oh, it’s only a D?” That hurt me at the age of 14 and proudly a virgin (not knowing at the time that I would outlast my mother’s virginity; as if it was some foolish competition or something). What in the world would even make her think I had the opportunity to be not a virgin? I was shy. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I never had a boyfriend (except the so-called one she set me up with in the 7th grade; the one who was weird and the entire Summer was spent feeling like an animal in a zoo being observed for cute behavior. I had to ask a friend how to “break up” with him. I must say, I knew it was wrong what she was suggesting, but if I was going to burn a bridge good, that was the way to do it. Sadly, he was a cry baby and ran to my mother, “Look what she did!”
I didn’t know about narcissism in those days, but understand Mother is a narcissist. Her little scheme crumbled, and the only thing she had left was to make the boy out to be a saint, and I was a wicked slut. It would have been fine had he not been such a tattletale. Come to think of it, had he not been such a weasel in the first place, maybe I WOULD have lost my virginity at the age of 14. If I have anything to be grateful for, it’s that he was weird and a crybaby.
I never cared for history. I hated how we as members of a civilized society cared about war as much as we did. All history was — was war. I was 14 and idealistic and maybe just a touch (just a touch) righteous. Maybe just a touch out of touch of my own warring nature. Just a touch.
I am now an old lady and finding it fascinating how history has the potential of putting the puzzle together over how we got to where we are now. The problem is now I must do CliffsNotes (now known as Wiki and others) and quickly catch up and hope not to get a date wrong (because dates really ARE important) or some other significant event. Never mind how, if we go back far enough, scribes intentionally fabricated records. For the most part, records tend to reconcile with each other. At the risk of declaring an oxymoron, history reconciles many accounts.
With that I shall mention treaties. But first, my last article described my being a fly on the wall. As I hurry to catch up on all the dates of history that I missed, I find myself a fly on the wall in that era. I very much have become fascinated in my own Slavic roots (we’ll not mention the Irish-mutt side at the moment). The record seems to blur around the time my people were pagans, but I love how it seems possible we respected a lightning god. This might explain how I tend to overuse the lightning will strike me cliche. Who knows? I love imagining the theory.
We were considered barbarians by the Christians during our pagan times. I think we were called that because we also fought with our bare hands and not much armor besides our loin cloths protecting our baby makers. I doubt the loin cloths had much to do with modesty. We were a proud people.
Nevertheless, I must sharply segue and get this off my chest (my braless chest — which has nothing to do with pride but comfort). I am appalled there would be those who would support pre-WWII (post WWI) Germany and make up history in order to blame the “other guy” (which, in essence, blames the victim). Sure-sure, the reparations were exorbitant, and Germany desperately drove themselves into a devastating depression as a result. Albeit, some ideas seemed good — like gymnasium and engineering.
Give Hitler a chance. But I want to scream, Marge Schott mini-me! Whenever I hear /that/ voice (you know the one that sounds like a case of whiskey a week, several packs of cigarettes a day for a lifetime?) I see the mugSchott. That’s what I picture.
So, with that confession, you can only imagine what I said to that poor 16 year old boy.