losers weepers (5) the rose thorn

and there are no finders. you don't know what you got till it's gone. and sometimes you know, and you can't help it going away.

one thing i lost very early on is the full enjoyment of success and my respect for poor losers and their envy. it's the former i regret, not the latter. because success is most often hard worked for and deserves something. at least unspoilt delight at achieving it. but... it's lonely at the top.

i was in the first grade. at the end of it, to be precise. i was seven years and almost three months young. it was a hot june day. probably around the 15th of june. last school day of my first year at school.

everybody wears festive clothes: teachers, parents. we are gathered in a small square yard, with broken asphalt, white and reflecting the sun. the walls of the school rose around us. at the first (and only) floor, there was a covered balcony-like thing - it linked all classes there. i can see the windows from my classroom from where i stand. the first one is the window i sit by, second or third desk. light green paint peels off the reel of the the balcony. but that's not what i see when i look up there. i see my parents and my granny. i wave to them.

we are meant to stand in rows. in groups - class A, class B, class C. the taller ones in the rows in the back. i get second row. there's a girl in front of me named astrid. there are several desks in the front. there are books on them. and some papers. i have a flower bouquet in my hands. almost every pupil has one. they will be handed to teachers and then they will pile up on the desks. it now feels like an oddly solemn ritual... we offer flowers and the mighty teachers smile down benevolently upon us and give us books in return. it is warm in the uniform. i hate the school uniform. i also hate the white band holding back my black hair but it's school regulation.

we get prizes according to our end of the year mark. first prize, second prize, third prize and some runners-up. i have straight A's. i'll get the first prize. me and about five others. it's the first grade after all. i switch places with astrid. i wave at my parents. i am proud and keep raising my thumb, signaling that i got first place. as if it is something of tremendous importance. for seven years old me, it is. from the first day i went to school, i had the fix idea that i am not allowed to get bad marks. that getting a 4 will get me punished. don't ask me why or how i got the idea in my head. i think i might have already explained it on the blog.

the teacher comes over. she says astrid and i must switch places. "go to the second row, astrid. let d. come in the front." so it's not about height, like in gym class. front row is for the ones who got the best results. i switch places with astrid. i keep waving at my parents. more discreet now. but astrid isn't happy. and i am finding that out on my own skin. literally. i hear a muttering behind me and it sounds grudging and angry, in a cold way. "d! always d! always in the front". and i feel a sting in my arm. i turn around to look at her. i am shocked at the reaction, the sting hurts and i am puzzled as to what exactly i had done wrong. she holds the thorn of a rose in her hand, that she has torn off one of the roses in her hand. that's where the sting had come from.

the rest is a blur. i got up front when my name was called, i gave the flowers to teacher as had the ones before me, i received a couple of books and the diploma. they didn't give me a flower wreath to put on my head as i knew they did in some schools. but it didn't matter. nothing mattered much. my parents were happy and proud. i was happy and proud... sort of.

i don't know if it was a coincidence or not, next year i got second prize. 9,97 instead of 10. but then again in the third grade and every year after that i ended up being the best in my class. not many more straight A lines, but still the best. up to graduation in the 12th grade. and that sting was always there, in one form or another. even though it never took the shape of a rose thorn again.

Thorn by Tishounette