Special

"What you writing? Oooh, blog!" my friend just asked me. I think my monthly public-diary-writing has made me almost (almost!) MUWCI-famous. Don't think that's special, everyone in MUWCI is MUWCI-famous. Some because of the way they play the ukelele, some for their secret hatred towards the administration of this school, others because they broke the MUWCI hook up record.

"How was India?"
"Good."

"Hmmm."

I'm sorry for my lack of communication but you'll have to understand that either you sit down and listen to me hesitating and being confused about it for five hours, or you feel satisfied with the "it was nice but too hot I already miss it" answer. Is it okay to feel insulted if someone reduces everything to a "how was India?" because they don't even know the name of my school despite reading my blog every month, or is that also horribly arrogant and elitist? I guess it is.

Here, you have to be special. You cannot just like Katy Perry, oh no. Only if you can balance out or justify this guilty pleasure by your endless hippie-without-shoes-ness or intellectual vocabulary, it will be accepted. I have been taught and encouraged to become special for so long now, I find myself wondering what 'normal' is like. I have started to believe that moving back to Belgium will be much more of a culture shock than coming here ever was.

I had to reassure my friend that I did actually put the MUWCI postal code on my body. For forever. Some were friendly enough to let me know that this "branding" also happened in the Second World War. Truth is that having this print with me softens the scare I have that I will forget about everything in two dozen years. All I have to do is look down to my right heel and there are all the MUWCI pains and laughs and tears and smiles and slippers and tea cups; encaptured in just.  six.  numbers.

I noticed the other day I have started to copy the way I sleep and sit at a desk from my roomie with whom I share my corner. When I told her, she gave me a kiss on my cheek.

It's the time of the year when the heat makes your feet hurt because of swelling and when at night all you crave is the silence of no fans but that is just not possible. It's the time of the year when the TL lights in the library and classrooms stay switched on until the sun rises again. It's the time of the year when the bags under our eyes also pull down the mood and energy and smiles. It's the time of piles of unordened papers on desks with marks of cups that couldn't hold their coffee. It's the time of midnight Parle-G breaks and peers stealing pens from each other. 

And also, of giggles in studyrooms. A look of understanding when you cross a coyear at 2 AM. Morning walks and hot showers and long breakfasts to wake up properly. That one last art-centre party. Gossiping sessions with housemates. More frequent trips to OC. Ten minute sun-soaking hours. Lists of "people-I-need-to-talk-to-before-I-leave" and "people-I-need-to-write-a-goodbye-letter-to" and "people-I-want-to-become-friends-with" and "people-I-need-to-reconnect-with". Gifts and messages from IB buddies. First years there for you, anytime anyplace. More friendly smiles as if people want you to forgive them for not smiling for a year. Maybe finally genuine general respect for each other.

In thirty days and twelve hours, I graduate from high school, from MUWCI, from childhood.