I can’t learn examples. Mom sometimes sits with me and explains the rules. I don’t understand them. I don’t want to understand them. I don’t hear what she says. I just nod my head and pretend to listen and look where she tells me to look. Then when I do it myself, I try to work out from her reactions what’s right.
— And what’s the answer, then?
I focus on the example like I understand it a hundred percent.
— Ehhh…seven?
— No.
— Five?
— No, you borrowed.
I make a sound like I’m finally realizing it.
— Yes! Ehhh…nine?
I often guess nine because it is the hardest number, nine or seven. My favorite number is eight. That’s because it’s made of two rings, and its fun to write. I also like to write five. I see numbers like dots on a dice and think about them that way. That’s why seven and nine are so difficult, perhaps: I don’t ever see them.
— Jón!
— Yes!
I act like it’s totally unnecessary to get all worked up: I understand it all completely. But in reality I’m lost. It’s like I’ve fallen asleep inside even though I’m awake. It often happens when I get bored or frustrated, but also when I’m trying to think about something interesting. The teacher calls that daydreaming. But it isn’t always daydreaming. I know what dreaming daydreams is like; I do it all the time. But sometimes it’s different. Those times, I’m not thinking anything or dreaming. I try to think but I can’t. It’s like the thoughts are suddenly stuck and won’t come, like they’re all locked inside one room. Maybe I’m just a moron.
They think I don’t want to understand. I’ve been trying but I can’t get it. It’s no fun not knowing how to write or add up. It’s no fun always being a total moron. It’s not because I’m lazy. It’s no fun to sit alone out in the corner learning subtraction for months on end or to sit with mom in my room staring at books. It would be easier to learn it and then go back outside to play. I don’t want to do this, any more than I want to drink others’ pee or eat lumpfish. My teacher wouldn’t want to work in a workshop and always be drilling things by hand. Dad wouldn’t want to stay at home knitting or putting on makeup. Why do I have to do what I don’t want to, what I’m not good at? I don’t understand. Everyone just says that I have to learn.
— You’ll need this when you grow up.
I really doubt it. I can tell I’ll never need multiplication tables. I feel it’s about as important as knowing how many hairs different types of dog have or what materials my clothes are made from. It’s like having to memorize a bunch of telephone numbers in case you need to call someone. If I really need to know something, I can just ask someone. Why aren’t there schools for kids where there’s no math and no annoying rules and just all play and telling stories? If I find I don’t like the rules when I’m grown up, will I have to stick with them? I’m simply myself. Is there a place for me? I know some of the rules, even if I don’t know everything. I know how to talk better than everyone else. I know plenty. I’m funny. I know how to say entertaining things. Maybe I can tell stories when I grow up. I can tell people stories and take part that way.
I’d like to be a part of things. It’s just that I’m a bit weird. I’m not like the others. I’m not good at anything that’s of any value.
I feel bad about myself. I don’t feel good inside. I feel so bad that I get tears in my eyes when I think about it. So I don’t think about it.
Everyone gets tired of me sooner or later. I can tell by the way they look at me; I see the weariness in their eyes. Mom is tired of me, the teachers are tired of me, and my friends are sometimes tired of me, too. I’m the most tired of all. I don’t like being this way. I’m somehow all crumpled inside and I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to do. I’ve gotten lost deep inside and I can’t find a way out.
That’s me. I’m not pretending. I’m not trying to be annoying. Why would anyone believe me? If I wasn’t funny, I’d just be stupid, and no one would want to be with me. I’d be like Rubber Tarzan. I want people to like me. I want everything to be okay.
Once a week we have Materials. We go to the big workshop full of all kinds of machinery and tools.
I want to learn about all these machines. I enjoy making things. I really like the smell of trees. They have a good smell when you saw them.
Each summer I go to a construction camp where I build myself a hut. I want to learn that more and better. I want to learn to make a two-story cabin with a door that can be locked. I also want to know how to build things for my miniatures, or a house for Action Man. It’d also be good to be able to build a dovecote with nets. I’d like to keep doves. But I don’t know how to build it and there’s no one to help me. I’ve tried it but it doesn’t stay up. There’s so much I can’t do. Hinges. And how do you hammer nails into thin sticks without splitting them? How do you stop things leaking? What sort of nails are you meant to use when? There’s so much I want to learn when it comes to carpentry. If I could choose, I’d like to make a flashy sword and shield or an Indian tent. But we can’t choose what we build. We don’t learn anything about the machines or how to make stuff. In fact, we don’t make anything. The only thing we do is to saw animals out of plywood. And we only get to choose whether we want to make a horse or cow. It’s still fun, for a little while, because we get to use a band saw. But it’s only fun for a short while. Most of our time is spent polishing the animal with sandpaper. That’s difficult and annoying work. You have to sand the edges well, first with coarse paper and then with fine paper. The teacher is never satisfied.
— No, you have to sand it a little more.
— It’s done!
— Hmm, you do need to sand it more with some fine sandpaper.
When we’re finished sanding, we put some brown stain on the animal and a plate under so it can stand up.
Finally, you burn your name under the base with a special tool. That’s exciting, partly because it’s fun to use the tool, but also because it’s a relief not to have to sand any more.
I don’t know what we’re allowed to do. That’s so annoying. I don’t learn anything but sanding plywood. You can’t tell me that’s something I’ll need to know when I’m all grown up. A stained plywood cow is not something anyone cares about. It won’t be a gift, let alone a lovely ornament. Mom would never put something like this up in her living room. I don’t want this thing in my room. And there’s no one I could give it to. I don’t even feel like it’s worth burning. It’s just pointless.
The only thing that is reliably fun at school is gym. That’s when we get to play games and do all kinds of exercises: climbing rope and jumping over a horse. It’s really fun to play Tarzan. That’s the one where you’re chased but you can’t touch the floor.
The sports teacher is a professional volleyball player. He does everything he can to introduce us to the world of volleyball. We often have volleyball competitions. But volleyball is a girly sport. You can’t punch or hit anything but the ball. I think it sucks and I think most boys feel the same way.
It’s sometimes fun in the changing room and shower after gym. First the boys get to shower, then the girls. We whip each other with towels and muck about. We take hold of our pricks, pull them back behind our balls, clamp our thighs together, and then it’s like we’ve got pussies.
There’s much teasing after gym class. It’s tough for the fat kids. Fat Dóri gets a bad ride. Everyone is always making fun of him and trying to pinch him.
— Lemme pinch your rolls, Dóri.