This past summer marked the twenty-fifth year of my high school graduation. I knew the reunion was looming just over the horizon like a bad omen when the smell of has-been prom queens filled the air. But mostly I knew it was around the bend because of the We are sexy, we are great! We’re the class of 88! group I’d been added to– against my will, I might add –on Facebook, and the private messages attempting to confirm my cheery attendance to the “par-tay.”
Cheery? Clearly, they had me confused with someone else.
I disregarded the chatter, though. All of it. Much in the same fashion that I’ve ignored the multitude of status updates announcing every ridiculously themed mini-reunion they decided to throw. But this one struck a nerve, and when Mr. K asked if I planned to go, my self-preservation mode engaged unexpectedly.
“Pfft. Fuck no. I didn’t like those bitches in high school and I’m pretty sure I won’t like them now.”
It was true statement. I didn’t like them, and in my opinion, they were bitches. They were also judgmental snobs, and I had a sneaking suspicion that had not changed along with their waistline over the years. But it wasn’t their high and mighty attitude that gave me pause. It wasn’t even the vivid memory of their sneers as I walked past them in faded Levi’s and my Bat Out of Hell t-shirt. What did trigger my defenses, however, was the recollection of their sweet, southern drawl as slut rolled off their forked tongues.
Slut was a label I’d worn since I began an affair with a twenty-two year old, married man. I was barely fourteen at the time. I was also a virgin. It would have been easy to say I was in over my head and he took advantage of my innocence, but it would have been a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.
The label itched my skin uncomfortably. I tried not to let it get the best of me, but there were times it won, and I scratched at it until I was raw and bleeding. In a way, it blended in, becoming part of who I was as I stumbled through the intense sexual urges that consumed me. I used it, discovering sex yielded a certain power I thrived on, and like a blood thirsty vampire, I wanted more. I was ravenous, and I fed my hunger with little concern for those around me.
Oddly, the guys treated me with respect, never making me feel like I was THAT girl. But the girls outside of my circle of friends looked at me with disdain, shocked I could hold my head high. And I did, for the most part anyway.
Then it seemed I’d met my match in the bad boy, and they– disgruntled by the idea I may have been THE ONE –made it their mission to destroy me; the sexually open girl who willingly went against the grain of societal norms. They slapped me super hard with the label I’d tried my best to embrace, shaking it loose and out of my control. Over and over again, they reminded me and everyone within earshot I was a slut. They told the bad boy choosing me was a mistake, and he would have been much better suited to one of them in particular. They complained to my boss, refusing to eat pizza served to them by a slut. And they laughed, calling me a slut as I walked down the hallways of school.
I stopped listening to the answering machine before erasing the messages, and I walked down the hallways with my eyes on the floor, hoping they wouldn’t notice me if they passed. I refused to go to work after they’d embarrassed me to the point of tears, but my boss wasn’t having it and banned them from the restaurant. It was my safe place and they were no longer welcome.
Their witch hunt lasted the better part of my sophomore year, finally dissipating to the occasional slut comment in passing throughout the remainder of high school.
If we’re lucky, ghosts of the past will lose their power and fade away to nothing more than a faint memory. But some are especially difficult to dispel, appearing when we least expect it. They can take on the form of people we try our damnedest to forget, shouting “I wouldn’t touch that slut if I was you! She’s probably got AIDS!” across a crowded parking lot.
By the way, that one was thrown with intent to kill and it struck with the force of a shotgun blast to my chest.
Ghosts can also materialize in the shape of a simple invitation to a high school reunion. And this one contained much more than the date and name of the DJ who would spin the tunes of yore.
When I peered inside of it, I saw nothing but a preview of the women I knew as girls. They smiled sweetly to my face, and say it’s been too long and pry into my life. But as soon as I turned away, their smiles transformed into the wicked grins I remembered and slut dripped from their mouths once again. I decided then and there I would never allow them the opportunity to call me a slut again. The thought of it all picked at an invisible scab I never knew I had.
I locked those years away for a long time, refusing to acknowledge their existence. But now I walk freely through the memories. I know now I wasn’t somehow flawed, that the wanton desires that fueled my compulsion were deep-rooted; they were part of my genetic make-up. Just like my green eyes, the dimple on my right cheek when I smiled, and my repugnance toward math. It was part of what made me ME. I also realize I made my share of mistakes, but I was a young girl. That aside, though, it was my body. MY choice. And they had no right to call me a slut.
Beautiful post! I don’t remember high school fondly either and to have my classmates talk of how it was the best times of their lives makes me cringe. If that was the best time, what kind of hell are they living in now?
I was painfully shy and the “smart,fat girl.” I was good enough to help them out with their homework, but never considered part of any of the clicks. Sure I had my small group of friends, but even with them I felt like an outsider most of the time.
Now here I am twenty-eight years after graduation, my high school classmates all want to reconnect on Facebook. All want to remember the “good times” we had back then. They’re actually shocked when I tell them I didn’t have any to remember.
The best time of their lives?? Dear God…
The people who say that are the cheer moms who are now living vicariously through their daughters.
What a wonderfully expressed piece! Bravo and yes fight on x
Thank you!
It saddens me to think of how crushing slut shaming was for you. It concerns me to think of my child growing up and enduring such bullying wether it be slut shaming or any other form of intolerance. Seems we are just getting a handle on bullying. Hopefully our society will have a healthy balance figured out for my grandchilren or their children. For the record sluts are amongst my favourite people.
I talk often with my teen and her friends about how damaging words can be, how one word may have the power– good or bad –to change a person’s life forever. And I don’t sugarcoat it either. That would defeat the purpose.
Slut shaming is a nasty business, and girls are particularly cruel to other girls. I know it’s tempting to want to go just so you can bitch-slap these fuckers. But they’re just not worth it.
Powerful piece and it should never have happened; I went to all boys school but was friendly with the local “slut” in the year below; she was a good laugh and I thoroughly enjoyed her company in the local pub we were too young to go into!
There are people from my primary school who did their best to torment me and while not as bad as you described if I had the opportunity for a reunion I would take it. Their words lost their effect on me when I was still in school shorts, but there will be great satisfaction to me in just being there.
As a rule I am happy to let bygones be bygones, and am happy to move on, but there are a handful – a very, very small handful – where I can’t forget and the thoughts of them being uncomfortable is still, even now, slightly satisfying.
It’s a personality flaw, I know, but I’m only human.
And in addition; if you are doing NaNoWriMo and happen to have a nasty, vindictive, evil character in your story, giving your character the same name as the person your fiction is inspired by, is a touch therauptic as well
I’m sorry that you had to go through the bullying that you did. It’s really freaking sad. And you ARE right about something. Those girls of yesterhighschool USUALLY DO remain with the same sad, sad, judgmental attitude. Do you know how I know? I work with women like that. I always have. Everywhere you go, every job you have, you will see women who you just KNOW were the girls that SEEMED to be popular but really were just the sly prissy bullies of high school. You know this, because they are STILL doing it. But, now when I see them, I imagine that they are really sad, sad human beings. I mean, it takes so much energy – time wasting, life sucking energy to be that way. I am a submissive and my bdsm life is secret, but it fulfills me 24/7. I have ups and downs, yes, but I really feel that I MUST be a happy person and would never trade their life for mine….then nor now.