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.
