My First Declaration of Love

15Sep10

I think it might be due to my impending leave for University, but over the past week, I’ve become very pensive. This town where I’ve lived all my life, and the family and friends I have surrounded myself with, in a little over a week, will no longer be there. Well, they will, just many hundreds of miles away.

I was speaking to my friend the other day, and absently my mind wandered; recalling back to my first “real” friendship I ever created with anyone else. This, in turn, got me thinking about my very first day of school, ever.

I believe the year was 1995, I was walked into this building – school – with my Mum, and my Step-dad, my little brother might have been there too, but I can’t quite remember. I had on my new school uniform, complete with blue jumper with the school logo, and my new (and very first) backpack – which was my pride and joy.

I remember, all the parents of the new Reception year gathered in the Infant Hall, still trying to find a way to keep their child close to them, to return them home to the safety of their careful and close watch. Tears were shed, and as my Mum has recalled to me many-a-time, many by her.

Eventually I was called, and shuffled off to my class. My teacher, Mrs. R, had a class of about twenty-five. The school smelt weird, but now whenever I come across that same smell (which I occasionally do), its rather soothing and special.

The rest of the class had all sat down, and it would appear I was the last, or at least, one of the last, be seated. Everyone sat still, but there was an air of uncertainty, and with everyone else at least, of shared nervousness.

I sat myself down in the middle of the red carpet (as you do at that age), and I remember very clearly to the right of me, a girl. She had brown hair and brown eyes – much like myself – and sweet, soft smile and face. She looked popular, she looked special. Like all of those kids on children’s television programmes, who always had the most friends. I remember I sat close to her, and although I was completely and utterly scared, I couldn’t help but turn my head, and keep smiling at her.

Instantly I was jealous. I found out rather quickly, as Mrs. R made us stand-up and give brief introductions of ourselves, the vast majority of my class had all attended the Schools’ Nursery. I, had attended Nursery once, hated it, and pleaded to leave. So by the time I started school, I had never had a friend, never really engaged with children of my own age, I never knew anyone. This brown-haired girl, who I learned was named Jodie*, already had a friend, Amelia*.

The pair of them together were rather quite amazing, I seem to remember thinking. They were close friends, everyone knew them, and everyone held them in high esteem. I didn’t know why, of course, but I learnt quickly that they were the ‘popular girls’, the ones, that even at the tender age of four, everyone was trying to be, and the boys, wanted to be around.

Over the course of the year, we somehow managed to become friends. How, I can’t say. I daresay I was the most socially inept of all in my class, but I was enchanted by Jodie. Not so much by Amelia, who I quickly learned also won complete favour of teachers and their assistants. She was the one who I always considered I had to measure up to, and I couldn’t – for a number of reasons – my talent and genius just didn’t extend to hers. Even now, I still doubt it does.

It came a surprise to me some weeks or months later when I learnt that Jodie, had always lived extremely close to me, in fact, no more than a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty metres at the very most. I remember, every morning – for her parents were apparently more organised than mine – watching her through my window as she walked to school.

Some time passed, and soon I found myself progressing through the school hierarchy, and I reached Year 1. Mrs C was now my teacher – a funny woman, scary sometimes – and a little ignorant – but full of surprises.

The most I seem to remember of my first three years of school, is that it seemed as though it was constantly raining. Try as I might, I cannot recall a single hot and sunny day, between the ages of five and eight.

On one particularly drizzly day, Jodie and I were walking home, along with our parents who were walking hastily before us. That day, had been “Wet Play”, meaning it was raining at lunch, and instead of shuffling about outside, we were allowed to sit in our respective classrooms, drawing and reading and the like. Jodie, Amelia and I had spent the lunch drawing and chatting, I recall.

Anyways, on this walk home, I remember we were having a conversation about love and hate. Don’t ask how two six/seven-year olds came about this topic, but we were. I remember looking at a puddle, that looked mesmersing, as it was tainted with petrol, and in the light made beautiful colours and patterns, and I said to Jodie: “I love you”.

She looked at me, with a look of either horror or disgust, and I followed with “I love you, as a friend. You’re my friend, and you can love people as friends”, she replied with something negative, something along the lines of “No, you can’t love me, that’s wrong/weird” or something.

Thinking back now, this was if anything quite a brave and mature declaration, I think. Apart from saying it to my family, and at the time God (because thanks to certain family members, I was nightly-praying, God-loving, brain-washed Christian), I had never said it to anyone else.

I think now, back to that friendship, which actually lasted, and strengthened considerably over a number of years until I was about eleven; what did I mean? I know now, and I knew then, that I did mean it, in my own little weird way. I don’t think I ever fancied her, or had a crush on her as such, but I did love her, even as a friend. My attempt at trying to explain what I meant, even now, doesn’t make much sense. But friends, well, they do love each other. It takes a certain amount of love for two people, or a group of people to exist together happily. We care for our friends, worry, and feel concern for them, and we share their emotions, their happiness, their sadness, their nervousness, or guilt. That’s what friendship is; but to do that, I believe there has to be love. You cannot instil that much emotion and devotion to another person without love; and that doesn’t mean sexual love. Just love. Plain and simple.

She didn’t understand that, and following our little conversation she sped up to catch up with her Mum, and we went our separate ways home. We never spoke of that again, even years later when we used to stay up all night, sleeping round each others’ houses, sharing baths, and such as bestfriends, do or could. I learnt recently infact, that my other female friends also shared baths with their bestfriends; it made me feel less weird about the situation.

I think now, what was that declaration? Some part of me claims that this was my first subtle indicator of who I am now, but actually, although the words were said then, I think my being drawn to her on that very first day of school, is somehow much more symbolic – although I’ve told anyone that.

For many years the she and I were friends (and I mean, we were, just friends, best-friends, but nothing ever more than that), I always imagined her forming part of my future. Maybe it was childhood naivety, fantasy and ignorance; but I don’t know. I can’t explain this well, but whenever I want to go to sleep, and for some-reason or another, I can’t, I have this place, that I imagine, that I go to. This place is a beach, it’s sandy, there’s a large rock, palm-trees, a sunset, and the smooth gentle sway of the sea, caressing he beach. In this place, I’m there, and I can take with me someone else. For about three or four years, Jodie was always with me in this place.  , and especially those nights where we stayed round each others’ houses, and I could hear her breathing, I would imagine she and I walking, barefoot, in the sand as the shore lapped at our ankles, walking hand-in-hand forever. I would dream that we would live together, and be together for ever.

That, I think it was I really meant by love. Just having a person around you, someone you could call on forever, but it took a few years for me to realise this – and I never told her how often she occurred in my dreams, or how she would always guide me to them, in my head.

Now, I see her occasionally. I bumped into her at the pub not so long ago, in fact. She’s still rather beautiful, and the has that ability to command everyone’s attention, for everyone to acknowledge who and what she is. And no, I don’t go to sleep dreaming of holding her hand any more, or living with her; but on the odd occasion I do see her about, I wonder, if we had stayed friends for longer, if we hadn’t have had that big argument when we were eleven, would anything have happened? It was only a few years later that I had my first proper girl-crush, and I wonder, could that have been her? And considering our closeness – which I can’t put into words – would something have happened? More than just me hiding away and denying like I eventually did?

It’s just odd, thinking and feeling so uncertain. I’m leaving her (although really, I left her years ago), and everyone else I love (family and friends) behind very, very soon. I wish I felt more certain of myself. I mean, I know I’m gay, I’m more than sure of that; but I wish I had some sort of external validity to confirm that, sometimes. I wish I wasn’t nearly nineteen with absolutely no sexual experience with another person, I wish I knew how it felt to be really, physically close to another person, beyond the odd experiences mentioned in previous posts on this blog. I wish also, that I had more confidence, both when I was six – to explain what I meant, to make her understand – and later when I learnt information (such as, what the word ‘lesbian’ meant, when I was accused of being one at the age of ten), and not making snide remarks and following the crowd, but pressing myself to know. I feel like I’ve wasted so much time; and now I’m stepping into the world with nothing more than my written ramblings to assure me of everything I proclaim to know about myself.

I suppose really, I wish I wasn’t so afraid. Afraid of rejection, of taunts, of hate, of being misunderstood, of doing or getting it wrong, of embarrassing myself, of acting out of turn, of making a fool of myself, of people knowing my weaknesses, of people knowing me and how I feel.

Filed under: Friends, Life, Sexuality   |  1 Comment
Tags: best-friends, girls, Lesbian, Life, London, Love, primary, reception, Relationship, relationships, School, University, Year 1, year one