Memories from my elementary and high school years are blurry. But I’m old enough to remember specific details about certain experiences in high school because, well, they are unique. These stories aren’t stories that fly away with the wind; these stories have served as colorful ribbons to my otherwise mundane daily living.
The earliest memory of school for me is a picture of me with a backpack, facing a stern-looking female teacher, who demanded answers to some math questions. Another would be having nylon bag a snack wrapper stuck between my left premolars and molars. lol
Until recently, I was of the opinion that my nursery and primary school years were devoid of hilarious, inspiring, and pivotal moments, moments that would someday come in handy when speaking with my own 4yr old.
But thanks to some funny roundtable discussions with my family members, the memories are back.
I’m a terrible sayer of truths: I remember getting flogged for telling tales about my class teacher in nursery school. My classmates, knowing that I was unaware of urban legends and lacking street smarts, preyed on my innocence all the time. I was the town crier, the post man, and the sayer of truths. I neither questioned comments or questions but dutifully relayed the messages to the teacher.
What ensued each time this happened was hilarity. Lacking tact, I would question the need to question my sincerity. She’d (the teacher) follow up with—what I’ve come to know as a scripted response for most Nigerian teachers, a verbal reading of her rights as the class teacher, albeit in a caustic tone. I would respond with the scriptures: “Aunty, God told us not to lie.” She would insinuate that my parents and Sunday School teachers were quoting the scriptures out of context.
Now I don’t understand, for the love of me, why a 5yr old can’t be trusted to have her own understanding of scriptures.
I’d insist that I read my bible, and that I was right about what God said. She’d follow up with “Go and ask your mother and your father.”
Interestingly, I got punished for debating scriptures with my teachers not for passing the naughty remarks that my classmates made me deliver.
I got punished for my classmates’ offense: Each time I remember this I tremble and wish I had the opportunity to go back in time.
My parents weren’t really heavy-handed on rules but we were all aware of daddy’s punishments. Of course, I rebelled. Duh. My philosophy was: argue only when you’re right. Apologize when you’re wrong.
What I didn’t know– or wasn’t attuned to, was the role my personality would play in my interactions with others. I worried a lot about how my friends thought of me. I sought their approval a lot. And each time I was wrongly accused, I ‘d suppress my anger in an attempt to reason through facts, not emotion. But I sucked at it.
My quivering voice always gave me away, exposed my insecurity. Misconstruing this for acceptance of guilt, my classmates went for the kill: “Ahh, I told you. She did it!” Then comes the feeling of betrayal and the bucket of tears. This went on for years and escalated to all forms of bullying.
Yes, I was bullied.
I call these stories funny because as hurtful and haunting as the memories are, I’m incomplete without them. Bullying is horrible. It strips you of your dignity as a human takes away your ability to have a dream.
But I can’t tell my story without making reference to the mental and psychological abuse I suffered as a child. I don’t create a palace for my past or glorify my dark moments. But my story would be incomplete if I skipped the most defining moments of my spiritual and personal growth, just because they’re less desirable.
My perception of who I was vs. what Christ says I am and can be were divergent. No, I wasn’t interested in accolades or award ceremonies for being a follower of conventional rules. But my identity suffered some abuse because I failed to acknowledge these less desirable, tragic stories. The more I left them in the dark, the stronger the memories became, threatening to send me spiraling out of control.
Today I call these memories for what they are: “funny” stories. Funny because they were weapons that threatened to define me in order to exchange my dreams for nightmares. But I took my stories back to God, who redefined them for His use.
There is beauty in ashes, y’all! Share your “funny” stories in the comments below. I’d love to hear from you!
The post Yesterday’s Horror, Today’s Stories appeared first on Worship and Swag.
