Bitchy, and unapologetic

We had  little grotto back in my high school days that we used to call The Secret Garden. It was a pond a little to the left of the hockey fields; isolated from the rest of the school by tall Jacaranda trees, and red and white rose bushes. This not-so-secret secret garden was to become infamous.

Monthly, all the black girls in the school were to meet there to have a conference. I say conference because I can find no other appropriate word to describe what went on there. The idea of these conferences arose when, somewhere along the high school path, the one big group of black girls began to split into smaller little sections. Friendships were broken. Trust betrayed. Loyalties back-stepped and trodden on. Needless to say, people got hurt. I know now, upon reflection, that this was all just a part of growing up. The bonds formed in Grade 8 over open lunch boxes and knee-length school dresses could not hold. The dresses got shorter, and so did our patience with people we were forced to spend five hours with daily, when we really didn't like them. The trick is, we weren't forced. And as we got older, we began to find ourselves. This for some people translated to finding ourselves with other people.In those pimply days of teen angst and insecurities, growing apart was a knife to the sensibilities we'd built based solely on other people's validations. The logic was, if we met in a forum where we could openly discuss our issues with and amongst each other, we would become a more cohesive, less-bitchy unit. This is far from what actually happened.

Our Secret Garden Conferences were anticipated with a blend of anxiety and excitement, but for the most , part , the overall tone of these meetings was very salacious ,and very bitchy. Notes were passed during class. Would so and so tell whomever that she really hated her guts? Would someone finally tell that girl that she smells? Not really friendship strengthening stuff. The meetings were split into two parts, necessitated by the fact that we only had two break times in which to get it done.The second break one,invariably more harsher than the first due to people having time to brood and feed into their maliciousness during double Bio with Ms. Oosthuizen.

Generally, we already knew which issues would arise. I for one, knew I'd always be fingered for being a mean girl, which really didn't bother me, because I knew that all mean really meant, was different. I had decided early on in my life, that my self-esteem, as Katt Williams so eloquently put it , was esteem of my mother-fucking self. 

There were others who went there, and sat as close as possible to the path leading out to show how disinterested they were in the whole thing. They were also the first to speak, and the last to leave.

There were the 'sweet ones' who cried at the mention of their names before they'd even heard why they had come up.

And there were the ones who were there purely for the entertainment, because lets face it , a bunch of black girls swearing, crying and fighting, is funny stuff. It never got physical though. Its as if we'd drawn some senseless imaginary line where anything could be said, no matter how cutting and hurtful, as long as nobody got slapped. That would be taking it too far.

I muse a lot about my younger days. Now that I'm older, I'm constantly trying to reconcile the person that I am , and the changes that I'm going through. I can say that my  strength( hardness) stems a lot from these conferences, from the hard-edged words that were scrawled on bathroom doors about me. From being hurt by people you hadn't realised had the power to do so. 

So yes, I'm a mean girl. I give people a very short leash and don't really subscribe to giving people enough rope to hang themselves with. Its my rope, and if you're holding the other end, its because I want you there.I'm okay with being mean. My social circle has a very small circumference and I'm about as likable as a bull in a china shop, but I'm happy. Shrug.