There was a time when I myself wanted to become a psychologist. I like to think I’m pretty good at seeing through people and understanding and figuring out stuff they may not even realize themselves. I’m a good judge of character. To be honest, this isn’t just some idea I have about myself—people have always said so. People turn to me with all sorts of problems: family issues and lame boyfriends. I’m good with people, good at analyzing them.
Another time we were at open houses for the high schools—Katedral, Spyken, and Polhem, the only ones I could imagine attending. There were two guys at Katedral with slicked-back hair and unbuttoned shirts who were telling us about the social-sciences program. When I said I wanted to be a psychologist, they cracked up.
“You know how impossible it is to get accepted to that program?”
It was a slap in the face.
The next week, my counselor confirmed that you needed the highest grades in every subject to become a psychologist. It was one of the most attractive university programs. Would I consider HR instead? It was pretty much the same thing.
I think that’s when I decided to say screw it to high school. It wasn’t worth it.
How many people do I know who wasted three years of their lives slaving away, and they still only received grades that were average at best? They put their lives on hold; some of them even downed pills and cut their arms to get a B in English. For what? So they can spend their days in a pantsuit?
Bim was actually more perceptive than you’d think. At parent-teacher conferences she told Dad that I surely could have made an A or B in most classes. If I only wanted to.
She was spot on. I didn’t want to.
I was more into a night out at a club venue with free drinks than an assignment about practical marketing. I prioritized Copenhagen with the girls over a standardized math test. Instead of taking a history exam I hung around Starbucks, making out as if my life depended on it.
It was a conscious choice.
In my third year, when people were starting to talk about university entrance exams and we were invited to open houses at the university, I was busy planning an extended trip to Asia. I was so tired of Lund and Sweden. I devoured YouTube videos from Malaysia and Indonesia and soon that trip became my only goal in life. I longed for adventure, long nights, new people, parties, and nature straight out of paradise. My parents and I agreed we would revisit the university question after my trip.
Bim was an old owl lady who should have retired back in the 1900s. I like to say she was the one who destroyed my academic career, even though obviously that’s just a joke.
You could see it in Bim’s eyes that she didn’t like me. I don’t actually care if people don’t like me, they have every right not to, but it bugs me when someone is so stupid they can’t even hide it. Bim was always going around with this fake smile plastered on her face under her square glasses and downy mustache, grinning too much and saying, “Good morning, boys and girls.”
I guess I haven’t had too many teachers who liked me. I wasn’t the reason they were longing to get back to work on Monday mornings, I guess you could say. I was no model student. It probably would have gone better if I were a guy. They can’t help it, boys will be boys, and all that.
“Your dad’s a pastor?” Owly Bim asked every time my dad was mentioned. She stared at me as if her whole world was going to pieces. “A pastor? In the Church of Sweden?”
* * *
It’s all about control.
People never believe that. In their minds, the need for control is a characteristic of that sort of pedant who loses it if a paper ends up in the wrong pile on their desk, the type who sorts their wardrobe by exact shades of color. People think of organization Nazis with detailed calendars or neurotics who panic if they can’t immediately empty their inboxes and go bananas over a few crumbs on the sofa or a dirty kitchen counter. People who keep hand sanitizer in their bags.
But this is a different sort of control. It’s about not losing face. Not letting anyone get too close.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized my family isn’t the only one with secrets. It had always been so important to Dad to keep up a fa?ade for the rest of the world.
“We’ll deal with it when we get home.” I don’t know how many times I’ve heard those words. “This is none of anyone else’s business.”
I was lulled into the belief that our family was unique, that we were the only ones carrying around a bunch of crap that had to be swept under the rug. Maybe it had to do with Dad’s work. I suppose pastors are just doomed to live parts of their private lives in secret.