Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
The first boy I ever kissed thought I was a Muslim. Maybe. We’d both been attending a model Untied Nation forum for for senior students, hosted by the local rotary clubs at a rather posh boarding school. My partner and I had drawn Iran. Timewise, this inter-school social event occurred soon after the first Gulf War and despite the air of studiousness that got me picked to represent our school, the gravity of that fact was completely lost on me. As has so often been the case in my life, I was just excited to dress up.
We didn’t go full burka. Our ensemble relied upon a cobbled together hijab with niqab, which left our eyes clear. I remember a lot of fiddling with bobby pins, which in itself, I would’ve thought was a dead give away. You never see real Muslim women faffing about with their head wear, to me they always appear serene and well groomed. I’m sure that they have bad hair days just like the rest of us but you’d never know it. As a woman whose locks are prone to what I call ‘hair haze’ in just about any type of weather conditions, I’ve thought about this quite a bit.
As we arrived, there was a thrilling little twitter of awareness that the Iranian representatives had arrived. Well, I like to remember it that way. But there was an undercurrent of curiosity, that sense of excitement that comes when a group of kids are thrown together with minimal adult supervision. A number of our fellow delegates sidled up and murmured words to the effect that it was so wonderfully enlightened that we’d been allowed to participate. We were either completely convincing or all those other nation states attending were just as sheltered and white bread as we were. Or possibly, already so completely indoctrinated by that one wouldn’t be so rude to mention uncertainty or outright call bullshit.
Anyhoo, it turned into one of those annoying 2 day affairs that if you’d had any balls, you’d find a reason to bail the next day. Some type of political brouhaha or natural disaster that would have you on the first plane out of JFK. But politeness prevailed and Iran stayed for the bain marie buffet, despite our dietary requirements and general misgivings about continuing our charade. We’d let our hijabs had fall back and removed the veils across our mouths so we could eat. Obviously, our research hadn’t covered dining with westerners.
Apart from eating together, there was no attempt to make us dance or participate in any lame bonding activities, thank goodness. We endured that weird interaction that comes with people you don’t know from a bar of soap – which is bad enough as an adult – let alone as a teenager trying on multiple brave faces, all the while spending far too much time in the hall of mirrors. I realised at this time how insanely boring occasions like this can be and later, came to realise just why it is that alcohol is regarded as social lubricant. When you ask what to bring to someone’s party, no-one ever replies with, have you got any lube? Just bring that, thanks, that’d be great.
Later, a group of us stood outside, sheltering from the fluro glare of the hall in the shadows of a covered walkway, killing time until our parents picked us up. The walkway led to another of the boarding school’s auditoriums and we could see ‘Out of Africa’ on screen in the distance.
I always thought that I’d recall every glance, each tiny step, every slither of witty repartee that would lead to my first kiss. But oddly, all that stands out is that it was drizzling and next thing I knew, this random boy had me up against a wall whilst Meryl and Robert lolled about beneath a tree. Apart from being my first, it wasn’t even a memorable kiss except for the fact that I every time opened my eyes, there was Africa.
And eventually, I realised that a number of boys who were supposed to be watching the movie, were watching my first kiss instead. Completely mortifying, in theory but there was a little reverse voyeuristic thrill going on, if I’m completely honest. I don’t even know how this bizarre little interlude was wrapped up and the crap thing is, I can’t even finish this piece up by saying I never even found out what country he was from.
Because I’m pretty sure he was a boarder who was supposed to be inside watching Out of Africa and was outside instead, flirting with girls who may or may not have been Muslim.