June 1998

‘Mundo, you can always do something with art. What you need to do now is make a strategic choice.’

We’re sitting at the kitchen table.
Mum’s doing the talking.
Dad’s keeping quiet.
I’m boiling.

I’m almost sixteen. In two months, our parents will move us to the Netherlands. Twelve years we’ve been living abroad, the last four in England. I’m just starting to like it here and I want to stay.

Which is perfectly possible, because a friend’s parents offered me a place to live so I can finish secondary school here. It’s just not going to happen, because: ‘You’re coming with us to the Netherlands Mundo, end of story.’

Thus spoke my parents.
Or really, my mother.

The announcement didn’t come as a surprise. Just like the so-called conversation we’re now having at the kitchen table.

‘Take care of a good degree first,’ Mum adds to her so-called advice, ‘then you’ll be able to go in any direction you want.’

I’ve already defended myself, but I’m hitting a wall of deaf. Dad hasn’t said a word. I know he wishes differently for me, but he’s just sitting there, looking like a sheep.

Reluctantly, I sign up for the strategic school curriculum my mother talks me into. Why? Because after so many years of ‘that’s just the way it is, Mundo’, the possibility that no one can force me doesn’t even cross my mind. It’s just the way it is — life sucks and then you die.

We move during the summer holidays and I don’t like the Netherlands one bit. What a stupid country.

Stupid parents.

Stupid school.

Ten uninspired months later, I’m a ‘discussion point’ in the teachers’ room. ‘Will Mundo advance to the final year or  redo this one?’

I receive the benefit of their doubts, and on goes a switch. Because without that stupid degree I can’t get away from home. At least, that’s what I tell myself. So I charge myself, become a textbook student and even start enjoying those crappy strategic subjects.

Maths, Chemistry and Physics turn into explorations and correct calculations become little parties, which I sorely need because our parents are becoming ever more abusive and the stress I feel is giving me more and more sleepless nights.

As the final exams draw near, I get a lucky break. A classmate and her mother offer to take me in until our exams end. Eagerly yet feeling guilty as hell towards my sister Dedy, who will be left to struggle with our parents on her own, I accept. And come exam time, I’ve found a switch in all subjects except one:

Economics.

Goods
Services
Currencies
Gross National Product
Net National Product
Interest
Inflation
…

The words are presented as logical ingredients, but I fail to see a recipe. And that exercise book… aren’t these just mathematical sums?

I don’t ask why questions and bluff my way through, for there’s only one thing I care about: getting that degree and getting the hell out of here.

Beaming, I hand in my final exam.
Beaming, I run out of the exam hall.

Relief.

Freedom.

Finally.