Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

The anxiety inside me keeps amplifying. I’m afraid of that vision of my future. That’s not the life I want. When I start feeling so bad that I think I’ll explode, I’ll go to the doctor. And then he’ll give me pills so I can relax and sleep. And I’ll eat these pills for years until I fall asleep inside myself and my life becomes miserable. And when I’m getting really tired of all the work and the pills, I’ll have a nervous breakdown. Then I’ll get invited to go to a mental ward and stay there. Where there are people like me. Weird people who feel terrible inside. People who can’t do anything at school, who aren’t absorbed in work, who are nothing but a problem. And somewhere in all this confusion, I might even do something to myself. I would never hurt anyone. But I could very likely begin to use drugs. I could very easily get to know people who use drugs. Maybe some people like me. Maybe it would start when I first got pills from the doctor, and it would follow from that. And then maybe I would start breaking and entering in order to get money. And then I could easily end up in prison at Litla-Hraun. After that, the rules would multiply, and it would get harder and harder and harder to turn back. So I might finally give up, begin to cry in front of people, and ask them to forgive me for the way I am. Perhaps I would become exhausted of myself and ready to change. Perhaps then I’d finally be ready to learn long division and Danish and become like Pills or the politicians on TV. But maybe it would be too late. And perhaps I cannot be changed. And perhaps I’ll meet with an accident. It’s dangerous to be an outsider.

Pippi Longstocking was an anarchist. If everyone thought like Pippi Longstocking, the world would be a much better place than it is today. Anarchist Land does not exist. Maybe it’s a country some place in the future. Perhaps, though, it’s nowhere except deep down inside me.

Mom wanted me to get confirmed. It wasn’t up for debate. Kids getting confirmed always went on a journey, a school trip to Vatnaskóg with the Christian Studies teacher. Well, the boys went to Vatnaskóg, and the girls went to some girl place. I thought that everything about this trip was really awkward and uncomfortable, and I was apprehensive about it. I took a dim view of it all. During our preparation for Confirmation, I hung out with Eiki the Druggie, who was being confirmed with us even though he was several years older. Eiki was simple and didn’t go to school. I was pretty much alone in the boat on the trip, since Eiki didn’t go. I was a weird problem child, someone you needed to keep an eye on. The plan was to stay in Vatnaskóg for a few days. I took my markers with me so I could write some punk slogans someplace should the opportunity arise. We went by bus. When we arrived in Vatnaskóg we got assigned our rooms, sharing in twos. I had my stuff in a gym bag: some books, a toothbrush, and a change of top.

The first day, we played soccer. I had no interest in soccer; I struggled to run and think at the same time. Every time I tried to kick the ball, I got all twisted up, and so I never scored any goals, of course. Moreover, I was totally unable to understand the rules. Crucially, the soccer game at Vatnaskóg had a rule that if you swore then you were sent from the pitch AND the opponent’s team got a goal. That created a loophole by which I could kill two birds with one stone: I could affect the game and get to take a break on the mountain slope. I said “hell” and “devil” every chance I got.

“Damn damn damn the devil’s hell.”

The Christian Studies teacher angrily blew the whistle, and I was banished from the pitch. My teammates looked at me hatefully and silently swore at me. The other team celebrated.

After the soccer game, it was snack time: sponge cake and milk. Then free time where we could stay inside our rooms or go for a walk. I went to my room, got a whiteboard pen, drew a big A in a circle on a piece of paper, then hung it on the door with sticky putty. I’d marked my room and was relieved and filled with pride. I couldn’t imagine that this was going to trouble anyone since I hadn’t scrawled directly on anything; it was just a piece of paper, and I hadn’t ruined anything. I never imagined that anyone could get angry about it. But only a micro-speck of time had passed when the Christian Studies teacher came into my room, wearing an absolutely furious expression of anger. He looked at my anarchist sign, suddenly tore it down from the door, and crumpled it up. I sat alone, frozen on my bed, and had no clue what was up. Why was this man so terribly angry? This was odd. Was he opposed to anarchism? Did he know what anarchism was and hate it? Why? I would have understood at once if he had gotten a little irritated, perhaps thought it was untidy or something similar. But he was much more than frustrated. He was totally berserk. His eyes shot sparks, and he shook with anger. There must be some misunderstanding. Because I thought he was too angry for the situation, I smiled awkwardly at him, as if to show him it was okay and that he had no reason to be angry — and also to let him know that I wasn’t a bit angry, even though he’d torn down my sign. He rushed over to me, seized me as I sat on the bed, shook me, and yelled at me:

“And you smirk right to my face!”

I wasn’t smirking. I was just surprised and scared.

“Are you completely brain-addled, child?” he said and shook me some more.

Some people came running, and my peers who had heard the hullabaloo retreated, crouching down outside the door to watch this strange scenario.

“You won’t stay here a minute longer!”

An employee came and took my hand.

“Get away from this place!” the Christian Studies teacher yelled at me.

I hated this man. Psycho. We gathered my stuff into my bag, and the employee led me along the corridor and out to a car. The kids watched with surprise. I got in and set off to town. I looked out the window and saw that the boys were standing petrified, watching me. What had happened? I couldn’t understand it. All kinds of thoughts rushed through my mind.

What had I done? Why was this lame-o idiot so angry? Why didn’t he tell me? The employee who drove the car was angry, too, and I dared not ask him. I just stayed silent and racked my brains. How could I explain this to my mom? Why had I been sent home?

“What are you doing back?” Mom asked as I walked into the house.

“I don’t know. I was just sent home.”

“What did you do now?”

“Uhh, I don’t know. We were in the middle of football, and I swore. I didn’t know it was forbidden.”

It was the only explanation that came to mind. Of course I knew it was forbidden, but not that it was quite so forbidden. Mom sighed and lit a cigarette.

It was not until the week after, when I met my classmates again, that I understood why the man had become so angry. After I had gone, all the boys on the Vatnaskóg confirmation trip were called to a meeting. The meeting was about me. After the boys had settled down, the Christian Studies teacher smoothed out a crumpled piece of paper and showed them what I had written. The A with a ring around it: anarchism.

“Do you know what this means?” he asked in a loud voice.

“Isn’t that the anarchism symbol?” someone said.

“No! This symbol stands for the Antichrist. The boy drew a sign of the devil, and hung it on the door.”

Everyone knew he was mistaken. Maybe he’d never listened to the Sex Pistols and “Anarchy in the UK,” like Johnny Rotten sings:

I am an anarchist

I am an Antichrist

Maybe he thought that anarchists and the Antichrist were the same? Maybe he’d mixed them up? It made no difference to me. He was stupid and annoying. No good.