Dalagin

This is an essay that I wrote for my Norwegian mock exam last summer or the christmas before that, I’m not sure. It’s also the uncorrected version, so please focus on the story, rather than the grammatics. First I will post the Norwegian version, then I will rewrite it in English, and it may not have the same effect as the Norwegian one, but I recommend for even Norwegians to read both versiones.
Here it goes!
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Dalagin

Når han gjekk bortover den fullstappa gangen, måtte han snu hovudet rundt stadig vekk. Her gjekk store, solbrune familiar, bleike menn i dress, mørkhuda menneskjer, tenåringar og pensjonistar. Han skumpa heile tida borti nokon, unnskyldte seg kvar gong og gjekk vidare. Det var nesten ikkje veggar langs gangen, men store opningar inn mot allslags butikkar som var så fulle av varar, at det hadde ikkje forundra Dalagin om dei hadde eksplodert. Alle som gjekk i gangen summa og mumla til kvarandre på eit språk som Dalagin ikkje forsto og det, og det glanspolerte golvet var bare eit par av dei mange teikna på at kor hen dei enn var no, så var det lang frå heimen hans. Hadde han ikkje nettopp landa her med eit fly, hadde han ikkje trudd at det var ein flyplass!

Han kikka opp på den klumpete kvite dama som førte han gjennom det fullstappa rabalderet, Kamilla hadde ho sagt at namnet hennar var. Ho hadde snakka til han på eit språk han forsto, sjølv om aksenten hennar var veldig dårleg. Slik han hadde forstått det, så skulle han flytte lengre nord, til eit land som heit Noreg, til et par nye foreldre. Ikkje at han hadde lyst på nye foreldre, hadde ikkje dei ekte foreldra hans dødd, han var enda ikkje komen over dei. Syskena hans visste han ikkje noko om, kor dei hadde blitt plassert eller om dei levde framleis. Han fekk nok aldri sjå dei igjen, uansett…

Han skulle ønske dei slutta å mase, desse nye foreldra hans. Dei hadde den klumpete kvite dama med seg, for å oversette. Det var eit riktig hyggelig par han hadde hamna hos, men dei kravde ein del av han, syntes no han! Dalagin var ikkje klar til å ta inn eit nytt språk, eller prøve å knytte band. Kunne dei ikkje skjønne at dette var vanskeleg for han, han som nettopp hadde mista foreldra og syskena sine, han som ikkje hadde noko anna enn eit minne om dei å støtte seg på? Det var når det rant over for ham at det klikka inni hjernen hans, og bitter sorg ble omsnudd til sinne. Det kunne skje fleire gongar dagen, av og til av ingenting, berre at det koka over. Han greip fatt i alt han nådde og kylte det i vegger og møblar, det letta opp, og han visste det var galt, men det var så godt. Å få ut følelsane, gi utspill for sorga. Det var som om han takla sorga betre og betre for kvar gang det kokte over for ham. Så rydda han opp etter seg, som alltid. Uansett kor mykje sorg han hadde, så hadde foreldra hans alltid vært bestemt på at dei skulle rydde opp kvar for seg.

No hadde han vært her eit halvt år, Dalagin hadde lært seg det norske språk og blitt kjend med foreldra. No hadde han gått ei veke på den nærmaste ungdomsskolen. Han hadde gleda seg til det lenge, å begynne på skolen, få vener igjen. Han hadde hatt mange vener heime, veldig mange til og med, så han var ikkje nervøs den første dagen. Det burde han ha vært…
Foreldra hans køyrde han på skolen og ville være med inn, men han forsikra dei om at det ville gå bra, så dei hasta seg til jobben begge to. Når han var på vei over gardsplassen, snudde alle seg mot ham. Som han også hadde antatt, så var alle kvite, det var nok derfor dei stirar, hadde han tenkt. Fordi han blei ein mørk prikk på eit blankt, kvitt ark. Ingen sa noko, dei bare hadde øyane stivt retta mot han heilt til døra bak ham var lukka. Han kunne høyre gjennom veggen all den oppspilte praten som braut laus utanfor. Med å puste ut og inn 10 gongar roa han seg, og fortsette bortover gangen. Den var svært trong, med nokre tredørar på kvar side, og knaggar til å henge jakka. Dalagin las skilta på dørene bortover gangen, og stoppa da han las ”Lærerværelset”.
”Kom til ro! Kom til ro! Vi har fått ein ny medelev blant oss!” smilte den hyggelige læraren. ”Han heiter Dalagin og kjem i frå Afrika.” Han vendte seg mot Dalagin og pekte på ein pult bakarst i hjørnet, ved sida av ei blond jente med luftige krøllar. ”Du kan sete bortom Elise der, du.” Han skyssa Dalagin bort dit. Dalagin sat seg, og læraren begynte å bable om historia til ein eller annen tyskar. Elise vendte seg mot ham, og kviskra:
”Er du ein av dei sinte?” Ho hadde eit betrevitande uttrykk der ho satt og målte ham opp og ned med auga sine.
” Eg… Eg skjønar ikkje kva du meinar?” Kviskra han forvirra tilbake og blikket han flakka over klasserommet.
”Er du ein av dei temperamentsfulle svartingane?” Dalagin likte ikkje ordvalet og tonen ho brukte.
”Svartingar?” Han spurte for å være sikker på kva ho meinte med det.
”Ja, mørkhuda, slik som du,” Svarte ho liketil, og begynte plutselig å notere noko.
”Dalagin!” Ein skarp stemme varsla om at læraren hans hadde kome ned til bakarste rekke. ”Ba eg ikkje klassen om å notere det som står på tavla, hm?”
”Jo, sir,” nikka han. ”Men eg høyrde ikkje etter, unnskyld, sir!” Dei måtte alltid tiltale læraren ”sir” heime i Afrika. Det så ut til å more læraren, han snudde og fortsette å notere på tavla. Dalagin fant fram skrivesakane og begynte å notere, han òg.

Vel, ute i friminuttet ble han fort oppsøkt av fleire elvar i hans klasse, både gutar og jenter stimla seg saman rundt ham. Dei spurde ham om alskens ting som han ikkje kunne skjønne ville bety noko. Alle spørsmål handla om hudfargen hans, korleis økonomien var heime i Afrika og andre spørsmål med ein nedlatande tone i seg. Han svarte på alle spørsmåla dei hadde å stille gjennom heile første uka. Viss det måtte til for å bli godtatt så. Han fortalde til og med at han klikka viss det rant over for ham, det var noko av det verste han kunne gjort. Dei neste vekene framover no, visste han at kom til å bli et helvete å gå. Det hadde vært ille nok på skolen i dag, og det verka som om det blei verre. Han brukte all fritida si på å lære å styre seg sjølv, lære å ikkje klikke. Men det er vanskelig å ikkje klikke når 20 elevar gjer alt dei kan for at du skal klikke! Han måtte berre finne seg i det, ikkje snakk om at dei skulle vinne over ham.

Ein dag gjekk dei for langt. Dei mobba han, fysisk og psykisk, nå hadde det gått eit halvt år med dette. Denne dagen var det det vanlige, han måte stå bussen, medan dei dytta og sparka han, han fekk lappar tilsendt med fæle uttrykk og illustrasjonar og i friminutta blei han slengt ned i gjørme og søppel, medan dei sparka ham og snakka stygt. Men så gjorde ein av dei verste bøllane noko som fekk ham til å sjå raudt; Han snakka stygt om familien hans!
”Snakka med morra di i går eg, Dalmantin,” Spytta han ut. ”Hu takka meg for at eg gjer det ho ikkje kan gjere lenger sjølv. Veldig takknemlig var’a skal eg seie deg!”
”Må også si det at med så støgg ei mor og så svak ein far, er det ikkje rart du er blitt sånn som du er!” Lo han, heile gjengen lo med ham. Med all kraft han eide i seg, reiste Dalagin seg skjelvande opp. Mengda lo høgare. Men lyden nådde ikkje inn til Dalagin, hovudet hans verka og blei overoppheta, kroppen han fekk fornya kreftar. Med hovudet senka foran seg sprang han som ein bukk rett mot bølla, han blei kasta bakover og trefte veggen med eit ekkelt dump, Dalagin snudde og sat kursen mot mengda, han trefte fleire folk om gangen, og slo og sparka rundt seg som ein villmann. Men med alle skadar han hadde fått av klassen det siste halvåret, datt han til slutt om.

Dalagin fortalde aldri nokon kva hadde plaga han, han hadde gått med mykje klede for å skjule skadane som kunne merkast utanfrå og hadde tvungi seg sjølv til å gå oppreist å virke frisk. Men han hadde fått mykje skadar på indre organ, brekt fleire bein. Tilstanden til Dalagin var akutt.

Dalagin kom seg aldri til sjukehuset…
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Dalagin

When he went down the hallway, stuffed with lots of people inside, he had to turn his head around all the time. Here was big, suntanned families, pale men in boring suits, people with dark skin, teenagers and old, retired people. He always bumped into people, and excused himself every time. There were almost no whole walls along the corridor, but big entries to all kinds of shops that were so stuffed with tax-frees that it hadn’t suprised Dalagin much if they were to blow up. Everyone there was mumbling and babling in languages Dalagin could not comprehend. And the polished floor was only one of many signs that said that whereever he was now, it was far from were he came from. If he hadn’t just landed here, he would never understand that this was an airport!

He glanced up at the clotted white woman who was leading him through this weird place. She said her name was Kamilla. The language she used was understandable, but poorly spoken. As he had understood from their conversations, he was moving further north, to a country named Norway and a brand new couple of parents. His want of new parents was rather small, after his real parents died, he hadn’t been himself. He didn’t know anything of his brothers and sisters, were they were placed or if they were even still alive. He’d probably never see them again, anyway…

Dalagin wished for them to stop nagging on him, these new parents of his. They brought with them that clotted woman to translate. It was a really pleasant couple, the ones he was living with, but they demanded very much of him, he thought. Dalagin was not ready to learn a new language or try to connect with “his parents”. How could they not see that he, who had just lost his family and had nothing but theit memory to rely on, needed time to get over it?  Sometimes it was the last drop in a bucket of troubly water, he could suddenly lose it, his bitter grieve would turn into anger. It happend often, several times a day, some times as the result of nothing, it was just too much for him. And oh, it was good, to release his feelings, give away for the deep sorrow inside him. It was as if he could deal with his emotiones better every time he lost it. Afterwards he would always clean up his mess, as his real parents had taught him to do.

He’d been here a half year now, Dalagin had been taught the Norwegian language and got to knew his new parents better. A week had gone since he started the new school. This was something he had looked forward to, starting school and making friends again. Dalagin had lots of friends back home so he wasn’t even nervous the first day. Lord knows he should have been…

His parents drove him to school, and wanted to spend his first day there with him  and make sure everything went as planned, but he refused them to come, said everything was going to be OK. They rushed to work instead, as he stepped out of the car. On his way over the schoolyard everyone turned around to look at him. As he expected, they were all white. They probably stared because he became a dark spot on a white piece of paper, he thought. No one spoke a word, they just stared at him with empty eyes. When he fianlly found his way in to the school, he could hear the voices breaking through the wall, talking about him, gossiping and exchanging rumours. By breathing calmly in and out about ten times, he stopped his body pumping adrenalin, and started to walk down the corridor. It was very tight, with wooden doors on each side, in between them, hooks to hang off jackets. Dalagin read the sign on the doors in the corridor and stopped when he reached the door where he could read “The teachers lounge”.

“Settle down, settle down! Vi have a new student amongst us today!” smiled the pleasant teacher. “His name is Dalagin and he comes from Africa.” He turned towards Dalagin and pointed at a desk in the back corner, right beside a blond girl with airy curls. “You can sit next to Elise, right there.” Then he showed Dalagin the way. Dalagin sat down, and the teacher started going on about some or anoher german. Elise turned against him and whispered:
“Are you one of those with a high temper?” She had the look of a know-it-all when she was studying him with her eyes.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand?” He whispered back, he was confused and his eyes flackered across the classroom.
“Are you one av the niggers  with a high temper, you know, all mad and stuff?” Dalagin didn’t like the words she used.
“Niggers?” He asked to be sure of what she ment by that.
“Yeah, with dark skin, like you,” she answered carelessly and suddenly started making notes about something.
“Dalagin!” A sharp voice made him aware of the fact that his teacher had come to ta back line of desks. “Didn’t I ask the class to note what I wrote on the blackboard?”
“Yes, sir!” He nodded. “But I wasn’t listening, my fault, sir!” Back in Africa, they always said “sir” to the teacher.  The teacher had great enjoyment of this, and he turned around and continued making notes on the blackboard. Dalagin brought up his pencil and started noting, as well.

Afterwards, in the recess, he was  crowded by several students in his class, both boys and girls. They asked him all kinds of weird questiones, and he couldn’t understand how his answeres to them could matter. All the questiones was asked in a condescending tone, they were mostly about his skincolour, his economy and similar topics. Even though he didn’t like it, he answered all their questiones, he wanted so strongly to make friends with them, with anyone. He even revealed that he’d freak if he got under a lot of pressure. It was the worst thing he could have done… The next week would be awful for him, he concluded after the torment he went throug later that day. Dalagin started using all his free time on selfcontrolpractise. He had to learn to control his anger. But controlling is not as easy as it should be when about 20 students are trying to make you freak out. He HAD to put up with it, no way they were going to break him, no way.

One day they went to far. They bullied him, physical and psychological, and it had been a half year of this madness. This day, he went through the usual, he had to stand in the bus, while the shoved him and kicked him, he received notes in class with mean threaths and illustrations, and in the recesses he was forced down in mud and garbage while they kicked and used bad language.  But then, one of the worst bullies did something that made Dalagin see red; he talked bad of his family!
“I talked to your mother yesterday, Dalmantine” he spitted out. “She thanked me for finishing her job where she left off. She was very grateful, indeed!”
“I’ll have to add that with an ugly mother like that and a weak father like yours, it ain’t weird you turned out as you did!” another bully laughed. The whole mob laughed with him. With all the power he had in him, Dalagin got up, he was shaking of anger and pain. The crowd laughed higher. But the noise never reached Dalagin, his head was killing him and was overheated. His body was renewed with power. With his head lowered in front of him, he ran as a goat right towards the bully. He was thrown backwards against the wall and hit it with a disgsuting “bump”. Dalagin turned around and set the course towards the crowd, he hit several persons at the time as he hit and kicked as a wildman. But with all the injuries given to him by his class the last halfyear, he finally fell over.

Dalagin had never told anyone of what had been bothering him, he always weared a lot of clothes to hide the damages you could see on his body. He forced himself to go straightened up at all timed and seem healthy. But he had received way to much damage on his inner organs, broken to many bones. Dalagin’s condition was acutely.

Dalagin never reached the hospital…
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Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment on my essay, honestly!

2 kommentarer mai 18, 2009 imeenhonestly