[June, 1989] Very Very Different
Today was the last day of school and I got a good report card. Also I had a fight with Nisa because she did not bring in this Certificate of Friendship we were making. I don’t know what is happening. It seems all of the sudden we are very very different. She is trying to be so perfect. I’m beginning to think she is a nerd. I hate her mother, she is such a bitch.
O well, I guess we are finaly relizing our differences. It’s about time anyway.
The difference between me and Nisa:
Her mother = bitch
My mother = not a bitch
I haven’t the foggiest what the certificate of friendship was all about, but I do remember Nisa’s mom and how strict, joyless, difficult, and unpleasant she could be. Any time Nisa was invited to a birthday party, her mother would buy a dictionary to offer as a gift. She demanded academic perfection from her daughter and limited the amount of time Nisa spent watching television, playing with friends, or having any other kind of fun.
I tolerated Nisa’s mother, because her daughter was one of the brightest and most imaginative girls I had ever met and was my childhood best friend. But there was one incident made me dislike her mom once and for all.
One day, she was cooking a foul-smelling soup and demanded that I try some of it. She spooned a bit of spongy gray matter and held it under my nose. I politely asked her to tell me what it was first, but she refused and insisted that I eat the stinky mysterious spoonful of yuck before me. I complied, and on top of having an awful rubbery texture, the stuff tasted even worse than it smelled.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Tripe,” Nisa’s mother smirked.
“What’s tripe?” I dreaded the answer.
“Cow’s stomach.” Another smug smile from the bi-atch. “Would you like some more?”
My own stomach lurched. “No, thank you.”
I felt mildly betrayed by Nisa, that she hadn’t warned me about what I was going to eat, but her mother told her not to say anything. And while I can appreciate wanting to expand a child’s palate, doing it in such a sneaky way, and with organ meats, is a little mean. I mean, when my friends came over, Mom either made spaghetti and meatballs or let us order pizza. Mom didn’t make my friends eat any of our crazy Russian food unless they wanted to try it.
Nisa and I were able to get over this rough patch, but there would be conflict later on that couldn’t be smoothed away so easily.