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Introduction
Must a project-work only contain facts, numbers, and statistics ? - It looked anyway
like that, when the project started on Friday the 5th of February. The two classes 2afa
and 2øad at Vennesla Upper-Secondary School were going to make a survey of the
living-conditions in Vennesla, staged by GRID-Arendal. After getting some information
about the idea of the project we were divided into five different groups.
The Norwegian-group consisted of 12-13 independent, thinking individuals, who were going
to find something to work with concerning the topic «living-conditions in Vennesla.»
Some chose to look at the dialect in the parish. What`s typical, and what changes have
taken place during the last couple of generations. Another part of the Norwegian-group,
whose had one member whose family had a long tradition from «Norsk Wallboard», wanted,
through talks with these, to write something about conditions and standards for people
from Vennesla in this company.
Some wanted to search their brains to try to make a poem about Vennesla. Then, three
students were left. And what were we going to do ? Articles ? Interviews ? Ok, but after
all we wanted to do something different. Something which nobody connects with the
traditional «project-topic.» Ideas, good and less good, were discussed with our
group-instructor, Kari Kosberg.
We ended up by writing a couple of short-stories, which do justice to the
«Vennesla-phenomenons», as for example the myth that people from Vennesla have less or
no education, and that Vennesla has bad developing-possibilities for the inhabitants.
Instead of working with facts, we wanted to work with the creativity. We thought it was a
fantastic good idea to put an artistic touch to the fact-related project.
Back
But
remember...................I see you!
 Forth and back,
forth and back, dip, dip, dip! Forth-back, forth.....
The rhythmical movement repeated it self over and over again, evethough I didn`t pay
attentionto it. I see how the floor-rag sweeps all dirt and I know that tomorrow the floor
will be juat as dirty as it was. Forth and back, forth and back......
I start to feel like an officer, a supriorwith full control over my rag.
«Hey you, you forgot a spot. Forth and back, forth and back and up in the bucket with
you.» Fussy. I make sure that the floor is shiny and clean. Suddenly I hear the bell and
I know what to expect, Arrogant students, condescending looks, sarcastic comments! The
comments are the worst. I had no problems with the looks. You don`t have to meet the
sarcastic looks if you only look down, but when they shout at me then I can’t make
myself invisible. When the comments are meant for me, seems like a source of evil laughter
that spreads it self through the hall, then I feel that my inferiority complex rises. I
feel now it sticks in my cheeks and it leaves a red shade. A red colour that I rather keep
to myself. Students starts corning out of their classrooms. Quickly I take my trolley, and
hurry to a less crowded place. There is a personal meeting today. The meeting is about
some rumours that are spreading around VVS. There have been rumours about VVS before, but
these where different. Some students have recieved letters. Strange letters. Threating
letters maybe...At 15.30 I calmly showed up. There is a serious mood in the staff room
today. The principal clears his throat to get some attention. «As most of you already
now, there have been some strange letters cirkulating at this school. Some students have
found anominous letters in their ricksacks. The letters were first assumed to be some kind
of bad humour, But now it has become more serious. Some students get really scared by
these silly letters». He starts reading up loud from one of them: « I see you. I can see
what you do. I can see the evil in your heart, and one day tou will recieve ten times the
pain that you have brought upon others. But remeber I see you.» He takes a small break.
«Many students are scared, and some think the letters have some kind of religious
meassage.» I suppose that our Lord has better methods than using the old postoffice, when
he is going to remind us about Jugment day, I think to my self as the principal finishes.
So I enqurages all of you to be on alert, and rapport back to me if you see anything
suspicious. I look around me. Some of the teachers are schocked, while the rest don`t seem
to care. I believe I belong to the last group. After working as a cleaner for many years,
I have gained a synical attitude towards the students, and not even an issue like this
will make me feel compasjonate towards them. Forth and back, forth and back, dip, dip
,dip! The floor becomes more and more clean for every sweep I take with the rag. I like it
when it`s clean. I like the feeling of control when I can carry out my work, and my work
is to clean up the dirt after others! ” She stays late today!”, I think with
irritation, although I pretend to wash the rag She goes in the 12th grade and sits always
in the hallway when she eats her food. She crumbles and always throws her sandwichpaper on
the floor. As fast as she moves away, I usually clean up and make sure that there isn`t a
crumb left on the floor. I throw an irritated look at her, hoping that she will move, but
she just sits there. She actually looks kind of pale. The rumour says she has recieved a
letter and I suddenly feel a little sympathy for this girl, who useally is very happy. I
look at her satiesfied, when she packs her bag and leaves. She has left the crumble and
the sandwichpaper, but only a short minut later the floor is clean and shiny. Satisfied
with my work, I hear the bell, and see the hall again filled up with noisy pupils who rush
through the corridoors to get to the next class. Without thinking I lowered my eyes to the
floor and grabbed my trolley. ”Hay, Charlady!” A terrible voice goes through my
ears, and a nasty feeling tells me that I wouldn`t like what I`m going to hear.” You
like to wash others dirt, don`t you? I have recently stepped into some dogpoop¼, and I`m
going to be kind to you and step a bit harder when I pass by!” The boy walkes, so the
floor is full of dirt.” Anyway, my mother does not like dogpoop under her nails, when
she wash the hall at home.” The boy says ,while he putt down his green satchel, and
vanishes down the hall with some other boys tha laugh on my expense. Cold and calmly I
grib the rag, dry up, and I could not avoid noticing the brown edge under my nails. The
hall was quiet, not a soul was to be seen. Without batting an eye, I went to the green
satchel, opened it and put a white envelope into it.
Back
Marie’s story
Marie was born in the nineteenth century on a place called Fenestad. She tells
something that will probably surprise most of the youth in Vennesla. She can tell about
poverty and hard times. About unemployment and struggles concerning people who fight and
stand together.
Marie’s father was useful and efficient, and he was the tradeunion’s strongest
man. As many people had done at that time, he had moved from family and friends to a
foreign country. He came from Sweden and married a farmer’s daughter. He got a job at
Vigeland and settled down.
The youth in Vennesla doesn’t understand what they had to struggle with back then.
Englishmen owned Marie’s place. When her grandfather died the owner had the right to
take over, but her grandmother didn’t give in.
In the year of 1909 it was a critical time.
She said, «I will never put my name on any paper that will separate me from my land.» A
man dressed in dark clothes, came on behalf of the factory. Marie can remember that
moment. The man asked her grandmother to sign. Marie remembers what her answer was.
She remembers the workers’ help and support. They all stood up and said what they
meant. This time they said they couldn’t force them to move away from what they had
put their soul into.
Then came the problem with getting money, for this was not easy for the Fenepeople. The
bank couldn’t help them because they didn’t give out loan to a Swedish family.
Then the Mayor from Arbeiderpartiet understood that he had to interfere, because they
couldn’t lose the place and he saved them with a sewing machine. T
he farm where Marie sits, tells about a lost time. When she looks at Vigelandspiban then
the memories pass by. She knows people in Vennesla have their wealth built on the struggle
to those who once fought for their fights. This is what she stands for and has
experienced. This has become Marie’s story. |
