Malmö

I’m back in Malmö. The once seemingly dull place I grew up in before I moved as far away as I could, in search of the bigger and better life. I visited many times over the years, but somewhere in between the family get-togethers and the film projects, my wish to analyze the city that raised me was always buried. These days it’s instead all I can think of, and every corner I turn brings up new memories. I’m not sure if within them there are lessons to be learned, but I know that somewhere in between these memories and my first few years in New York, I became the adult I now recognize as myself.  

                        

As I bike by the library on a sunny day in March, I’m flooded with memories from another spring day maybe 18 years ago, when this was the meeting spot for the biggest Reclaim the Streets Malmö has seen to this day. Excited, I almost ran there in my favorite dance shoes and my most intimidating spikes. Upon arrival, I smelled the adrenaline in the air, and I noticed the pigs had rolled in deep, deeper than I’d ever seen them before: Busses with room enough to arrest us all were parked on the side streets; horses were blocking every cross street that leads into the city center; dogs in large numbers tried to break free in the hope of juicy bites; and hundreds of police officers equipped with both helmets and shields were surrounding the colorful gathering of flower children and punks. I think that very sight was the first time in my life when I remember feeling scared of the police. It was just so unsettling to see that much law enforcement in one place, and for a brief moment, I  considered turning around and walking back home. 

                      

I never fully got the chance to think things through, minutes after my arrival one of our trucks started blasting “You Gotta Fight, For Your Right, to Pa-a-arty”, and before I knew it, I was skipping down Fersensväg arm in arm with my besties as we were blowing bubbles towards the cops. I felt my heart pounding hard, jumped up and down to the beat of the music, and embraced everyone I met with a big hug. It was a whimsically beautiful and terribly cocky whirlwind of a street party. I felt more alive than ever before, but it was hard not to wonder when the cops would pull the plug and what that would look like? Of course, hundreds of kids were arrested and beaten that day, and of course, the party was stopped before it fully began. The whole thing kind of did a 180: One second it was a few hundred kids dancing in the sunshine; the next it was a chaotic mixture of sirens, screaming, blood, galloping horses, darkness, helicopters, cobblestones, broken windows, and cries for help. Everything happened very fast, and it’s hard to remember exact details, I don’t even remember how I got home that day, yet I’ll never forget showing up to the library in my favorite dance shoes and noticing the police all suited up for the anti-freedom war. 

                         

Yep, that is most certainly one of those memories that I’m pretty sure helped shape my character, and if nothing else, my distrust of authorities. Another recollection keeps popping up in my head every time I walk to the grocery store and pass the beautiful yellow turn-of-the-century building across from Golden. - A memory of a night, maybe 16 years ago. It might be coming back to me because of the fact that some dumbass spray-painted WHORE all across the entrance of the building. Undoubtedly the type of “graffiti” that easily brings back bad memories. It was one of those regular nights when nothing in particular was going on. My friend and I were hanging out at Golden, the guy who worked there offered to take us to a late night piano bar after he had closed up shop, and we thought that sounded like a great plan. -What’s better than hanging out with a guy twice your age that you have nothing in common with until five in the morning, you know? 

                      

We were sitting there, chain-smoking, sipping beer, talking about boys, and secretly hoping something adventurous would happen when this Australian guy started talking to us. He was probably 30 or so, but we didn’t think it was anything weird about the fact that he had fun hanging out with high school girls. By now we were 18, and grownup men had been hitting on us since we were 12, so nothing new under the sun there. This guy wasn’t even flirting with us; we were just discussing rock festivals, traveling - the kind of stuff we were actually interested in. He asked us if we wanted to come with him to his apartment next door and smoke a spliff and since we had nothing better to do, we said yes. 

                      

We got into the yellow building across the street and sat down at the couch in his living room. We expected him to roll something up and maybe turn on some music, which he never did, but he did offer us some shitty wine from one of the local smugglers and turned on the TV. We were having an alright time until he, without warning, switched the channel to porn and pulled his dick out. My friend and I looked at each other, both knowing this was our cue. We quickly fled to the door as he followed behind with his enormous erect penis flopping out of his pants. We ran down the stairs and back into Golden across the street. 

                       

As soon as we got into the bar, we looked at each other, started laughing with relief and ordered another beer to take the edge off the situation. We told the guy at Golden, who shook his head and said: “Yeah, that’s weird”. After that, we mostly spoke about other things. It wasn’t like this was the first time something like this had happened. Now and ever so often, I wonder to myself, why I recall it every time I pass this house when I didn’t think about it too too much the night of.

                       

Later in the evening, the guy at Golden closed up the bar, and we got into his tiny car from the 80s. He impressed us by speeding and playing loud music as my friend and I shared another beer in the backseat. At the piano bar, we ordered a few rounds of cocktails, and he paid with 500 kr bills. We sat there somewhere in between bored and entertained, as always dreaming about bigger and better adventures, somewhere more exciting.