The narrator spoke of menstruation. Of wet dreams. Of the word ovulation , which Bram had heard before only as a whisper in the schoolyard, a weapon to throw and run from. But here it was, clinical and gentle, as ordinary as a recipe on television.
The final segment showed two teenagers—real ones, in baggy 1991 sweaters—talking to a school nurse. The boy asked, “Is it normal to be scared?” The nurse nodded. “It’s the most normal thing in the world.”
The projector whirred to life, its spools clicking like nervous hearts. A strip of light pierced the dim room, landing on a portable screen that smelled faintly of dust and old vinyl. On it, the title card appeared in blocky, reassuring letters: Sexuele Voorlichting – Puberty: Sexual Education for Boys and Girls. The narrator spoke of menstruation
Then she pressed play.
Mrs. Visser considered this. “Sometimes,” she said. “But not forever.” But here it was, clinical and gentle, as
Outside, the last days of 1991 faded into winter. And Bram, still a boy for a few more months, let the whir of the projector fade into a memory he would one day be grateful for. End of story.
The reel slowed. The last frame flickered, then dissolved into white light. The projector clicked off. “It’s the most normal thing in the world
Because the film wasn’t laughing. It was serious. Tender, even. When it showed a cartoon sperm meeting a cartoon egg, the narrator said, “This is how life begins. Not with shame. With a meeting.”
“Yes, Bram?”
“This is normal,” Mrs. Visser had said. “Your bodies are changing. This film will explain how and why.”
That night, Bram lay in bed, replaying the film in his head—not the diagrams, but the faces. The boy who was scared. The nurse who didn’t laugh. The quiet dignity of being told the truth.