Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume (13 page)

I wonder, too, if Karen Newman would be terrified of marriage, like I am. That while her friends purchased wedding magazines and dreamed of the dresses they would wear and the bridesmaids they'd choose, Karen would feel physically ill when thinking of the prospect of getting married one day.

Don't get me wrong; I know that I
want
to be married someday. But I don't ever want to give my heart to someone who will one day choose to throw it back in my face after we've spent seventeen years together and had three lovely children together. I can't bear the thought of falling out of love with someone. But I don't know how to avoid it. And there's no Judy Blume book that covers that. There's no Judy Blume book that teaches you to mend those scars that divorce causes in the formation of an eleven-year-old's conscience and soul. There's no Judy Blume book that tells you how to cope after the storm, when your parents' divorce a decade and a half earlier has manifested itself into all sorts of problems in how you face the world. Karen Newman's story isn't nearly long enough.

But maybe there comes a time to leave the past behind as Karen realized she needed to do at the end of
It's Not the End of the World.
While Karen Newman and Judy Blume were there to hold my hand through the tough year of my parents' separation and divorce, there's no guidebook to your twenties that sums things up neatly and succinctly. There's no twenty-something Karen Newman for me to commiserate with. There's no Judy Blume character who smiles sympathetically at me from the pages of a novel and says, “I've been there, too. And I turned out fine.”

If a sixth-grade Karen Newman could pull through, so can twenty-something Kristin, right? Maybe what I learned from Karen then—the skill of letting go and moving on—still pertains to my life today.

But what if Karen Newman turned out to be a commitment-phobic, relationship-challenged woman approaching age thirty who wanted desperately to be in love but was afraid to take that necessary leap of faith required for a lasting relationship? What if she lies in bed some nights and wonders if something is wrong with her? What if she subconsciously makes bad dating choices because she's simply terrified of committing to someone who might be “the one”?

No, I think Judy Blume would have found a way to write Karen Newman out of that. Surely, today she would be a well-adjusted, level-headed twenty-something with no hang-ups. Or if she
did
have hang-ups, Blume would have found a way to cleverly write a tale about how she worked through them. So you know what? I can, too. I can be my own Judy Blume. I can rewrite my own life, so to speak, so that I have a happy ending, just like Karen Newman surely had. Can't I?

Because when it comes down to it, sure, my parents got divorced. My perceptions of love and relationships got a little shaken up. I've lost a little bit of my faith in love and indeed in people. But like Karen Newman would have told me, things will get better. After all, my parents are divorced, but it's not the end of the world.

Shanna Swendson

When you're reading
Judy Blume's novel
Deenie,
I'm sure you're supposed to identify and sympathize with the titular narrator heroine. She faces so much emotional turmoil, from family expectations to a dreaded medical diagnosis that brings challenges and personal humiliation while dashing all of her life plans. Along the way, she even learns a lesson or two. I'm afraid, though, that when I first read
Deenie
as a preteen, I found all of her problems amusing, even (sad to say) enjoyable.

You see, I was the Creeping Crud.

For those who've been out of middle school for a while, Deenie was the pretty girl. Pretty enough to be a model. She may not necessarily be the queen bee of her school, but she's got a group of girlfriends, and boys seem to like her. Deenie's classmate, Barbara Curtis, has a bad case of eczema, a red, scaly rash that covers her arms, legs, hands, and neck. Beautiful Deenie nicknames her the Creeping Crud, and she and the other kids treat Barbara like a leper. She's the last one to get picked as a partner for gym class and usually ends up as the teacher's partner in any activity that requires physical contact.

The part about the Creeping Crud is actually only a minor sub-plot of the book, but in some respects, it's the preteen experience in a nutshell. Preteens are freaks—just ask a few of them. They'll be more than happy to point out the kids who are too
something
—too tall, too short, too fat, too skinny. They have bad acne, wear braces on their teeth, sport visible birthmarks, freckles, or glasses, or just have something about them that in some way, shape, or form sets them apart from the crowd. And it's not only physical things that make kids different—you can be too smart, too dumb, too interested in something deemed weird, or even talk with an accent. Differences are the points of weakness that other kids hone in on, the source of nicknames, schoolyard taunts, and sometimes even clique formation. Kids have a talent for finding one point of weakness or difference and focusing on it until it becomes an identity, a label that kid is stuck with, regardless of how true it remains or what else is going on in that kid's life. A girl who's labeled “the fat girl” will have more trouble shaking the label than she does losing the weight, and it doesn't matter if she's also a good singer, a poet, an A student, or a budding fashion designer, she'll still be identified as “the fat girl.”

A girl's social standing at school can depend on the kind and degree of freakishness she has, as defined by others. A temporary flaw, like braces, may not be so bad. Something that might be considered a flaw, like glasses, can be turned into an asset if it's handled with style and flair—get the right frames, have an attitude about them, and incorporate them into your sense of style and you're not likely to be called “four eyes.” Flaws that are considered signs of character weakness, like being too skinny, being overweight, or having bad acne, move a kid lower on the social ladder. After all, if they were worth anything, wouldn't they lose weight, gain weight, exercise, and wash their face? And, let's face it, being pretty or popular can negate something that might otherwise be considered a bad flaw in anyone else. A pretty, popular girl can get braces and glasses and hit a growth spurt that leaves her a head taller than all the boys in the class, and she'll still be popular. Deenie still has friends and still has a boy who likes her when she has a back brace, but how would that have gone for Barbara? Someone who was already a social leper would only move lower on the social ladder.

If the kids you're talking to are really, really honest, they'll admit that they're freaks, too. There's something they feel self-conscious about, something that becomes magnified in their minds until they're sure that's the only thing people notice. They're a giant nose with arms and legs. They're merely braces that can blind someone from across the room, freckles that can be seen from a mile away, or body odor that wilts plants when they enter a room, even right after a shower. Sometimes they're wrong and the freakishness is something only they notice, but more often they're right.

When you're noticing all those weird little things about yourself, of course it makes you feel better to notice the flaws in everyone around you. But while you're noticing every little thing about others, they're doing it to you, too. It's a vicious cycle, and in the culture of girlhood, any bathroom or locker room confidence between trusted friends can be turned into a deadly weapon and shared with the entire school in a matter of days.

And then there are the Deenies of the world (the prebrace version). Those are the girls who somehow manage to appear “normal.” They're pretty at an age when most girls are awkward. They don't have to wear glasses or braces on their teeth. Their hair doesn't have a mind of its own and actually stays where it's supposed to—or at least looks lovely and shiny even when it's tousled. They either haven't yet developed acne or they're going to be the lucky few who escape the teen years with only an occasional pimple. They wear nice clothes that are actually in style. They haven't shot up in a scary growth spurt that leaves them taller than most of the boys in the class, but they also aren't still waiting for a growth spurt, and they don't have a layer of baby fat that still needs to be stretched out, nor are they short enough to be mistaken for being in elementary school.

The Deenies seem to exist to make the rest of us feel even worse about ourselves. They're the exception to the rule that every kid is a freak in her own way. Your parents may try to reassure you that everyone's awkward at this age, but you know the Deenies, so you know it's not true. The Deenies can make your life miserable without even trying. Though there are plenty of mean girls out there, the Deenies aren't necessarily among them. Deenie didn't do anything that was outright mean to Barbara. She didn't call her names to her face, make fun of her openly, or insult her. She just talked about her behind her back and tried to avoid her. All Barbara seemed to notice was the avoidance, and that was bad enough.

That's why the book played out like a revenge fantasy for me. It was the ultimate comeuppance for the Deenies of the world and a minor triumph for all the girls who felt like freaks because of them. I wasn't too worried about scoliosis. We had screenings in school, and as much as I was involved in ballet and gymnastics, someone surely would have noticed during all that time in a leotard while balancing on a beam if my spine had been crooked. But I did have eczema as a child (I still do at times, just in a more minor way). I got the crusty rash in the bends of my knees, the bends of my elbows, and behind my ears, sometimes even on my scalp and inside my ears. It itched, and I had to put cream on it. Sometimes I wanted to cover up the worst of it on my legs with long pants because I knew it looked nasty, and I kept wanting to bend and twist around to try to see how bad it looked, which was probably even weirder-looking than the red rash, but wearing long pants only irritated it more.

If I was ever teased about it, it must not have been enough to leave psychic scars because I don't remember it ever coming up except in the occasional bit of mild curiosity. I seem to recall some of the boys even being impressed in an “oooh, gross!” way. Other kids weren't crazy about being my partner in gym class, but that was more because I couldn't throw, catch, run, or kick than because of my eczema. There's no telling what was said behind my back, and it's hard to tell if people avoided touching me, because I've never been a particularly touchy person, but I don't remember feeling shunned. I did sometimes feel like it kept me from doing things I wanted to do. When a flare-up was really bad, I wasn't allowed to go swimming because the chemically treated water wasn't good on sensitive skin.

I couldn't get my ears pierced when all the other girls were because the backs of my ears were where it was worst, and getting a hole poked in that spot would have been asking for a serious infection, let alone whatever trouble I might have from the earrings themselves if I happened to use a metal I was sensitive to. By the time I was in junior high, I felt like I was the only girl in school who didn't have pierced ears, and I think that set me apart even more than the constant rashes did. Nobody remarked on the rash, but everyone was always showing off their cute new earrings. As an adult, I can totally see the wisdom of not having my ears pierced and have never had it done, but at the time it was a major trauma and there were a lot of tears. Getting your ears pierced was almost a rite of passage, a sign that you weren't a little kid anymore (never mind that there are babies with pierced ears). Earrings were a way to express yourself. You could get earrings to show your birthstone, your zodiac sign, or your favorite color. You could match your outfit, look dressed up, or wear fun, quirky earrings that made a statement, like a friend who wore telephone earrings because she always had a phone to her ear when she was at home. And there I was, with my plain, bare, little-girl earlobes. Every time I went to a birthday party where the birthday girl got a lot of earrings as gifts, I came home begging to get my ears pierced. Every time someone assumed I had pierced ears, because, after all,
everyone
did, and gave me earrings as a gift, I begged to get my ears pierced. My mother's answer was always the same: “You need another couple of holes in your ears like you need another hole in your head.” Then she launched into a lecture about the eczema and how I'd probably have a reaction to the earrings, which would make it even worse, and did I really want that?

Because of my own experiences, instead of seeing Deenie as the heroine, I identified with Barbara, who didn't seem to have any personality flaws or anything she needed to learn. She was avoided and made fun of by the girl who was pretty enough to be a model for no reason other than a skin condition she couldn't help. And then the fun began.

The pretty girl got turned down for a modeling job (Ha! And you think you're so pretty!). She tried out for cheerleading and didn't make it (Ha! Not everything has to go your way!). She was diagnosed with scoliosis and had to start wearing an ugly brace (Ha! Now see what it's like to be a freak!). In frustration and despair, she cut off her hair, so she wasn't quite as pretty anymore. Then in the ultimate bit of wish fulfillment revenge, she came down with a bad bout of dermatitis because she was too vain to wear an undershirt under the brace. She had developed her own case of the Creeping Crud! It was an occasion worthy of a happy dance. A Deenie had been turned into a freak.

Through all of Deenie's experiences, she did eventually gain sympathy for Barbara, and by the end of the book, they're even becoming friends as Deenie learns to see Barbara as something more than a skin condition. That was the best thing ever to me. What girl hasn't idly daydreamed about forcing her school enemies—usually the pretty, popular girls—to walk a mile in her (ugly, practical, because why buy more than one pair a year when your feet are still growing?) shoes so that they can understand how she feels and maybe, just maybe, stop being so mean? It's not that you really want bad things to happen to these people (okay, maybe just a little bit). You simply want them to know what it's like having a life that isn't so perfect. You want to force them down to the level where the rest of us have to live so that they can learn some empathy, like Deenie does. If the experience makes them want to be your friend, then that's a bonus. You might daydream about suddenly becoming so beautiful that the pretty, popular Deenies of the world want to be your friend, but that's actually a lot less fun than a Deenie being forced to understand you.

I was lucky enough to avoid being labeled anything like the Creeping Crud. Instead, I got labeled another way. I was “the smart one,” and that label superseded all others. If you were labeled smart, you couldn't also be pretty. That was another way I found myself on the opposite side from Deenie. In her family, Deenie was “the pretty one” while her sister Helen was “the smart one.” Until her back brace forced her to reconsider her future, Deenie didn't seem to mind living up to her label and using it as an excuse to just get by in school, while her sister was held to higher academic standards.

In my schools, boys ignored the “smart” girls for the “pretty” ones—and actual grades didn't matter. A smart girl and a pretty girl could have the same grades. The distinction was based on what about a girl was noticed first. If she managed to make her mark by being pretty before anyone saw her academic performance, she was “pretty.” If she showed herself in class to be smart before anyone paid attention to her looks, she was “smart.” Even if a smart girl went through the preteen equivalent of
Extreme Makeover
, lost weight, got her braces off, got contact lenses instead of glasses, cleared up her skin, started dressing better, and did something with her hair, she was always going to be the “smart” girl.

In the “smart vs. pretty” wars, your brain was yet another thing that could make you a freak, something to set you apart from others. You could start seeing yourself as a giant, wrinkled, squishy brain walking around on legs, because that's certainly the way others seemed to see you. Smart girls didn't date, didn't have fun, and weren't even interested in anything that might be fun. They stayed at home on weekends (because no one ever thought to invite them anywhere), read the dictionary for enjoyment (okay, maybe, but only when getting sidetracked while looking something up), and thought everyone else was stupid by comparison (only those who gave us reason to think so).