Reviving Ophelia (44 page)

I asked about her parents. “About then, Dad’s company moved to New York City and he became a commuter father. I was mad at him and mixed up about myself. I got into trouble, which was easy to find. I smoked cigarettes and dope. I drank too. My parents were so trusting that I got away with murder.”

I asked Evonne to elaborate. “I knew this girl Missy whose parents were divorcing, and we sneaked around and screwed up at school. Eventually my parents caught on, but until then we did whatever we felt like.”

“What did your parents do when they found out?”

“They made up all kinds of rules and they took me to a therapist,” Evonne said. “It was a tough year. We fought all the time. They were disappointed in me and I was mad at them. Then Mom got a job offer and moved me out of Chicago.”

She paused. “That was good timing. I was almost raped at a party. I was sick of my racist school. Missy was turning into an alcoholic. I missed being in theater and music.”

Woody purred as Evonne rubbed his back. “We moved here the summer before I started high school. I had plenty of time to think. Did I want to be a rebel or a high achiever? I realized that I was happier as an achiever. I decided to go back to my straight ways. I stopped smoking to protect my voice. I decided I wouldn’t lie to my parents anymore. I’d study, make friends, try out for plays and choirs. I’d stay away from the druggies and boozers. I’d pick friends on the basis of interests, not skin color.”

“Did your plans work?”

Evonne said, “I’ve been happy here. The school has lots of black and Hispanic kids, also Asian-Americans. Race is an issue, but not a big issue. I liked leaving my past behind, but I’m glad I experienced it. I got all my wildness out before high school. I’m not that tempted by evil.”

I asked Evonne about dating.

She said, “I’m picky. I like guys, but nobody enough to date. I get mad at my friends who make a big deal of dating. I don’t feel ready. I am in two musical groups at school plus the gospel choir. I try to be involved in a theater production at all times. I don’t have time to date. I’d rather keep things casual.”

I asked Evonne about her parents.

She said, “They have a commuter marriage right now, which is hard. Dad flies here once a month for a weekend and calls home every other night, but it’s not the same. He likes his job, but I miss fishing with him and I miss him at all my performances.”

Evonne was proud of her mother, who had overcome many obstacles. Her mother’s father died when her mother was three. Evonne’s grandmother had to work two jobs to raise the four kids. Evonne’s mother studied so hard she needed special reading glasses in high school. She was one of the first black women to get a scholarship to Harvard.

I asked about her current life. “I’m happy now,” she said. “I think for myself. I don’t think any black person can say they have their racial issues worked out, but I like myself.”

Maria was late to our meeting at the coffeehouse. She rushed breathless over to my table and plopped her book bag and sheaf of flyers on the spare seat. Maria was a tall young woman with straight dark hair and serious eyes. She explained that her VW, with its 200,000 miles and painted flowers, had died as she drove downtown.

I bought us both Italian sodas. As Maria drank hers, she told me about the previous day’s march against the death penalty. Her talk reminded me of my friends from the sixties. I couldn’t resist asking her if she was a Grateful Dead fan. She loved the Dead, with their wild abandonment and their community of fans. Maria wished she had been a teen in the sixties when people were idealistic and free. She hated corporate America and our town’s emphasis on money.

Maria was the second child in a Hispanic family. Her dad was a social worker and her mother a schoolteacher. She had a brother, Alberto, two years older than she, and two younger sisters, Yolanda and Carla. Both her paternal and maternal grandparents lived in town, and Maria spent time with them almost daily. “The family is first” was the family motto.

Maria’s family had a long tradition of social activism. In the late 1960s her maternal grandparents had fled for their lives from El Salvador. Her great uncle had been shot for his political activities. Her mother was an ardent feminist and active in the teachers’ union. Maria said, “All of us were raised with the idea that we should work to make our society a better place. No one gets away with being indifferent. Even Alberto, who is a skateboarder, helps with Sanctuary work.”

Maria felt especially close to Alberto. As children they rarely fought. In fact, Alberto was her main supporter and helper. “He could make anything out of cardboard. We played all kinds of games that he invented. We made movies together and sang duets. He let me play with his friends and him. I was never left behind.”

Maria sipped her drink. “I loved elementary school. Every now and then I’d be called a racist name, but Alberto was there to protect me. His friends all liked me and made sure I was well treated. Until fourth grade my class was close.”

“What happened then?”

“That’s when cliques formed. My friends got together for cheerleading practice and I wasn’t asked to join them.”

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I wanted to fit in. I desperately tried to raise my coolness quotient. I even bought some Guess jeans, but they didn’t help. The problem was my color.”

She said, “Mom encouraged me to fight the pressure to be a certain way. She hates racism and elitism. Alberto was a nonconformist and he teased me about those jeans. Later I did fight, but in sixth grade I was a chicken.”

I asked her about junior high.

“The first day was awful,” Maria said. “It was a big school and I kept getting lost. I ripped my shorts in gym and I got called a wetback in typing class. I came home sobbing.”

She frowned at the memories. “My family said I’d make friends quickly, but I didn’t. I didn’t like most of the kids. The girls tried to hurt each other and their talk drove me crazy. I spent time with my brother and his friends.”

She ran her finger around the rim of her cup. “I was lonely and mixed up for a while. I took everything personally, and I thought there must be something wrong with me. But Alberto and my mom kept saying it wasn’t me. They talked me into joining Amnesty International so I’d have an outside interest.

“I got interested, all right.” She smiled. “The people were great. Their friendship saved me in junior high.”

I asked about appearance. Maria sighed. “I wish I could say that I don’t care about looks, but I do. I’m pleased when guys tell me I’m pretty, and I’m glad I’m not fat or homely. But being pretty isn’t the most important thing about me, and I don’t pick my friends on the basis of appearance.

“When I was in sixth grade we had a unit on self-esteem in Girl Scouts. I took it seriously. I tacked up a list of positives about myself on the mirror. I asked myself at the end of each day what I had done that I felt proud of. That work on self-esteem helped me in junior high. When I felt badly because my body wasn’t perfect, I remembered my suggestions to think positively.”

Maria continued, “In high school I found my own kind. I started a chapter of Amnesty International.”

“Are the kids different?”

“Alberto is there and I like his friends. Some of the girls seem trustworthy. My school is the biggest school in town and I’m meeting more Hispanics and African-Americans.”

“Have you dated?”

“This one guy really liked me. I liked him too, but I wanted friendship before we got involved romantically. He wanted too much of my time and he was jealous. Finally I had to break it off. Since then I’ve avoided close relationships with guys. I hate how quickly relationships get labeled. If I have lunch with the same guy three days in a row someone thinks we’re going steady.

“Because of Alberto, I have high expectations,” she continued. “I don’t like macho guys. I like guys who can talk about their feelings and who respect women. In high school, not that many guys can.”

Some friends of Maria’s came in and she waved at them. “Another thing I don’t like is competition. I love sports, but not competitive sports. Alberto’s the same way. I think we learned that from our folks. They both try to set things up so that everyone wins in our family and no one is competing for anything.”

I asked about sports. “Alberto and I like to play Ultimate Frisbee. We play on a volleyball team on Wednesday nights. We avoid school sports—too much pressure. We want sports to be fun.”

I asked about the future. Maria said, “I’m dreading Alberto’s graduation this year. We’ve been so close that I’ll feel lost without him. He plans to go to Iowa and study writing. For myself, I want to be a political scientist. I am excited about graduation, but also scared.

“I will miss seeing my grandparents every day. They have helped me through things and now they are getting old. One of my sisters starts junior high the year I go to college. I wish I could help her through it.”

I thanked Maria for our interview and told her I thought her “coolness quotient” was quite high. She rolled her eyes and laughed. When I said good-bye, Maria handed me a flyer for the protest against the situation in the Balkans. “Maybe you would be interested in this.”

 

Both Maria and Evonne have extended families who have played an active role in their lives. Both girls felt close to their families and admired their parents. Their parents had experienced problems—Evonne’s fought against racism and poverty in their youth, and Maria’s grandparents had narrowly escaped death squads in El Salvador. These girls respected their parents’ lives as separate from their own. They didn’t have the belief that their parents were here to make them happy.

Both girls grew up as members of minority groups. This intensified their identity struggles in adolescence. In their cases, it sharpened the issues and helped them discover who they were. When they were young, both girls suffered from people who judged them because of their color. They learned to consider the source and discount such judgments. They were less overwhelmed by the idea that others might judge and reject them. This had happened to them before and they had survived and developed the inner resources to deal with it.

Because of race, Evonne and Maria were different from their peers. Instead of weakening them, this gave them strength. Evonne had a rich tradition of strong black women to draw upon as role models, and Maria had a mother and a grandmother who fought back. Neither of the girls seemed slavishly obsessed with peer acceptance.

Neither of these girls had been a victim of violence or premature sexuality. Both were reluctant to date and had not been sexually active by the time of our interviews. They had resisted pressures to define themselves as sexual. It’s interesting, given how mature they were compared to their peers, that they didn’t feel ready for sex. Likewise they both felt comfortable with their appearance. Evonne had lovely clothes and was beautiful. Almost in spite of herself, Maria was pretty. But neither defined herself on the basis of appearance.

 

This chapter tells the story of five strong young women: June, Margaret, Caroline, Evonne and Maria. It’s not accidental that two of the young women are black, one is Hispanic and three are poor. Properly faced, adversity builds character. All of these women are fighters. June fought back by talking to her mother’s memory. Margaret would not join a peer culture that was destroying her. Caroline fought her way out of an environment that could easily have trapped her forever. Evonne and Maria forged their own self-definitions independent of peer pressure. I’m reminded of that old chestnut “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

Unlike Ophelia, most girls recover from early adolescence. It’s not a fatal disease, but an acute condition that disappears with time. While it’s happening, nobody looks strong. Even the girls in this chapter were miserable in junior high. From the vantage point of high school, they can tell their stories, but in junior high they had no perspective. It’s impossible to have much perspective in a hurricane.

No girls escape the hurricane. The winds are simply too overpowering. Fortunately no storm lasts forever. By late high school the winds of the hurricane are dying down and trees begin to right themselves. Girls calm down. Their thinking is more mature and their feelings more stable. Their friends have become kinder and more dependable. They make peace with their parents. Their judgment has improved and they are less self-absorbed. The resisters and fighters survive. When it’s storming, it feels like the storm will never end, but the hurricane does end and the sun comes out again.

A FENCE AT THE TOP OF THE HILL

On a misty Monday night Sara and I sit on the floor of the Georgian Room at the YWCA. It’s a lovely room with high ceilings, peach carpeting and a grand piano. Baskets of dried flowers and an ancient grandfather clock adorn a marble fireplace. This room was designed for tea drinking by ladies wearing hats and gloves, but tonight twenty of us, dressed in sweat suits and tennis shoes, are here to learn self-defense.

There are several mother-daughter pairs, a trio of adolescent sisters, some college coeds and middle-aged women. Our teacher, Kit, alias Kitty Kung Fu, asks how many of us have hit another person, and two of the teenagers raise their hands.

Kit is aware of our anxiety and keeps the tone funny and relaxed. She hands out materials on prevention. She shows us whistles and Mace and warns us to read the instructions before we are attacked. She teaches us the vital points of the human body and how to punch, kick, break a stranglehold and escape when grabbed from behind.

We pair off and practice. Under crystal chandeliers, we attack each other and struggle to break free. At first we are wimps. We giggle and punch the air with gentle womanly moves; we apologize for our accidental aggression. We have to be reminded to scream, to go for the groin and the eyes.