[Critique Group 1] Mary-Jo Nonfiction for next week's Session

[Mary-Jo Lord]

No Longer Eleven

 

As I climbed out of bed on the morning of my twelfth birthday, I was
overcome with the exciting realization that I was no longer eleven! For me,
eleven was the great no man's land of childhood and adolescence. Eleven was
the invisible age. Signs for tickets and admission to events everywhere
seemed to say "Children ten and under" or "12 and over." Even menus seemed
to be divided. For a whole year, I was repeatedly faced with the humiliation
of being handed a "children's menu." All of that would change, I was sure,
now that I was twelve. I was finally free of what I had perceived as
society's deliberate attempt to alienate eleven-year-olds.

 

My strange mixture of little girl and teenaged interests made me feel
awkward and confused. I still liked to play with dolls but didn't want
anybody at school to know. I would play dolls in the basement or in my room,
where nobody could see and when my parents were busy or not at home. This
kind of sneaking around to play with dolls made me feel both like a little
girl and old in a funny way I couldn't quite explain. I was sure that I was
some kind of social freak.

 

When I wasn't secretly playing with dolls, I was attempting to apply makeup
and nail polish. I had an ever growing stash of lip-gloss, eyeshadow, blush
and nail polish. My attempts at application of all of these, other than
lip-gloss had been so far unsuccessful. I'd end up with eyeshadow on the
side of my nose, cheeks that were way too red, and nail polish all over my
hands and the table. I felt clumsy and uncoordinated. I'd think I had the
makeup right and then my mother would say, "You look like a clown."

 

Now that I had turned twelve, I was sure that my world would be transformed.
I would be ready to say goodbye to Barbie and her friends and Debby, my
favorite baby doll. My shaky makeup and nail polish applying hands would
magically become steady. After all, I was twelve, and on my way to becoming
a woman.

 

Now somehow, I had to convince my body of this great revelation. As I saw
it, all of the girls in my sixth grade class were either nearly developed or
not developed at all. At 5-foot weighing 70-pounds, I fell into the second
category.

 

Each morning, I would push all of the skin and muscle from my rib cage and
chest into my training bra, hoping that it would look as if my breasts were
developing. I hoped that somehow through some kind of magic, the skin and
tissue forced into such confinement would miraculously be molded into
breasts by the end of the day.

 

Some of my classmates had even started their periods. They acted like they
were in a secret club, with privileges the rest of us couldn't earn based on
hard work or good grades. Even those girls that were always in trouble got
special bathroom pass privileges, didn't have to participate in gym, and got
to go rest in the office, just because they had their period.

 

One day Linda, one of my classmates pulled me aside. She whispered
secretively, "do you wear a bra?" Without thinking, I answered proudly, that
of course I wore a bra. In an embarrassed whisper, Linda confided that her
mother still made her ware t-shirts. It was then that I realized that Linda
had asked me because we were equally flat chested.

 

Despite the lack of breast development, my body was undergoing some other
changes. For the past six months, I had to start shaving my legs and under
arms, and wearing deodorant had become a necessity. I felt as if I had been
stuck with all of the nasty aspects of puberty, without any of the perceived
benefits.

 

I had been sure that all of this would somehow change on my twelfth
birthday. I was disappointed to notice that I wasn't any taller and I was
still as flat as a board. I got Debby and my barbies out of my closet, ready
to ask Dad to pack them away. I Couldn't do it. I told myself that I could
just have them in the closet so I could look at them. Looking wasn't playing
and if they were stored in the loft in the garage, I couldn't look at them.
I tried applying eyeshadow, felt the applicator touch the side of my nose
and wanted to cry. I gave Debby a hug, went into the bathroom and washed the
side of my nose with a washcloth. For once, mom didn't tell me I look like a
clown. She gave me some new training bras with more padding, so I could at
least look like I had breasts. Of course I opened them in front of Dad,
Grandpa and Uncle Al.

 

I received a lot of nice gifts: some clothes, perfume, lip-gloss, and a
Mexican doll from my aunt in California.

 

As I tried to fall asleep, I was confused by too many feelings. I was happy
with all of my nice gifts and disappointed that I hadn't transformed from a
short, clumsy child into a shapely, coordinated young woman. Mostly though,
I was relieved that I was no longer eleven!

 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://bluegrasspals.com/pipermail/group1/attachments/20160906/f4239454/attachment.html>