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

[Tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Got it Mary Jo
 
Leonard  Tuchyner
Licensed Professional Counselor
"Writing for Healing &  Growth" Workshop Facilitator
Columnist for Dialogue Magazine
Author  of A Journey to Elsewhere: Poetry Through the Seasons of Life  
Available on Amazon  

 
In a message dated 9/6/2016 11:07:43 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time,  
mjfingerprints at comcast.net writes:

 

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! 



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