My only thought as I walk to my locker is how much my mouth hurts. This new orthodontist added springs over my vampire teeth and gave them a good tightening.
The springs are working. I can feel my heartbeat in my mouth. Chewing cereal is torture. Eggs tomorrow, I think.
My head is down, and I’m counting the cracks in the cement. The beige metal lockers barely stand out against the standard California institution stucco walls.
I arrive at my locker and turn the lock to the first number, 33. I’m concentrating on my lock, so I hear them before I see them.
“Doggy Dawson. Doggy Dawson.” The chant begins.
“Hey spidey legs, how did you escape from your web?”
Laughter.
“How’s it going stilts? Nice floods.”
I close my eyes, hoping they’ll disappear in the blackness. As I open my eyes, I’m staring at my pant legs. Floods. They do not make pants for 13-year-old girls who are 5 foot 8 inches tall and 110 pounds soaking wet.
Don’t even get me started on the Ditto Jeans all the cute, short, round-butted girls are wearing. I bought a light-blue pair last month, using all of my babysitting money.
Now I’ll fit in, I told myself, ignoring the fact they didn’t really fit when I tried them on.
But they were still too short even after letting out the hem. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I sewed more material to the bottom of the pant legs. However, like every other time I think I’m doing the right thing, this one also failed miserably. Not only did the popular horseshoe design hang off my skinny butt, but the 3-inch band of material sewn along the hem looked ridiculous, giving my tormentors more ammunition.
Tall and Skinny
I’ve always been tall for my age. But I grew 6 inches over the last year, going from 5’2” to 5’8” in a matter of months. Not only do I have “chicken legs” – another favorite taunt – but my legs don’t work right much of the time.
The doctor says my bones are growing faster than my muscles. The result is: I fall down. One minute I’m walking along fine, and the next, my groin muscle gives out, and I collapse to the ground. I never know when it’s going to happen.
Often, afterwards, I can’t walk for a few hours or, sometimes, for a few days. Last summer at horse camp, my bunk mates carried me around for two days until I could put pressure on my groin again. It’s particularly annoying when it happens during a softball game. Try running bases with a separated groin muscle. My coach put in a pinch runner for me during our last game. But at least I hit the ball hard enough to get on base.
It’s even worse when my knee pops out of its socket. That one hurts more than my groin issue. Only thing to do is snap my leg straight out as fast as I can to pop it back into place. A process during which I scream like bloody hell and drop swear words a 13-year-old shouldn’t even know. I learned all parts of this technique from my dad.
With Braces and Zits
I wasn’t bad looking up through 6th grade. But full on puberty has taken over every part of my body since moving to our posh new suburb of Long Beach, California. (Yeah, this is a good year for my dad’s job. We even have a swimming pool.)
I hoped the 8th grade was going to be a good year.
On top of puberty and my growth spurt came braces. And if things were bad enough, along came acne. Not just those little pimples some kids get on their foreheads. These zits are red, angry, and out for revenge. And sometimes I get these deeply painful pimples, my sister Maureen and I call them “bo bos” – as in BoBo the Clown. Because they feel like that big red nose he wears.
Bo bos never head up – they remain deep volcanic tumors that hurt when you move. Even full-strength Benzoyl Peroxide cream doesn’t heal them, and there is no makeup that will cover them. When I get a bo bo, I don’t want to leave the house.
I just want to cover my face in zit cream and stay under the covers.
My mother says it’s just an “awkward stage” everyone goes through, and reminds me how beautiful I am on the inside.
Oh, yeah, that always makes me feel MUCH better.
Awkward Stage is an Understatement
Clearly, my mom has never seen Lita Lipana. She is a goddess. Her mother is caucasion and her dad is Filipino, and somehow this mixture of DNA created children who look molded out of Adonis. Every one of the children, and there are like 6 of them, are beautiful creatures.
Lita has long silken, almost black hair. Big eyes, with the most amazing eyelashes. Golden tan skin that glows. What 13-year-old’s skin glows? And her figure is perfect. Ditto jeans look amazing on her. The boys drool when she walks by.
For the record, Lita is always nice to me, which somehow makes her even more goddess like. If she was horrible to pathetic creatures like me, I could hate her. But I like her. She’s fucking perfect.
I have friends by the way. We’re not the popular kids, in case you hadn’t figured that out. But we hang out. We do homework together. We talk about boys we are in love with.
Most days, we lay around Jessica’s purple bedroom and listen to music on the radio. I love to sing along, especially when Captain and Tenille’s Shop Around comes on: “My mama told me you better shop around!” We argue whether Paul McCartney and Wings are good or not. I’m a Beatles purist, but Jessica loves “Silly Love Songs.” I admit it has a nice melody and is easy to sing along to.
And of course, we eat junk food, even though the dermatologist says it will make my acne worse. Not sure that’s possible. But the dermo isn’t taking away my Snickers bars. Although the caramel and peanuts get stuck in my braces. At least I don’t eat the fake orange Doritos my girlfriends pounce on.
Feeling Like an Outsider
The taunting laughter fades as the group of 8th-grade boys moves on.
I open my locker. For a second, I wonder if I could just stuff my head inside and suffocate. Would they feel bad if the tall, skinny girl with braces and zits passed out and died on the walkway right near the student store?
“Hey, Dawson. How’s it going?” The voice of an angel saves me from my self-destructive thoughts.
It’s Paul M – the best looking boy in the 8th grade, who I think every girl is in love with. Paul has long, wavy blond hair and big blue eyes – like a California surfer. And he’s as tall as I am, which makes him the only boy in all of Newcomb Middle School I don’t look down on. We are in student government together, and for some reason, he is always nice to me. I’m sure he’d laugh if he knew I “liked” liked him.
Dear Evan Hansen Mixes Teenage Angst with Hope
I was thrust into memories of my 13-year-old life this week after seeing the Broadway production of Dear Evan Hansen. The teenage angst and feeling of being alone, misunderstood, and an outsider slammed into me through the lyrics and scenes.
An angry teenage boy kills himself. We don’t ever learn why he committed suicide. But isolation, maybe mental illness, and clearly a feeling of being alone in the world all contributed.
I cried nearly the entire first half of the show. Not just because of the sad story or powerful lyrics, but because I could feel the pain. I was there. Not on stage, but in real life. I know that empty feeling in your gut when you feel like you just can’t go on, and wonder if anyone would care or notice if you did disappear.
Sure, my family would be sad. But would it really make a difference in the world? One more pathetic teenage girl gone from the planet?
I remember wondering how I would do it. I’ve always had a fundamental dislike of guns, so that was out. I thought drowning would be the least painful and lengthy, but I was a good swimmer as a kid, so figured my survival mechanism would kick in. Razor blades sounded painful and messy. Pills were always my final decision.
The problem is I am a rule follower. So killing myself broke all the rules, religious and societal. I also don’t think I ever really wanted to die. I just wanted to be beautiful. Or at least not so ugly and different. And maybe just a little bit popular.
We all just want to be “normal”
In the least, I wanted to stop being that girl standing along the wall at school dances, knowing no boy will ask her to dance. Or the girl the good-looking frat boys only start talking to at a party when they’re drunk and it’s after midnight, and they are running out of options to get laid.
I know I was not unique. Most teenagers feel suicidal, or at least depressed, at some point. Unfortunately, many don’t just think about it but go through with it.
If anything, it’s worse than when I was a kid. Teen suicide rates are at a 20-year high, with a 10 percent increase over three years for those teens ages 15 to 19. Some experts blame the rise of bullying on social media, and the constant barrage of messages kids receive.
At least when I went home after school, I mostly escaped feeling like a loser.
Our Mean Inner Teenage Voice
I stopped hearing the “Doggy Dawson” chant from my inner voice sometime in my twenties. It took much longer before I felt beautiful in my own skin. And even well into my thirties, I only really believed I was beautiful if a handsome man told me I was. I craved and was addicted to external validation of my looks.
Because of pubescent teasing, I thought my long legs were ugly. I didn’t realize until I was well into my twenties that having long, thin legs was something to show off and capitalize on. I only learned much later that other women were even jealous of my legs. How ironic. This is one reason I still wear short skirts. I am making up for lost time!
My friend Connie shared with me recently that the mean moniker kids gave her was “Abe,” because supposedly her profile resembled Abe Lincoln. I do not see this at all. This is a stunning, beautiful woman. And yet, she still looks in the mirror and has to fight off seeing “Abe.”
Battling Teenage Loneliness & Bullying
It’s incredible how long we hold on to the image of ourselves when we were younger. We allow our own internal perception to hold onto the cruel, external feedback we received as a kid. Only, I think we are meaner to ourselves than even those bullies were back then.
Why? And how do we shift our voices to tell ourselves we are beautiful and absolutely good enough?
It’s funny because I know people who know me will read this and say, “What? Margaret is so confident and self-assured.” Sure. I am. But there were many, many years of faking it until I felt it. And if I am to be honest, that teenage girl with zits, braces, glasses, and long skinny legs still haunts my head sometimes.
In my discussion about encouraging more girls to pursue STEM, I recommend teaching ourselves and our children to be nice to that “different girl.” For many of us who are today women in technology, we WERE that different girl. A girl that didn’t quite fit in. Who didn’t belong. The girl who was afraid to be too smart, because the smart kids are called geeks and nerds and thrown into lockers. Or worse.
Often, kids will bully or taunt those different, geeky, or shy kids, because they are afraid of becoming bullied themselves. Often, they feel different and alone. That doesn’t make a difference when you are the target of a bully, because the effects are devastating. However, it helps to perhaps have more compassion towards both sides.
We can all make a difference
As my mind is still hearing echoes of that powerful musical, I want to use my voice and this space to call us all to action.
What can we do together to help each other feel not alone, or like we are all working together towards a common goal on this crazy planet called Earth?
How can we raise our children to not ignore or tease other children, but to reach out to them?
I think it’s possible. I have been accused of being an optimist. I am. I am also proud of what that scared, awkward girl with chicken legs, braces, zits and glasses is today. Tall, beautiful, healthy, smart – a leader, mother, friend, colleague, wife, partner, and more. I still have days where I feel like that girl at the locker, but I recover faster, and learn to laugh at my own geekiness.
I am also optimistic about this community. I believe we all can make a difference with simple acts of support and encouragement.
You Will Be Found Lyrics
I leave you with the lyrics of “You Will Be Found” from Dear Evan Hansen. Be forewarned, this version on YouTube by a global virtual choir always makes me cry. But it also gives me hope to see people across all ages, ethnicities, and geographies singing together.
Have you ever felt like nobody was there?
Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere?
Have you ever felt like you could disappear?
Like you could fall, and no one would hear?
Well, let that lonely feeling wash away
Maybe there’s a reason to believe you’ll be okay
‘Cause when you don’t feel strong enough to stand
You can reach, reach out your hand
And oh, someone will coming running
And I know, they’ll take you home
Even when the dark comes crashing through
When you need a friend to carry you
And when you’re broken on the ground
You will be found
So let the sun come streaming in
‘Cause you’ll reach up and you’ll rise again
Lift your head and look around
You will be found