Well we’re off and running with How to Build a Girl, and Caitlin Moran is here to serve as our tour guide through the teenage retrospective. First on the agenda: wanking.
While I have some reservations about discussing my own sexual
hinterland on the Internet, I would hazard a guess that there is no woman (or
man) who can’t relate to Johanna’s personal . . . habits. You don’t
soon forget what it feels like to be in the throes of puberty.
My hormones are rioting like a zoo on fire. There’s a mandrill with its head ablaze unlocking other animal’s cages and screaming, “OH MY GOD—FREAK OUT!”
Yep, that's pretty much how I remember it.
I still feel a little jolt when I watch certain movies from my youth. And I think that’s why we list those movies among our favorites no matter how old we get (it certainly can’t be based on individual merit, because for every 10 Things I Hate About You, there’s a Ladybugs). We want to remember how it felt to be young and constantly fighting that unbidden blaze in our underpants. For SOME reason.
I still feel a little jolt when I watch certain movies from my youth. And I think that’s why we list those movies among our favorites no matter how old we get (it certainly can’t be based on individual merit, because for every 10 Things I Hate About You, there’s a Ladybugs). We want to remember how it felt to be young and constantly fighting that unbidden blaze in our underpants. For SOME reason.
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| Me, the first time I saw Newsies. |
But there are other aspects of teenage-girlhood that Moran wants us to remember, too, such as the way we took on burdens far beyond our ability to bear, and how we believed we were so much more mature than everyone else thought, if only they would let us prove it for once.
Johanna actually does have to contend with some serious Life
Stuff. She is one of five children. Her father is an alcoholic with delusions of musical grandeur whose disability
benefits keep the family afloat. Her mother has severe postpartum depression
after giving birth to twins (“Currently we don’t have a mother. Just a space
where one once was”). Johanna has never been kissed and is not optimistic that
she ever will be, because she is missing one crucial requirement, she thinks.
I want to be beautiful so much—because it will keep me safe, and keep me lucky, and it’s too exhausting not to be.
Her parents aren’t exactly well-adjusted human beings or the most
effective parents, but their love for each other and their family is evident. They
aren’t villains. And their interactions have been one of my favorite aspects of
the book so far.
“Angie!” he yelled. “Where are my trousers?”
My mother shouted back from the bedroom, “You haven’t got any!”
“I must have!” my father shouted back.
My mother stayed silent. He was going to have to work this one out for himself.
Caitlin captures that feeling of invisibility so common to teenage girls. It’s a feeling that drives Johanna to carry
on a running joke in which she pretends to have died quite suddenly, once posing as if she had fallen down the stairs and broken
her neck just so her parents would come over and have a look at her, because knowing
they were looking made her feel safe and loved. It sounds pathological, but there are few things more natural.
I, myself, often packed a bag and then hid in the backyard until my mom noticed I was gone and set out in search of me (she always found me immediately because I badly wanted to be found). It was a thoughtless cruelty to my parents, but it seemed logical when every cell in my body was crying out for confirmation that I was loved. That's a fun side effect of puberty: You feel everything 100 times more acutely than regular people, which leads to off-the-charts bouts of melodrama and serious hate-feelings toward the very people you count on to love you unconditionally.
I, myself, often packed a bag and then hid in the backyard until my mom noticed I was gone and set out in search of me (she always found me immediately because I badly wanted to be found). It was a thoughtless cruelty to my parents, but it seemed logical when every cell in my body was crying out for confirmation that I was loved. That's a fun side effect of puberty: You feel everything 100 times more acutely than regular people, which leads to off-the-charts bouts of melodrama and serious hate-feelings toward the very people you count on to love you unconditionally.
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| Normal. |
When I wasn’t "hiding" under a bush, hugging my Barbie duffel
bag and hoping it didn't rain before my mom found me (or that it did rain because then I could feel truly forlorn and cast-off), I channeled my Feelings into what I believed was truly brilliant
poetry. This one is a little more self-satisfied than Johanna’s poem about her dog, but I
think we were basically on the same wavelength.
“The Real Me," by Megan Speer (1999, age 14)
I am plain, I am simple, I am no beauty,
And even for those with much heart, it is plain for the judging eye to see.
No one ever sees deep enough to see the REAL me.
The real me lies hidden, deep within my being.
The real me is shy and compassionate, but not without fault.
It is loving and caring, but not without sin.
It hurts when you hurt, it is glad when you’re glad,
But even the real me overlooks the beauty within.
The beauty in you. The beauty in those who love, trust, care, and feel.
The reality in anyone is difficult to see.
The reality in you, the reality in me.
But if you look hard and carefully, you see, you believe, you trust.
You finally see the REAL me.
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| Angsty girl-poets UNITE. |
This post is part of a readalong hosted by Emily at As the Crowe Flies and Reads and made possible by the lovely people at HarperCollins. Are you convinced you need this book? If yes, preorder from Odyssey Books or your favorite indie bookseller. If not, tune in next week. I've only just begun to convince you.
