Mean Girls & Mentors

Ah, youth.

About a month ago my teenage daughter had a sleepover. It started with one girl, then she asked if so and so A could come, then so and so B, and by the time she was finished asking, we practically had A to Z. Ok, we had A through E, but that’s a lot to fit in a small-ish house that is getting smaller by the minute as my family gets larger (we just had our third child).

No worries. These kids squirreled themselves away upstairs and wanted nothing to do with me—until the morning. After all, they were up all night talking, and it made them hungry. And I was the pancake maker/flipper/server. Little did I know I would also become the mediator.

The kitchen table was lively that morning. Someone said something about the way someone looked that set off a firestorm of insults. Actually, it was more like an inferno. It kind of went like this: “Well, your skin is so pasty white you look like a ghost.” “Well, your skin is so red, it looks like you are on fire.” “Well, you’re so dumb you failed your science test.” “I don’t know what planet you are living on. Dumb— you must be talking about yourself.”

This is the tame version.

One insult after the other, I felt like I was in a scene from Mean Girls.  Actually, that would be an analogy from my daughter’s generation. My generation, brought to you by the incredible Judy Blume, would say this was closer to a verbal version of Slam Books. That’s when you write down everything you don’t like about someone and then let them have it… in print. A living, breathing document you can put in a keepsake box to linger forever. Ah, memories.

The whole thing was getting ugly. And I just couldn’t take the negativity. My daughter said, "This is what real friends do, Mom, they tell each other the truth." I said, noooo… real friends build each other up and make each other feel good. Here’s a tip. If someone constantly makes you feel bad about yourself, she is not your friend. One of my friends aptly put it this way (the lovely Marina). There’s a bus. You’re driving. And you stop and you let people on, but it’s crowded and not everyone can stay. Some mean people have to get off to make way for the nice people. In essence, if you’re a jerk, get off the bus. As a matter of fact, stay away from the stop, too.

Well, these girls weren’t jerks. They were adorable, well-spoken, articulate young ladies enduring a very serious power struggle to outdo one another for the prized throne of leader. These were also girls who clearly enjoyed being with each other. After all, they spend every weekend together at each other’s houses. They just needed a refresher on how to treat one another. So I pulled a little kumbaya, got out my guitar, and made them all sing Joni Mitchell songs. Just kidding. I made them sit in a circle and tell each other just what it is that they liked about each one. I guess you could call it a friendship exorcism. I was helping them clear the air of cruelty. They wanted tattoos and piercings; I wanted gumdrops and lollipops. We settled somewhere on sweet and salty pretzels. It had an after taste and could snap any minute, but looked good enough to try. 

Here’s the thing. Girls don’t have enough mentors. Who are they looking up to? I hate to get preachy. I really do. But, if your daughter is like mine, she sneaks in that ridiculous, inane MTV show, “The Jersey Shore.” And she thinks the Snooki vernacular is cool. Enough said about that. It’s beyond my mental comprehension. I still can't understand why they are on TV in the first place. That and the teen pregnancy show. Dear TV Gods, Really? I mean, really???

Here’s the point. These are the role models that are being elevated to stardom, given all the press, to bring into your living room and made available to impressionable young girls like mine. To borrow my two year old's favorite word: “Gross.” And it is... gross.

I tried. Lord knows I tried. When she was a baby I put together a binder of all these great authors and important historical female figures. I introduced her to Margaret Mead when she was five, I bought books on Eleanor Roosevelt, the women’s movement, Amelia Earheart, and downloaded obituaries of interesting personalities so she would be inspired. I know there’s some kind of oxymoron in there, but it was about their accomplishments. A “Hey! You can do that too if you try!” sort of thing.

You should see my children’s book collection. It is awesome! Have you ever read “Mirette on the High Wire” by Emily Arnold McCully? That is the most inspiring book for young ladies. The author is even more inspirational. (I got to interview her years ago after she won a prestigious prize for children’s literature.) As a result, my daughter was an avid reader. We were always buying books and going to the library. And as she grew, she found books more appropriate to her age group. She read every American Girl book she could get her hands on. When she was 10, she read “When a Tree Grows in Brooklyn” from cover to cover and cried at the end. She talked about it for days. I was in awe of her intellect.

Fast forward to the sleepover, hurling insults, and MTV.

Role models, mentors, whatever you want to call them. They can absolutely transform your life. When someone believes in you and your ability, and takes the time to build you up with important constructive criticism, you feel empowered. Like you can do anything because someone cares. I knew a person like that. Actually, I knew two—both teachers. My third grade teacher influenced me with her positivity and absurd writing assignments.  They were so silly, and I was silly. It was a tremendous outlet for my own absurdity. And she celebrated it! The second, whom I really want to pay tribute to here, was in college. And it is because of this woman I found the confidence to write professionally. She said, “You don’t have to be the best, but you do have to try. And it all begins with your heart. Find your voice deep inside of you, get your thoughts down, and edit later.” Great advice. I follow it to this day. 

My mentor and I became great friends, despite our 50-year age difference. She shared so many parts of her life with me, openly and willingly. Her quirkiness fit so well with mine, and we could laugh for hours about the silliest things. She loved to share her love of the arts, and we attended some wonderful shows together. She once brought me to Jacob’s Pillow in the Berkshires to see a dance performance. Every single one of those dancers was naked. I didn’t know whether to stare out of curiosity or to look away out of respect. And there was my friend, eyes all lit up with admiration at these dancer’s incredible abilities. She turned to me and said, “Ah, don’t you just love the human body? Isn’t it so beautiful?” That's how she saw people—as beautiful. 

We stayed in touch through the years, sent Christmas cards, then lost touch. Lives get busy, and I had a second baby later in life. I sent her a birth announcement with a long letter inside, but I didn’t hear from her. I figured she was too busy, and I just didn’t follow up. Recently, I found out she had suffered a long illness and passed away. I felt robbed and devastated. And lucky... just to know someone like her. She was an amazing, inspiring woman that touched many people's lives. She was just so... positive.

So here's what I want to say to my teenager: Words are powerful and can be quite affecting to those who are quite vulnerable. All it takes is one gesture, one kind word, or act of kindness to influence a life.  

Try it out on your friends. Nice is making a comeback. It's cool, it's edgy, and it's hip. Spread the word. I love you, Mom. P.S. It was really fun seeing Soul Surfer with you. They should make more inspirational movies like that!

Here's a book I bought for my daughter when she was in 3rd grade. We read it cover to cover, over and over again. I recommend it as a great resource for parents dealing with any friend issues.