What I Remember When I Remember J.B.:
Boys Will Be Boys

by Liz Gill

xxxxSeveral years ago when my oldest daughter was in middle school, I drove carpool for her and three male classmates. The boys all sat in the back, rowdy and for the most part indifferent to the two females in front, one their peer, the other a middle-aged Mom. They'd punch each other, swear, and badmouth kids in their class, especially the girls. They would make sex jokes about the pretty girls and fat jokes about the ugly girls.

xxxxDay after day, my daughter sat next to me saying nothing. After we dropped them off I asked her why she remained so mute in the midst of such blatant girl-bashing. She shrugged. She didn't feel it was directed at her. While she wasn't included in their banter, at least she wasn't the target of it either. When I told her I was going to say something the next time, she begged me to keep quiet and not embarrass her.

xxxxI tried to keep my anger to an acceptable simmer, my hands on the wheel rather than around their throats, but occasionally I'd blurt out something like, hey guys, what gives you the right? I realized I was much more bothered by these obnoxious boys than my daughter was. Their insensitive behavior brought on a flood of memories of being made fun of by the boys back in junior high. Back at John Burroughs Junior High, 1960-1962, to be exact.

xxxxThree boys walk by my desk, notice I'm reading The Nun's Story, and quip, She ain't got none.

xxxxA wise ass in homeroom writes, for seemingly no reason, Liz Gill is a Jerk on the blackboard one day.

xxxxAnother boy guffaws at the fact that I farted and points it out to everyone present.

xxxxAt the first popular kids party I'm invited to a boy I hardly know comes up to me and proceeds to pour an entire bottle of Coca-Cola over my head.

xxxxOkay. So I wasn't scarred for life. I just never knew what I did to deserve such callous treatment, other than to be female and a late-bloomer. I was also a goody two-shoes which probably didn't help. In retrospect I realize I was an easy target. Still, what I reaped from such random attacks was an exaggerated fear of young men, or rather, their judgment of me.

xxxxIn my late teens and twenties when I finally (and surprisingly) experienced my own power over the opposite sex, I felt only slightly avenged. For whenever I walked by a group of guys (especially teenage), that self-conscious, flat-chested, freckle-faced, short-haired thirteen year old, that grotesque toadette who flip-flapped, awkward and terrified, down the halls of good old J.B., would instantly reappear. Whatever I had achieved in life or art held no sway when compared with the rigorous assessment of male ogling. (I use the past tense since I am now past fifty and more or less invisible to most groups of men.)

xxxxAt the recent reunion I decided to mention these incidents to some of the guilty parties. They honestly didn't remember a thing. Did I really do that? Say that? Really? Oh my God, I'm soooo sorry Then it really had just been a developmental stage: the crazed impulses of the hormonally challenged adolescent male who somehow has to dominate through derision. I'm not saying all the boys at J.B. were like that. Even the aforementioned had their agreeable sides and days. Even slow-to-grow boys could cop an attitude and get away with it.

xxxxSocially defined by my appearance, which was decidedly underage, I nonetheless craved attention, even if it meant playing the late-blooming fool. But inside I kept asking the Universe, Where are my breasts? Where is my period? (I was so honest about the latter, I didn't even lie once a month to get out of mandatory showering in gym). How was I ever going to become a teenage femme fatale? I was never going to look like Pam Hewitt, Leslie Jacobson, Shari Newman, or Gail Miller. One day a lively short-haired redhead (with freckles!) arrived on the scene (from Detroit where was that?), and I thought maybe I could be like her. Kris Wood was instantly popular with boys and girls. And she even liked me! But while Kris copped the Campus Queen crown in the A-9, I had to settle for zany on the alphabet and Best Sense of Humor under attributes of the Dream Girl. Frankly, I was just happy to have made any list, in any category.

xxxxMy husband says he liked adolescence, but then he was popular. He made out with girls and played sports with the guys. He was also smart. I have known him for almost twenty-seven years, but he still can't figure out why I have these odd insecurities, especially about my physical attractiveness. When I tell him it was my painful adolescence, he shrugs. He can't identify. So then I ask him if he would have liked me in junior high. I mean, liked me as in found me sexy, wanted to go out with me, wanted to make out with me. Probably not, he answers, having seen the evidence of my despair in old photos. After all, he was once an insensitive adolescent boy too.

Liz Gill lives in Pacific Palisades, is happily married, and has two daughters. A screenwriter by day, a poet by night, her real not-so-secret passion is playing soccer on an "Over 40" women's team.

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