Humiliation

On the first day of school, the fifth grade class of St Francis Xavier milled about the auditorium awaiting further instructions. My classmates chatted excitedly about their summer vacation experiences, while I stood awkwardly on the fringes, hoping to remain anonymous. I was uncomfortably large for an eleven year-old girl, a size that contributed to my extreme shyness.  The principal called for order, instructing us to line up in single file according to height. As usual, I was last in line, preceded by the rest of my shorter classmates, boys included. Then off we marched to the classrooms to meet our teachers who would divvy up seat assignments and schedules. I could swear I heard hushed giggles as I made my way to the last desk in the second row.   

After surviving my first indignity, I steeled myself for the semester’s first question and answer round. Sister Margaret wrote some math problems on the blackboard with a determination only a nun could muster, breaking several pieces of chalk in the process. After the last screech and tap, she called for a show of hands to answer the first problem. Several arms shot straight up but mine wasn’t one of them. So it went until she got to the last problem, which no one got right.

“Jayne, I haven’t heard from you today. What did you come up with”? Eyes downcast (no one dared make deliberate eye contact with a nun) I murmured an intentionally obtuse response.

“Could you repeat your answer without mumbling”, she asked.

I cleared my throat, observing the smirks of my fellow classmates.

“Eleven and one third”, I blurted out, certain I was wrong.

“Well done! You are correct. Please show us your calculations”. She slapped the chalk into my sweaty palm. I would have preferred to be wrong. Now I had to endure more unwanted stares. Thankfully, one of the few advantages of my height was that I could write on the blackboard without using the step stool.

Sterotypes & Barbie Dolls

In addition to my conspicuous size, I had dark hair and eyes at a time when platinum, blue-eyed Barbie dolls ruled the hearts of men and boys. My dad had fallen for mom because of her blonde hair (dyed by the way). Dad often bragged, “I married the most beautiful girl in the Bronx”. Even my namesake was one of several blonde bombshells of the era, Jayne Mansfield.  

At the time there were few career paths for a middle class female: teacher, nurse, or secretary. And a woman’s highest achievement was landing a rich husband who wanted Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield imitation. Consequently, and in the fullness of my adolescent wisdom, I became resigned to a life of self-denial. I would become a nun, like countless undesirable or discarded women throughout the Christian era. Already used to solitude, I was living inside my own head where I could be anyone, go anywhere, and do anything.

In my own private Idaho of books, Disney records, and Saturday matinees, I was content until puberty hit. My body rebelled in weird yet wonderful ways that I was ill-prepared for. Mom tried to explain the facts of life but had to stop when I swooned like a fairy tale princess. And in her usual callous fashion, she did not pick up the discussion later on.

Nor did I have any confidantes to help me navigate the absurdity of adolescence. When my period started, I thought I was going to die, if not from the bleeding then from the mortification. I was sure everyone around me knew what was going on. The odor, the stains, the pimples were all tell-tale signs of my misery.

Overnight (or so it seemed) my body changed. Burgeoning breasts became apparent under my white undershirt, and wiry pubic hair peeked out from frayed cotton panties. Unfortunately my mother insisted I wear a bra which would only attract more negative attention – especially since no one else in fifth grade wore one. I tried to convince her how horrified the nuns would be by such a blatant display of sexuality. She didn’t buy my excuses. One day I came home to find all my undershirts gone, replaced by so-called training bras.

Becoming Beautiful

At last I stopped growing and my prepubescent chubbiness melted away. I felt more confident in my retooled body. No longer satisfied spending time alone, I wanted to make friends. But the other girls still treated me with the same cruel indifference. I wasn’t sure whether I preferred being taunted or being ignored.

Worse yet, when the boys noticed the subtle swell of breasts and hips, the girls became even more aloof. I didn’t realize it was a catty girl-thing. Rather than admire my blossoming womanhood, they gossiped among themselves, “She must be a nasty girl. Why else could she have the nerve to wear a bra”? And the boys were all too eager to confirm that yes, they could cop a feel in exchange for their lascivious attentions. 

Yet again, I was subjected to the mockery of my peers. Feeling desperate, I tried to have a conversation with the one person who should have understood my dilemma. But my mother was much too self-centered to have empathy for anyone but herself. A bride at eighteen and the mother of four children by the age of 29, mom had given everything from an already meager store of inner strength. If dad had been a wealthy man, she would have been the perfect trophy wife, since looking good was her only talent. That is, if talent is defined as a quality benefiting no one but the individual who has it.

Eventually the day came when my metamorphosis was complete. The timid duckling transformed into a self-assured swan. When I look at my reflection, I still see what needs improvement. But now I own my flaws. They are uniquely mine. Who needs physical perfection? It’s over-rated and short-lived. True beauty starts on the inside, and works its way out through loving eyes, a warm smile, or a gentle touch.