When I was a Lolita

 

(The 1960's version. The millennium version is torn mini-skirts Hollister camisoles)

It wasn’t until I read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita that I understood where pervert men came from. No, it wasn’t that I understood them but I saw, for the first time, how severely misunderstood and confused girls are at the turn of puberty.
Nabokov’s Lolita is about a man, Humbert Humbert, who becomes obsessed and sexually involved with the 12 year old Dolores Haze (who goes by Lolita). In the book, Lolita is the type of girl, who at an innocent age, has a sense of provocation and even flirtation. From her perspective, her skimpy clothes and playful taunts are sirens for attention, especially attention for her beauty. From Humbert’s perspective, she is a sexually-charged young girl who is interested in him.

I know this because, when I was at the precocious age of 12 or 13, I was a Lolita. I didn’t realize my misplaced signals and vain ideals were possibly alluring to a dangerous lot until I read Nabokov’s book in horror.

When I was around 9 or 10 my body started changing. I grew hair in odd places, I gained weight, and my feet looked clownish on my short frame. I wasn’t batting my eyelashes at anyone for attention. All I wanted to do was sit on a couch and find a pillow large enough to hide behind.

But, as if by magic, around the age of 12 I began to fill out, and in the right places. I could fit into a B-size bra, my gender was clear in a bathing suit, and I had a lean frame. These changes were analogous with boys giving us new attention.

At that age, all I wanted was for people to think I was pretty, so I turned to America’s conventions of beauty. The background on my myspace profile was a montage of Victoria’s Secret model pictures.
I remember my mom glancing over my shoulder, at the computer, while I was on myspace, “Why do you have Victoria’s Secret background? You’ve never even shopped there.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have it as my background!” I exclaimed, as I closed the screen.
“Hey, what kind of information do you have on that web-site thingy?”
“It’s called a myspace, mom.”
“Yeah, and I’ve heard some pretty sick things about it on Dateline.”
On my myspace, I had my middle school’s name, date of birth, full name, city, and state.  Also a picture of me in a bikini with a wad of cash in my hand.
It’s hard for me to explain why I took that picture, subliminal media influences were at work I’m certain. I was with a friend, a Lolita more advanced than I was. She talked to strangers online, and then invited them over to hang out. Well, I was sleeping over with her and we decided to get in our bikinis and pose like the girls in rap videos.

Now, whenever I watch Oprah do a show on molestation or online predators, I cringe. The “grooming process” is a term used to describe a predators manipulation to making a young girl trust him and love him.
I remember someone on the show said, “It’s surprising that girls can just fall into it.”
Actually, it’s not surprising at all. At that age, if anyone told me I was pretty and funny, I would be clueless with glee. I would online chat with the stranger for untold hours, and I would feel pride, no matter what age he turned out to be. I would be the one desired, and that is all that mattered.
Thank god I never had the chance to get groomed.
But one time I did encounter something even worse.
On a Friday night when I was 13 years old, I went mall shopping with my two best friends. I bought my first thong that night, and I felt half-embarrassed and half-sexy. After milling around for hours, it was 9pm and the mall was closing. My friend, the advanced Lolita, called her dad to pick us up. He said he was at the Burger King at the end of the parking lot and told us to just walk over.
We stepped out into the spring night. In mini-skirts, small tank-tops, and Victoria’s Secret’s bags around our wrists, we walked across the empty parking lot.
Then an old, beat up, pick up truck came crawling up to us. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pick up truck halted in front of us and inside were two men in dirty work  clothes.
“You girls need a ride,” said the man in the driver’s seat. The other one leaned over and gave a long look at us.
I felt my skin prickle and my hands clenched my shopping bag.
My friend laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know..”
My other friend shifted so her long, thin legs were in full view.
I met eyes with the man, and something came over me.
“We don’t need a ride from you!” I screamed, with my eyes bulging.
“Hey, lady,” he said, “we’re just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah,” my friend said, “why are you freaking out?”
I didn’t leave his eyes.
“Get the fuck away from me! I don’t need a ride from you!”
“What the hell is your problem?” he said angrily.
I didn’t answer him.
“Fine,” he grunted, “we’ll just leave.”
“Good!” I yelled as he shifted the truck into drive and sped off.
I gave a long breath.
“Why did you just freak out?” said my friend.
“They were just being nice,” said the other.
And I couldn’t explain what had came over me. All I knew was that I wouldn’t have gotten in that truck over my dead body. It was a gut feeling.
After that, I wasn’t friends with them any longer. After that, I didn’t need the attention.

Braces: vain memoirs of a thirteen year old

Today I was getting braces.
On the ride before my appointment, with my face leaning against the passenger window, my mother told me, "Carmella, everyone gets braces eventually. You will be just as beautiful as you are now, and just think about when you have a beautiful white smile."
I ran my tongue over my teeth, tracing the grooves and dents. I had two "snaggle" teeth that protruded out like a vampire's fangs, and my front teeth looked like two hands shaking, considering one front tooth overlapped the other. My brother told me once that it looked like someone fucked my mouth up with a hammer. I could admit to myself that, yes, my smile could make a British man grimace, but no amount of crooked teeth could prepare me for braces.

The day before, the last day of having the teeth God intended, I went to Chukie-cheese with my friends. The afternoon was spent squeezing through play tubes that were designed for 5 year olds, eating shitty pizza, and posing in the photo booth over and over again.
My friends kept refilling the token slot to try another contorted face, but I kept handing over my tokens to preserve the last moments of my smile. Each time the countdown started I would smile as prettily as I could, trying to consciously hold my face in equal proportions. After the photo was taken, chukie-cheese would appear on the screen before us with a paintbrush. As he waved his furry arm across the screen, our photo would gradually appear. The photo was done in an illustration finish, which blurred out all the details--moles, pimples, stray hairs, and even crooked teeth.

When the photo printed, my friends would grab for it and shriek in laughter over their bulging eyes, double chins, and waggling tongues. Eventually I would take the photograph and stare at my image. My smile was straight and flawless for the first time. I looked like a pretty teenager, instead of the awkward-looking 13 year old I was. I slipped the photo into my pocket. It was like a blurry snap shot of me in a prettier future.
On the drive to the orthodontics office, with my cheek against the passengers window, I thought about that photo. One day I will smile again, I thought, One day I will feel pretty. I know this sounds melodramatic, but even years later, I can distinctly remember the feeling that my life was over.

I sat in the waiting room, lazily flipping through a Seventeen magazine, listening for my name to be called.
"Carmella Mingo?" said an overweight lady in scrubs. I got up and followed her down the hallway.
"This must be a big day for you," the lady said, in a southern-bell accent, "you must be excited about getting braces!"
I looked at her with a perplexed expression, and said nothing.
"It's not going to be that bad, honey!" She tossed her hand, as if getting braces was a trivial phase of life.
I laid down in the dentist chair.
"I will be right back hun, with Dr. Miller," said the lady, as she walked out with a clipboard.
An hour later they returned to me dozing off in the dentist chair.
"Hello," Dr. Miller glanced at the computer screen for my name, "...Carmella Mingo. How are you?"
"um, fine," I muttered.
"Good, good, that's good to hear," said Dr. Miller distractedly, as he glanced through my records. He turned towards the southern lady and said a few things in orthodontic jargon. Then he wheeled towards me with his swivel chair, and the lady situated herself against me so my face was mashed against her soft breasts.
"Now Carmella, I want you to open wide and tilt your mouth back." With a flashlight he prodded around my mouth.
This is it. This is it, I thought. The only view I had was the lady's cleavage and the underside of her double chin. I could also see up Dr. Miller's long nostrils, which were quite sterile looking.
I laid there helplessly as he requested for tools, drilled into my mouth, and made offhand comments about my teeth.
At one point, when he was fastening braces onto my back molar, the drill caught my gum line and I squeezed the hand-rest in pain.
"Does that hurt?"
I nodded my head, and made a strange gurgle sound from the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry dear," he said, and continued drilling. The tear that slid down my cheek went unnoticed.
A few minutes later, Dr. Miller, with his eyes still concentrated on my mouth, said, "So guess what I had for breakfast this morning?"
I raised my eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't know! Tell me!" said the lady in her chipper southern voice.
"I had--can you hand me another wire? thanks dear--I had a chicken biscuit, but with jelly on it."
"Oh, that's odd," the lady gave a laugh, and leaned slightly forward. Her breasts consumed my cheek, and my eyesight was overtaken by the flowery print of her scrubs. "I mean, I've had chicken biscuits before, but never with jelly on it."
"Oh you've got to try it, it's actually quite good." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance across her chest.
"There are so many things I've got to try. You know, so much to experience." She gave a soft laugh.
He looked up from my mouth, and said with a suggestive smile, "Yeah, I will have to get you one of those biscuits."
If one of them bothered to glance into my eyes they would've seen a look that translated to What the fuck? Are you serious? Flirting about chicken biscuits, while you shackle me to years of ugliness!?

Eventually he leaned back, and gave my mouth a final look.
"It looks like we are finished! Yep, they look good." He pulled the latex gloves off his hands, tossed them in the trashcan, and left the room.

Slowly I closed my mouth. I felt like a chimp with protruding overbite.  I ran my tongue over my teeth. The feeling was horrid. My smooth, yet flawed teeth, were now jagged and metallic. It reminded me of the unpleasant sensation when you slide off the concrete ledge of a pool, your wet skin meeting the friction of the rough surface.
The lady shuffled around the office, cleaning tools and setting up for the next patient.
"It's all finished hun, so I can take you back to the lobby now."
I followed her down the hallway. Before we reached the lobby there was a large mirror with sinks underneath, for people to brush their teeth before appointments. I paused, and turned towards the mirrors. With my mouth closed, I still looked like myself--long dark hair, pale face, large green eyes, small nose, and full lips. The words I'm still pretty, I'm still pretty thundered through my head as I slowly stretched my face into a smile. It took only a few seconds for me to start crying. I couldn't tear my eyes from the mirror. I was transfixed by my new, ugly portrait. Now the words thundering through my head were I'm ugly, I'm ugly. And as I stared longer, the uglier I became. My eyes were red and filled with tears, my skin was blotchy, and I had this frozen smile.
"What's wrong?" I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder.
I turned to her. "I'm ugly," I said, "I am so ugly." I fell into her arms and started crying harder.
My mom ran her hands through my hair, and said, "No you aren't, no you aren't."
I heard someone say, "Come here, honey."
I let go of my mother, and before I could orient myself, my face was mashed into the lady's breasts.
"Now baby doll, don't you worry. You are getting pretty, straight smile. Don't you want that?"
I stood there awkwardly wondering when she would let me go.

For the next two years, I never smiled in a photograph. For the next two years, I never flirted with a boy. For the next two years, I lost the confidence it would take years to regain.
I might sound melodramatic or vain, but when I wrote the words 'I'm ugly' I couldn't help crying. I think every woman has a tenderness for the self-consciousness they felt when they were a developing girl. The tenderness resurfaces whenever I feel rejected or vulnerable. Sometimes when I talk to guys, I find myself trying not to smile. Sometimes when I smile before a camera I feel so exposed. Sometimes I still blame things on the words 'I'm ugly.' 

But that blurred Chuckie-Cheese photograph is now a reality. I do have a nice smile, and last night a guy friend of mine told me that I looked the prettiest he ever saw me.

How I became a Feminist: A True Story of Puberty and Intellect

I could equate my body at age 11 to Picasso's artwork. Priceless to it's maker, my mother, and odd to everyone else.

For a writing contest I wrote about what I know best: my body and my mind.
I won the contest, and now everyone knows about my first period. What joy.







Little boys and little girls go to different bathrooms. When I was a kid, I knew my bathroom was the stick figure with the triangular body.  I never noticed the difference between me and little boys, unless our parents wanted us to look nice. For me, stockings were tugged onto my limp legs, and for boys, sweaters were shoved over their heads. I don’t remember the first time I heard the word feminism, but from an early age I associated it with burning your bra, not looking pretty, and not believing in happily ever after. I thought feminism was an over-reaction until I became a woman myself.
I grew up a princess. I was my daddy’s little girl, and I thought my mother was the prettiest woman alive. Often I would send a little prayer thanking God for making me a girl. And why? I could walk in gym class, my brother could never hit me no matter what I said, and in every Disney movie prince charming pursues the girl, not the other way around. I was living a charmed life.
Everything started to make sense when I hit puberty. It began with my first bra. In the dressing room, my mother stood back and told me, “What a pretty young lady you have become!” I felt like an alien. The next day in class, while learning long division, a boy leaned over and snapped my bra strap. He yelled, “Guess who has a bra!” Already, I was willing to torch them.
The next year, I got my first period. I thought I was dying, and when I learned that it happens to every woman every month, I still thought I was going to die. The princess of my fairytales was no longer so pretty when she a dirty little secret to clean up after. Since when are there tampons in Wonderland?
 
​From puberty, I have also learned that natural beauty is a work in progress. While the boys smelled like sweat after recess and mixed their cafeteria food into nauseating concoctions, girls had to learn how to be pretty. No longer was I thanking God for making me a girl, but instead wondering why God didn’t make us hairless except for our precious heads. I, along with every 6th grade girl, was shocked to realize that every 8th grade girl shaved their legs and armpits, plucked their eyebrows, and straightened their hair. Every woman can remember their first shaving experience. It’s catastrophic. A young girl handling a razor to achieve beauty has hazardous results. I remember a girl that shaved her eyebrows off. The same goes for makeup. A girl equipped with eyeliner, powders, and lipstick for the first time can make a sweet-looking girl into a painted lady of the night. On the first day of 7th grade I was determined to be one of those “pretty” girls, especially after my summer crush called me a bookworm. That morning I slathered onto my face whatever I could find in my mother’s bathroom. When I stepped onto the bus the first boy to glance at me shrieked in horror and exclaimed, “My God, what happened to your face?”
​Apart from my rookie mistakes, I came out a better looking person with more self-confidence. While the boy’s voices cracked and awkward dark hairs hung over their lips, I was proud of being a girl again. Yet, it seemed, a girl’s evolution ended at puberty, while chimps grew into men. Escaping puberty with only a bruised ego did not make me a feminist. I’m not in the streets burning my bra nor do I announce makeup is the poison of pop culture. After the emotional and physical overall of puberty, the girls are expected to wait for the boys. The girls with patience laugh at their inane jokes and act like the “ditz” they are called. The impatient girls are the feminists, the ones unable to let a poor joke go without criticism and the ones who can’t act dumb.
​There is an integral shift in females, after the first bra and new curves, which has gone unnoticed. Females either fall back or plough forward. The girls that fall back let their pretty, shaved legs be a product for the boys, while the girls that plough forward let their pretty, shaved legs be a source of self-empowerment. I began to notice the integral shift at the beginning of high school. The boys, or young men, were still scrawny and rude. For them, flirting with a girl meant calling her dumb. I had a choice: I could play the part of dumb and simple and hopefully get a boyfriend, or I could have an opinion and pursue what I loved. After being an ugly duckling with a passion for words, the choice was made for me. I was to be a feminist.
​I have not burned my bra, I try to look pretty, and I still believe in happily ever after. As a little girl I did not know being a princess meant being a feminist. After a childhood, I learned the boys and girls bathroom is just the beginning of differences.
After four years of high school, some guys still call us dumb while other guys enjoy a conversation. As school policy, girls cannot have two male dates to prom yet two girls can accompany a male to the dance. The females at the top are perceived as ruthless over achievers, while the males are perceived as naturally talented. There is still injustice, but at least I can send a prayer to God saying, I love who I am---a girl.

I am like clay

I applied to Emerson College this year, and I was asked 'what would the title of your life be?'
And this was my take...
The title of my life story would be, The Clay Phase. No, I am not a renowned sculptor; my greatest achievement in clay is a thumb pot I mashed together when I was eight years old. “The clay phase” is a term coined by mother to describe my puberty. At age 11, I was an awkwardly shaped kid—overweight, boat anchor feet, and not even five feet tall. In middle school, no one wants to be a ‘unique’ shape, but the same shape as everyone else. My mother tried to explain that I was growing, morphing like clay, to become a tall, thin, and beautiful lady. At the time, the words “clay phase” made everything worse. Clay is shapeless, squishy, and an artistic word for mud. Eventually I did grow into the lady my mother described, and now I look onto the term, “the clay phase”, with new eyes. It wasn’t just my body that has been morphing over these past 18 years, but my morals, passions, dislikes, and decisions. I am still in my clay phase, and I always will be because, no matter how hard I have tried, I have always been a ‘unique’ shape amongst the ordinary.

Artistic portrayal of my puberty