Coming of Age

The year that stands out in my mind was when I was a twelve-year-old adolescent—almost a teenager. I was tall for my age and blossoming, but I needed to lose some weight. I fantasized how I might look if I dropped eight pounds. I thought, I’ll have some boyfriends and my girlfriends may be jealous.

One of my good friends lived next door to me. She was about my size. I would have a small snack after school, but Roz had a grandmother waiting for her with a big sandwich—two large thick slices of home-baked Challah bread. Sizzling on the stove were crisp home fries, which were used as sandwich filling after the bread was spread with chicken fat. Wouldn’t you think that eating that almost every day would cause her to gain weight? Well, she didn’t! Why couldn’t I be that way?

There were two other girls I was friendly with who needed to lose some weight also. We outlined a plan that could work for us if we were willing to try. Whenever one of us weakened, she would call the others to get help from our support group. They would usually talk us out of cheating with our diet, which consisted of chicken, fish, red meat, fruits, and vegetables. The milk, without Hershey syrup, was hard to force down. To be expected, candy, cake, cookies, and junk food were taboo. In addition, for exercise we took long walks, which we learned to enjoy.

As weeks passed, I noticed my clothes seemed looser. Better yet, my baby fat was lessening and my waist was smaller. More thoughts of the opposite sex were stirring in my mind, especially, “What is sex all about anyway?”

My family never discussed sex, but an older friend told me a few things that quite surprised and even scared me. She mentioned she knew a girl who kissed the boys so much she became pregnant. I was frightened, because I had let a boy kiss me several times at a party. He was such a good kisser. I couldn’t sleep well, worrying that I might be pregnant.

My brother took me to our compassionate and caring family doctor, and within five minutes, he made me feel sure that I had not been impregnated and had no reason to worry. I would not have to drop out of school and disgrace my family. What relief I felt.

When I arrived home in good spirits, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, pulled in my tummy, stood erect, and pushed out my developing chest. I told myself, “See Bernice, you did it: eight pounds gone and you are looking good.” My friends lost some weight also. We celebrated by purchasing lipstick proper for our age, and it made us feel more attractive.

As I looked at my face carefully, I noticed the scar over my lips. Oh, that scar over my lips! Oh, why do I have to have this scar? How can boys like me? I focused on that. I explained to my mother and dad how upset I was.

Mom and Dad did some inquiring and received information about a wonderful plastic surgeon who had treated many celebrities in Hollywood, where he lived at the time, and they had been very pleased with the results. Now he was located in a fine hospital in Boston, not far from where we lived in Roxbury. We were given an appointment, and Dr. Cazangion encouraged me to have the procedure done as soon as possible, saying there would be a big change for the better. Two weeks later, I was in a hospital room where surgery was being performed and I was the patient. I heard the doctor say to his nurse, “Darn it, my hand just slipped.”

Those were not words I wanted to hear.

I remained in the hospital for two days, and I was checked both days. My doctor told my parents and me that he would be glad to do the procedure again at no charge. Actually, the scar looked good compared to the original one. I felt it would be less obvious as time went by, so I decided not to go through surgery again.

My friends visited me often while I was healing. They brought me some books that I enjoyed reading. Every day they came to play cards or work on puzzles or just talk and joke around. I felt important, getting so much attention. The only problem was I had been told I mustn’t laugh or talk much because of the stitches. I did my best to keep my mouth shut.

Two weeks later I was able to walk outside near my house. Boys who previously had ignored me were now whistling and calling my name. That helped my ego. I knew I never again would be called “Chief Running Nose”. Soon I forgot about the scar because it looked better.

As I strolled along the street one sunny afternoon, a boy stopped me and said, “Is that really you, Bernice. You look so pretty.”

I smiled and said, “How kind of you” in a smooth manner. I had handled that well.

The young man, who had not been interested in me before, said, “I’ll be in touch with you.”

When I arrived home, I was upbeat. I thanked my parents for helping me in my coming of age. With increased self-esteem and feeling good about myself, I was actually looking forward to my teen years.