I just finished reading through my recently unearthed childhood diary from 1971. My bat mitzvah was in late June of that year. I turned 13 that November. I am struck by two observations, both painful: First and most obvious, there was so much sorrow about feeling left out, not being liked, not being in the right crowd, etc. Almost daily fretting about who-likes-who, and parties I’m not being invited to, and feeling left out even at the parties I do get invited to. (Like the basement party where, dressed in my beloved navy pinstripe bell bottoms and frilly white blouse, I sat alone and on the edge of tears until it was time to go home.) Oh, poor sweetie.
And then there is something else I am noticing in this childhood diary: the occasional nasty judgements of other people. Words like “scuz,” “ugly,” “hood,” “fake,” “pig.” And worse. Often accompanied by dramatic, oversized exclamation points. I am almost embarrassed even to admit this here, except that my compassionate heart understands now that all judgements are tragic expressions of unmet needs. Oh, poor sweetie. And I can’t help but also feel a bit of delight at my feisty spirit, too.