Middle class white girls, we are. Identical, suburban heroines who watched SNL at the foot of our parents’ bed. We’ve always been loved and told things like “We believe in you,” and “You can do anything you set your mind to.” Anything, except sex, drugs, and suicide.
We were always those girls with scabby knees. The ones with and tee shirts with monkeys on them making beaded bracelets in our garages. We ran wild and stupid in our little perimeter, talking and dreaming about the boyfriends we’d have in high school. It was a good life, everything a childhood should be. We were fashionably challenged, awkward, annoying but oblivious. Oblivion that crashes down the day we watch an old home movie.
We were the envy of kids with broken homes, the ones that smelled like old wood and bad air freshener. We played soccer and thought Britney Spears was a demigod, fiddled around for the meaning of life in our Barbie purses and bedazzled jeans.
Individuals in our ubiquity, life shifted. Such a subtle change and we were thinking like adults and wishing our hair was shinier. Maybe we’d never go back, but without it we would have never made it forward.
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