Reviving Ophelia - Mary Bray Pipher [151]
Maria’s family had a long tradition of social activism. In the late 1960s her maternal grandparents had fled for their lives from El Salvador. Her great uncle had been shot for his political activities. Her mother was an ardent feminist and active in the teachers’ union. Maria said, “All of us were raised with the idea that we should work to make our society a better place. No one gets away with being indifferent. Even Alberto, who is a skateboarder, helps with Sanctuary work.”
Maria felt especially close to Alberto. As children they rarely fought. In fact, Alberto was her main supporter and helper. “He could make anything out of cardboard. We played all kinds of games that he invented. We made movies together and sang duets. He let me play with his friends and him. I was never left behind.”
Maria sipped her drink. “I loved elementary school. Every now and then I’d be called a racist name, but Alberto was there to protect me. His friends all liked me and made sure I was well treated. Until fourth grade my class was close.”
“What happened then?”
“That’s when cliques formed. My friends got together for cheerleading practice and I wasn’t asked to join them.”
She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I wanted to fit in. I desperately tried to raise my coolness quotient. I even bought some Guess jeans, but they didn’t help. The problem was my color.”
She said, “Mom encouraged me to fight the pressure to be a certain way. She hates racism and elitism. Alberto was a nonconformist and he teased me about those jeans. Later I did fight, but in sixth grade I was a chicken.”
I asked her about junior high.
“The first day was awful,” Maria said. “It was a big school and I kept getting lost. I ripped my shorts in gym and I got called a wetback in typing class. I came home sobbing.”
She frowned at the memories. “My family said I’d make friends quickly, but I didn’t. I didn’t like most of the kids. The girls tried to hurt each other and their talk drove me crazy. I spent time with my brother and his friends.”
She ran her finger around the rim of her cup. “I was lonely and mixed up for a while. I took everything personally, and I thought there must be something wrong with me. But Alberto and my mom kept saying it wasn’t me. They talked me into joining Amnesty International so I’d have an outside interest.
“I got interested, all right.” She smiled. “The people were great. Their friendship saved me in junior high.”
I asked about appearance. Maria sighed. “I wish I could say that I don’t care about looks, but I do. I’m pleased when guys tell me I’m pretty, and I’m glad I’m not fat or homely. But being pretty isn’t the most important thing about me, and I don’t pick my friends on the basis of appearance.
“When I was in sixth grade we had a unit on self-esteem in Girl Scouts. I took it seriously. I tacked up a list of positives about myself on the mirror. I asked myself at the end of each day what I had done that I felt proud of. That work on self-esteem helped me in junior high. When I felt badly because my body wasn’t perfect, I remembered my suggestions to think positively.”
Maria continued, “In high school I found my own kind. I started a chapter of Amnesty International.”
“Are the kids different?”
“Alberto is there and I like his friends. Some of the girls seem trustworthy. My school is the biggest school in town and I’m meeting more Hispanics and African-Americans.”
“Have you dated?”
“This one guy really liked me. I liked him too, but I wanted friendship before we got involved romantically. He wanted too much of my time and he was jealous. Finally I had to break it off. Since then I’ve avoided close relationships with guys. I hate how quickly relationships get labeled. If I have lunch with the same guy three days in a row someone thinks we’re going steady.
“Because of Alberto, I have high expectations,” she continued. “I don’t like macho guys. I like guys who can talk about their feelings and who respect women. In high school, not