Wednesday, January 9, 2019 // The Statement 
3B

M

y expectations of 
love and romance 
were doomed from 
the start. As a child, I lived and 
breathed Disney movies. The 
story was always the same: A 
beautiful princess was in trou-
ble and — shocker — a beauti-
ful prince came to save her. The 
perfect pair fall in love as soon 
as they look at one another, and 
BOOM! They’re set for life. To 
me, this cliché was reality. It 
was December 2010, and at 10 
years old, I was already scoping 
my classroom for viable bach-
elors. I was a fifth-grader ready 
to be in love.
AJ was a 4-foot-10-inch bru-
nette football player who was 
in my best friend’s class. In my 
mind, he was perfect boyfriend 
material. He was cool and ath-
letic: the perfect embodiment 
of an apathetic jock. I was a 
perky dancer, which in my mind 
was close enough to the classic 
cheerleader. We were bound to 
be perfect. I was determined to 
date him.
I told each of my friends 
about my crush, all part of my 
master plan of him finding out 
and then, of course, asking me 
to be his girlfriend. Elementary 
school gossip travels fast, so 
naturally, AJ knew I liked him 
by the end of that day. We were 
dating by that night.
The following Friday was 
a snow day, which set the 
scene for a perfect first date. 
We were invited to sled at my 
friend Emma’s house, and I 
immediately started planning 
strategies in order to make 
the night flawless. We would 
share a sled, and it would be 
just like the magic carpet ride 
from “Aladdin”. I’d get cold and 
he’d give me his jacket. Maybe 
Emma’s mom would make us 
spaghetti for dinner, and we 
could share a noodle like Lady 
and the Tramp. We could even 
watch a movie and he’d pre-
tend to yawn, then put his arm 
around me. To start the night 
off right, I secured the roman-
tic ambience by wearing a shirt 
that said “Free Hugs” — a flir-
tation tactic that nobody could 
deny. There was no room for 
error.
By the end of the night, 
everything 
had 
gone 
as 
planned. It was even more than 
I had hoped for because AJ had 

kissed me! It was just as roman-
tic as I had hoped for too, as we 
snuck off into Emma’s closet, 
closed our eyes, counted down 
from three, and leaned in. I 
was the happiest 10-year-old 
alive. I was proud of my cour-
age. I knew my brave efforts to 
put myself out there had paid 
off. Through hard work and 
determination, I had turned 
a fantasy into actuality. My 
two best friends showed their 
solidarity and agreed with my 
sentiments. And just as good 
friends do, they came back 
to my house, and we laughed 
about it all night. Not only was 
I in love, but I was an EXPERT 
on all things kissing!
“Was it on the lips or the 
cheek?!” Lips, obviously. This 
was the real deal.
“Who leaned in first?!” He 
did, duh! I was not that bold.
“Did you flick your foot in 
the air?” No, I didn’t. That only 
happens in the movies.
It was all fun and games until 
my mom came home. As soon as 
she walked into my room, she 
could tell something was up. 
I saved myself the interroga-
tion and blurted out the good 
news. My boyfriend kissed me! 
I expected a parade of joy, a 
giant hug, a mazel tov.
Instead, I was humiliated.
My mom explained to me that 
I was 10 years old, and kissing 
is inappropriate. Could I even 
imagine what the other fifth-
graders would say if they found 
out? I didn’t even think about 
other people during my plan-
ning process — in the movies, 
no one else’s judgement mat-
ters but of the couple in love. I 
didn’t think that my behavior 
could be considered improper. 
I didn’t think kissing could 
be classified as such a taboo 
action. But the more I thought 
about it, the more anxiety I felt. 
The once present feeling of sol-
idarity began to fade as my best 
friend whispered to me, “Some 
girls may think you’re a... slut.”
A slut.
I had to keep it a secret 
because if not, I was destined 
to be the class slut.
A fifth-grade slut.
I cried the entire night. How 
could I be so slutty and not 
even realize it? I was gross. I 
felt an uncontrollable feeling 
of emotion come over me, an 

emotion I had never truly felt 
before. It was the perfect storm 
of humiliation, distress, anxi-
ety and embarrassment caused 
by an understanding that my 
behavior was unacceptable. It 
was my first true encounter 
with the emotion that I would 
come to know as shame, and 
I had to get rid of the linger-
ing disgust immediately. The 
only way I knew how was to 
continuously deny it even hap-
pening, shown by breaking up 
with AJ and swearing every-
one involved to secrecy. No one 
else could know about what I 
thought was the first skeleton 
in my closet.
One of the main things I 
learned from my dabble in pro-
miscuity is to never to trust 
fifth-graders to keep a secret, a 
truth that I was naive to at the 
time. Just like before, elemen-
tary school gossip travels faster 
than the speed of sound, and by 
the end of the following Mon-
day, everyone knew about my 
first kiss. Denying it became 
impossible. By the end of the 
week, even the girls from the 
elementary school in the other 
part of town knew. Apparently, 
they didn’t want to be friends 
with the Deerfield girls any-

more. We were too slutty for 
them.
I was a 10-year-old who 
already 
knew 
shame, 
who 
already felt the ostracism asso-
ciated with sexual experimen-
tation. I was a 10-year-old girl 
who wanted romance and love 
and flowers and a boyfriend 
and an innocent kiss. I instead 
was labeled a slut.
Thankfully, 
10-year-olds 
tend to forget and move on. 
Girls started kissing boys regu-
larly as soon as we hit middle 
school. I quickly became yes-
terday’s news, and my embar-
rassment eventually subsided. 
I no longer felt the humiliating 
consequences of my actions. 
Instead, other girls were con-
demned to the ruthless ridicule 
associated with sexual curios-
ity.
My friends have been sub-
jected to any of the following: 
easy, prissy, whore, prude. Slut.
Whether it’s an experience 
that happened in college or an 
innocent fifth-grade kiss, the 
backlash is inescapable. But 
I’ve grown to realize that the 
backlash isn’t worth it. People 
will always pass judgements; 
people 
will 
always 
inflict 
shame. But by understanding 

this very feeling of shame is 
defeatable, I have been able to 
grasp that wearing my actions 
as armor is the most redeeming 
form of resilience.
I’ve watched “The Breakfast 
Club” thousands of times, and 
one quote always seems to stick 
with me.
“If you say you haven’t (had 
sex), you’re a prude. If you say 
you have, you’re a slut. It’s a 
trap. You want to, but you can’t, 
and when you do, you wish you 
didn’t, right?”
There’s no right answer. 
There will never be a right 
answer. No matter the action, 
or even lack thereof, there 
will always be the tempta-
tion of what seems to be an 
inevitable feeling of disgust, 
embarrassment, 
distress, 
humiliation. Shame is a col-
lection of unasked-for ridi-
cule, controlling the actions of 
the curious, condemning the 
actions dauntless.
And with that, I’ve learned to 
accept that I will forever be the 
10-year-old girl with an open 
heart, vulnerable only to Dis-
ney princesses’ rare side effect 
of promiscuity.
If that makes me a fifth-
grade slut, then so be it. 

BY ANDIE HOROWITZ, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Word of mouths

ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL

