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