Boo, You Whore

In Mean Girls, the bible of all teen movies, Lindsay Lohan’s character remarks that Halloween is the only time that a girl can dress like a complete slut while every other girl must remain taciturn, unable to call her on it. John Steinbeck observes in his novel, East of Eden, that children are averse and wary of any semblance of difference between them and their peers—to be set apart from the group is dangerous and branding.

That was certainly my experience as a child. One was to be no more or less intelligent than the masses (the latter being preferred if there was to be any deviation from the standard). To be shy was to be unpopular but left alone; to be confident when one wasn’t a self-appointed “popular kid”—was certain social suicide. Show a little bit of weakness, a little bit of fear of the established system, and children would be ruthless in their preying upon another.

Perhaps it is for this reason that teen girls so embrace Halloween “sluttiness.” Certainly, rampant adolescent hormones factor into the equation. But consider that, in dressing as they do, these girls are allowed to flaunt their bodies in an act of fleeting confidence of their appearance. Just as in Steinbeck’s observation of children, there is a certain aversion that adolescents hold towards self-assurance: are not all young adults supposed to stand, shoulders hunched, a far-from-perfect imitation of the magazine advertisements and movie stills they seek to impersonate? It is perhaps in growing up that they allow themselves that change from childhood, that brief glimpse of a head held up in front of others. Perhaps, too, that is the essence of growing up.

I arrived on campus for orientation week wishing to sink into the backdrop. Coming to Columbia was the biggest step I have taken alone. I was terrified. I suppose this is partially the nature of humans: when intimidated, hide. And who wouldn’t feel anxious in a situation so new to them? Being one of the shyest people I know, however, made this especially difficult. I waited for others to introduce themselves, or to have friends do the job for me. The problem was, I didn’t want to be known as the timid kid. I didn’t want to be the wallflower.

“I’m tired of being so shy,” I complained to an acquaintance.

“You? Shy? Seriously,” he responded. “You’re one of the most outgoing people here.”

...Wait, what? That’s not right.

Apparently, however, it was. Looking back over the past two months, I’ve come to the startling conclusion that I’m “growing up”. The fact is, now that I know more people, I’m less reluctant to meet new ones. I’m more likely to strike up a random conversation with an equally random person. And I’m far less terrified of being known in general. Perhaps this is the point, then, where I no longer need my costume.

I’ve noticed similar changes in friends across the board. The girl who never got anything but A-grades and flipped out when she got a B on her first college quiz—that girl has learned to ask how she can be better rather than obsessing about how she’s the worst. The guy who worried about how fit he was—he has work-out buddies now. The girl who only felt good about herself when drunk—she’s now able to admit that she’s kind of pretty. The guy who never got the girl—that guy now has his first date with her coming up.

I think that people are finding that they’re not in high school anymore. Nobody really gives a damn if you were the head cheerleader (and thereby the most awesome person in the whole wide world) or the guy who ate lunch alone in the bathroom. If you’re smart, you’re chill. If you’re nice, you’re popular. If you’re fun to party with, or fun to study with, or just fun in general, you rock. And so, nobody has to really worry about acting appropriate to their high school status. It really is possible to hold your head up confidently outside of Halloween, behind the mask of a barely-there costume.

The author is a Columbia College freshman.