When they were bad

Mon, 09 Oct 2000 19:33:00 +0000

This time last year, my happy, friendly seventh-grade daughter was voted off the island. The stars aligned, the dice rolled, the ballots were cast and she was "it." She went from being a member of the "in crowd" to becoming its designated exile. She was talked about, hated, despised, not invited, ridiculed but mostly, most cruelly, ignored.

"I don't exist," she explained to me softly.

"Why?" I yelled to the heavens. "Why you? Why me, the mother of you? What have we done?"

I found out about the smear campaign when I read a batch of saved e-mails my daughter left open on the family computer. She'd never done that before, so I figured she wanted me to read them. She did and I did and it hurt. The electronic missives went beyond mean to breathtakingly evil and they were attached to extensive buddy lists. It seemed that everyone knew about this except me.

I should have known. The phone never rang anymore, my daughter's grades were dropping and she had a hard time getting up in the morning. I constantly asked what was up. Finally, e-mails in hand, I asked again, "Are the girls mad at you?" She stared at me with old, sad eyes and said, "Yes."

Bosom buddies

Mon, 28 Aug 2000 18:14:00 +0000

I have always been flat-chested. It didn't used to bother me. I was always more gamine than beach bimbo, more Audrey Hepburn than Pamela Anderson, anyway. But I do live in a "Baywatch" kind of town, and eventually, I started to realize that there was a reason that those who were stacked attracted more attention in their bikinis.

Two very prominent reasons, in fact.

So, last spring, I started tossing around the idea of getting a boob job.

I consulted with my friends, family, husband and colleagues. I debated the issue with surgically enhanced feminists and flat-chested soccer moms.

But the two most important opinions were those of my 10- and 14-year-old daughters. Sure, it was my life and my decision, but they were at that impressionable age and I didn't want to give them the wrong impression.

I've always told my daughters that real feminism means the freedom to make your own choices. But I've also always been a Barbie-basher, and I am known for my fierce lectures during which I rip up fashion magazines, rant against Madison Avenue and preach the joy of accepting one's body just the way it is.

Salon.com > Carolyn Magner

When they were bad

Bosom buddies