They Called Me “Backseat Becky”
Part Two
Mouth of The South. It’s what my teachers used to call me in elementary school. They would say it in front of the whole class. They would write it to my parents on my progress reports. I’m sure they delighted in their cleverness having no thought that pinning me with that nickname was in fact bullying a 7 year old child. I never thought it was funny. I felt embarrassed and reluctant yet often not able to control my boisterous personality. That was the very first time I was given an unflattering nickname. I’d be a very different person had it been the last.
Being raised in the South with strict religious values and a Southern etiquette that was expected of young women made growing up difficult. Especially for those of us who had a burning need to fit it. From the start of 5th grade the pressures to keep up with the crowd began to materialize quickly. What to wear, how to wear it. Who to like, who to kiss...these decisions and choices from that time on were rarely my own.
By the end of sixth grade I found myself in the principal’s office. The school had found out that over the weekend at a party where parents weren’t home, I had gotten my first “french kiss.” I remember the moment like it was last weekend. The sad thing was I didn’t even want to do it. I only liked the boy as a friend. But everyone was french kissing and I was falling behind. He asked, I said okay. It didn’t occur to me that Monday morning I would be the talk of the cafeteria. I was so confused. I had done what I was supposed to do, right?
Junior high came fast and furiously. Our school was combined with the high school which made it the perfect recipe for social failure. The rules of fitting in were ever shifting and morphing and seemed to only benefit the ones making them. I was not one of those fortunate beings. Even though I was in the popular crowd I was a hopeless follower; desperately seeking approval and validation. I was a clueless kid, forced to confront experiences and swift life advancements at a pace I was not close to prepared for. I began to make choices with the same lack of understanding as a small child wandering into traffic. I remember my first cigarette at 12 years old. Attending varsity football games while 6 kids shared one beer someone swiped from their Dad was pretty normal for a Friday night. We all thought we were grown before we knew the definition of the word.
It wasn’t long after the start of 7th grade that my new persona evolved. I was a late bloomer. The perky little A cups that my friends were rocking after the summer remained a coveted wish for me. I lied about getting my period but there wasn’t much I could do about these breasts that seemed to have gotten lost on their way to my chest. So “Two-Backed Becky” I became. I remember walking down the aisle of the bus almost everyday and hearing the announcement that I had arrived. Not Becky of course but “Two-Backed Becky.” The boys especially thought it was hilarious. I was some kind of mutant to them because my tits were missing. And with no tits...no boys were interested in anything but making sure I knew how undesirable I was. I’ll never forget a school dance where me and another girl in our crew were the only ones left who had not been asked to dance. As a boy walked over I know we were both filled with hope. Then I heard him say loudly to my friend “I guess I’ll dance with you, you’re the only decent one left.” 28 years later I can remember this painful moment like it was yesterday.
By 8th grade I still didn’t need a bra but wore one anyway because there was no chance I would risk not having something for the boys to pop off when they came up behind me in the hallway. The idea that fitting in required being able to participate in a pastime that was insulting and basically harassment makes my stomach churn. Oh how I wish I could go back in time and empower that desperate, embarrassed little girl to turn around and put her knee into their tiny, insignificant balls. But alas, that little girl only became more determined to be accepted and liked.
The summer before 9th Grade an amazing opportunity presented itself. A friend from my church told me she was going to audition for The School of The Arts. I had been dancing since I was 5 and had also been in drama classes during junior high. The auditions were the very next day. I begged my Mom to let me tryout and even though the school was far away and would require me being driven to and from everyday she agreed. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t even know any monologues. I spent that night writing my own. It was about a new kid in school who just wanted to sit at the cool table in the cafeteria. It obviously mirrored my current life status and it worked! I pulled it off. Someone thought I was talented. They thought I was good enough. Too bad I didn’t see what they saw.
After my Freshman year began I was quickly making new friends. The school was diverse and accepting. I felt free. I had a whole new chance to be a whole new me. But I still tried to maintain the friendships from my old life. I had known them all since elementary school and deep down, if I’m honest, I still wanted to prove something to them. Something else had also changed other than my school that summer. “Two-Backed Becky” was a thing of the past. All those exercises I’d learned from “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret” had paid off. These flattering and much appreciated physical enhancements I had prayed for had finally emerged and I felt complete.
My new found confidence also seemed to make the boys come calling. Those boys who had plagued me so with their twisted need to make me feel worthless now wanted to hang out with me. I thought I had somehow won a prize. Problem is...my lack of experience and misguided inclination was about to prove me terribly wrong.
To Be Continued...