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Girls on Track: A Parent's Guide to Inspiring Our Daughters to Achieve a Lifetime of Self-Esteem and Respect - Softcover

Barker, Molly

 
9780345456861: Girls on Track: A Parent's Guide to Inspiring Our Daughters to Achieve a Lifetime of Self-Esteem and Respect
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0345456866 ISBN 13: 9780345456861
Verlag: Ballantine Books, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

During adolescence, if a girl isn’t careful, she can fall into a trap called the Girl Box—a place where the way she looks is more important than who she is, where having a boyfriend is worth giving up a piece of her identity. This is a very serious problem, one that can lead to substance abuse, eating disorders, early sexual contact, and depression. Now Molly Barker, founder of the dynamic Girls on the Run® exercise program, has created a ten-week self-esteem-building plan that will instill resiliency in young girls and enhance their emotional, social, physical, mental, and spiritual health. The activities and lessons are designed for parents and girls to do together and include

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Molly Barker, MSW, a four-time Hawaii Ironman triathlete, founded Girls on the Run in Charlotte, North Carolina, in 1996. Molly began running at the age of 15—an age when she found herself stuck in the Girl Box, when only girls who were a certain size with a certain beauty were popular. Molly kept running and years later, on July 7, 1993, she took off on a sunset run and found the inspiration that grew into Girls on the Run. Using her background in counseling and teaching and her personal recovery from alcoholism, along with research on adolescent issues, she developed the earliest version of the curriculum with the help of 13 intrepid girls at Charlotte Country Day School. The program grew and today Molly oversees more than 20,000 girls who participate in GOTR programs across the country. In 1998, Runner’s World awarded Molly its Golden Shoe Award for contributions to the community through running. Her favorite times remain the ones she spends with her own daughter and her son at their home in Charlotte, North Carolina.

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During adolescence, if a girl isn't careful, she can fall into a trap called the Girl Box--a place where the way she looks is more important than who she is, where having a boyfriend is worth giving up a piece of her identity. This is a very serious problem, one that can lead to substance abuse, eating disorders, early sexual contact, and depression. Now Molly Barker, founder of the dynamic Girls on the Run(R) exercise program, has created a ten-week self-esteem-building plan that will instill resiliency in young girls and enhance their emotional, social, physical, mental, and spiritual health. The activities and lessons are designed for parents and girls to do together and include

Aus dem Klappentext

During adolescence, if a girl isn t careful, she can fall into a trap called the Girl Box a place where the way she looks is more important than who she is, where having a boyfriend is worth giving up a piece of her identity. This is a very serious problem, one that can lead to substance abuse, eating disorders, early sexual contact, and depression. Now Molly Barker, founder of the dynamic Girls on the Run® exercise program, has created a ten-week self-esteem-building plan that will instill resiliency in young girls and enhance their emotional, social, physical, mental, and spiritual health. The activities and lessons are designed for parents and girls to do together and include

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One

My Belly Button and the Territory Around It

I was in sixth grade when the Girl Box began to wedge its way over my body and spirit. Sixth grade was a tough year. I had started a new school—forced to leave the comfort of familiar friends to attend a private school in Charlotte, North Carolina. I barely got in. I was on the waiting list for a while and didn’t know I’d been accepted until a few weeks before school started.

Eleanor Jones was my best friend then. She was new, too. We were the two new girls at a school where most kids had started kindergarten together.

The thing that distinguished us from each other, however, was that Eleanor was getting breasts and I wasn’t. We were new, and all of the boys were noticing Eleanor.

That’s when I started to want to be somebody else. Anybody but me. My charming personality just wasn’t hacking it. Neither was my intelligence, my humor, or even my athleticism. None of that was working. The boys still wanted to pop Eleanor’s bra strap, chase her, and be in her company. I happened to be in their company because I was friends with Eleanor. That was the only reason. I felt like the third wheel all the time—even when I wasn’t with Eleanor.

Contrast that with the summer before sixth grade. I was ten years old. The Hortons had a huge holly bush in their front yard. That darn bush stood about five feet high and was right next to their wraparound porch. Jamie, a boy in my neighborhood, stood a good two inches shorter than me and weighed five to ten pounds less. He challenged me to fly over that bush—to jump from the porch to the soft grass five feet below. “I’ll bet you can’t do it, Molly, because after all, you’re just a girl.”

I could do it. Being a girl had nothing to do with it. I could do anything. I was a natural athlete—little knobby knees, muscle on bone, ribs showing. I preferred shorts, no shirt, and bare feet over my Sunday best, even on Sunday. That same summer I went to my first overnight camp. I didn’t shower all week. My hair, short and boyish, was strawlike from endless hours in the pool. “Eau de chlorine” suited me quite well, thank you.

My hair was usually tucked under a baseball cap. By week’s end, when my counselor pulled the cap off, my hair just stayed put. “You’d better wash that hair before your parents get here,” she said. I did wash my hair, with soap. A small swarm of insects that had set up shop in that tangled mess of dirt and chlorine flew off my head. I screamed bloody murder as a family of buzzing insects circled out of the shower spray. My friend Susan screamed, too. I fled from the shower buck naked to my counselor’s cabin barefoot, over rocks and sticks, bugs buzzing all around my wet, soapy head. She helped scrub them out.

Bugs in my hair. How gross.

Bugs in my hair. How cool.

So being a girl had nothing to do with it. I prepared myself for the flight over the holly bush. I marched right up to that porch, concentrated really hard for a minute—eyes closed tight, nose scrunched, and arms held out at a 90-degree angle while all the neighborhood kids stood there, the suspense building. (I was such a drama queen.) Then, with no warning at all, I began flapping my arms like a huge pterodactyl and started running. I took as many steps as I could and then with wild abandon I leaped off that front porch and clear over that bush.

I crash-landed on the other side. Jamie said I didn’t do it right because I didn’t land on my feet. It hurt to land on my girl chest. That was the first time I’d ever had the wind totally knocked from me, and I was truly scared. I couldn’t breathe. I lay there on my belly for a minute, trying to catch a deep breath and hold back the tears. All the kids rushed over—all except Jamie, who stood alone trying to make his case that a two-footed landing was the only official way to clear the bush.

I felt something inside me. A smile—small at first—but it felt really good creeping through my body. That smile started with the return of my breathing and crept its way through my heart to my face. I rolled over on my back, bounced up. Hey, I’m okay. I’m standing. I did it. I felt that smile move to my feet. I danced right there—a small jig—completely joyous and uninhibited. I had done it!

But in sixth grade the boys weren’t interested in what I could do. They didn’t want to play the same way they had just the summer before. They wanted to pop bra straps and chase Eleanor around the playground. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I was still funny, considerate, and friendly. I was bright, witty, and athletic. But I wasn’t Eleanor. I wasn’t what Eleanor represented.

And so I reluctantly let them lower the Girl Box over me. It was suffocating in there.

I was a prime candidate for the Girl Box. I was the fourth of four, nine years younger than the one before me. My mother was an alcoholic and my father worked a lot. Everyone in my house seemed to want to be somewhere other than where they were. My sister Helen was my primary caregiver. She taught me to read. She took me on dates with her and tried her best to protect me from the chaos of our home.

We used to visit my grandmother a lot. She lived a day’s drive away. My grandmother talked to herself all the time. I used to be embarrassed by this strange behavior. I thought it was weird. Today, I might call her a free spirit. But then I was a little bit afraid of her.

On one of those trips, when I was five, my mother, grandmother, sister, and I went to a friend of my grandmother’s. Everything in the house smelled old and musty—the burgundy velvet antique chairs and the lime-green paisley print couch. My mother, grandmother, and her friend started drinking. The ice tinkled in their glasses and the woman who owned the house kept pouring the clear liquid. I was scared and can remember secretly wishing inside myself that they wouldn’t do that—drink that stuff, I mean. I couldn’t name what scared me about it. I clung to Helen.

My mother started laughing too loud. I wanted to fly away. I wanted to go to bed—just be anywhere but there. Be anybody but me. Helen took me in the guest bedroom in this big, musty, smelly house and lay down with me. She wrapped her teenage body around my little-girl spirit and sang to me—trying to drown out the noise of the inappropriate conversation and laughter out in the living room. I think I cried. I can’t remember.

The front door of that stinky place slammed shut. Were they leaving or coming back? Was it minutes or hours since we’d gotten there? My sister cracked open the door of the bedroom and peered out into the living room. I stood behind her, trembling—wanting to look but not wanting to look. The older ladies weren’t laughing as loud—in fact they weren’t laughing at all. My mother had mud on her knees—mud mixed with blood that was dripping down her shins. Mud covered her face like some horrible Halloween mask.

Somewhere she had fallen.

I don’t remember how we got back to my grandmother’s apartment. I was asleep in a small room. The door opened and my mother came in. I remember the strong smell of Palmolive soap and Scope mouthwash. I pretended I was asleep as she curled up behind me. I don’t know how long she lay there with me. Before she left the room, I heard her whisper in the most sorrowful voice I had ever heard, “I’m so sorry, my little Molly.” When she left the room and shut that door, I cried myself to sleep.

This kind of memory doesn’t go...

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Verlag
Ballantine Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2004
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0345456866
ISBN 13 
9780345456861
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
256
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Verantwortliche Person
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