Are You There God? It's Me, Bryan Behar

I never read Judy Blume. But imagine how much better my life would be if I had.

The following essay was written for the Library Girl literary salon’s Tribute to the Life and Work of Judy Blume. So, if it seems like I’m addressing an imaginary audience, I haven’t gone bananas.

After an evening full of paeans to her healing power of her prose, I must admit this Judy Blume person sounds awesome! She’s some kind of writer, you say?

I’m kidding. Obviously, I know who she is. I’ve existed on Earth during the past six decades, and have occasionally even paid attention.

On a night celebrating the confessional style of Judy Blume, I have a confession of my own.  

I’ve never actually read Judy Blume.

In truth, I once skimmed the salacious parts of Forever.  But that was more akin to finding a secret Penthouse stash in grandpappy’s attic.

This was old school lechery. There were no global searches or Reddit pages telling you where to look. It was literally flipping pages, “No. No. No. Ralph!”

Or “No. No. Should I put cologne on my testicles?” I’m not sure that was a direct quote. But that was basically the extent of my Blume reading.

I know, I know.  My participating in a Judy Blume tribute event is a little like a Springsteen cover band saying “What’s Thunder Road?.”  We only play Ariana Grande and free jazz. 

“Now, who’d like to hear Thank U Next on the vibraphone?”

I wish I could declare before you, God and Margaret, that Freckle Juice taught me to be comfortable in my own skin and Deenie helped me overcome dangerously high expectations.

Blubber stopped me from pushing down my feelings with 4 am Taco Bell Gorditas.

Forever kept me from naming my genitals or dousing them with a full bottle of Paco Rabanne. 

And I’d love to emphatically state that Judy Blume's books got me through a troubled adolescence, gave voice to my fears, helped me feel less alone in a scary world and increased my bust size.

Sadly, none of it’s true. Especially the Paco Rabanne part.

You might be wondering why I’m here. I’m wondering the same thing.

When Susan, the event’s doyenne and organizer, asked me to participate, I told her “I’ve never read Judy Blume.” 

I reminded her I was a boy. In the Valley. In the 70’s. 

Evidently, some boys in some places read Ms. Blume.

But in the pre 818 times, it felt like a boy could be beaten senseless with his own pooka shells if he was caught anywhere near a library, let alone a copy of Superfudge.

Even the most tolerant guys of the era drew the line at any book that could reasonably be filed under “Periods and Junk.”

Casual homophobia was as popular as school busing wasn't.

Popularity-wise, it went busing, property taxes, Diet Shasta, PBS, disco, gas lines, inflation, and non-Italian foreign food.

Tied at the very bottom were fuel-efficient Japanesse cars and gentle boys with library cards.

My whole elementary school assumed I was gay because I once wore a collared shirt to picture day.

Back then, boys could wear anything on their sleeves. Just as long as it wasn’t their emotions.

This wasn’t the Westside with its Montessori preschools and book learnin’ and “concern” for a child’s “well-being.”

And this wasn’t the posh new valley of KazuNori hand rolls and $900 Erewhon smoothies. 

This was the old Valley of shirtless dudes eating McRibs on dirt bikes.

Where everyone drove vans, wore Vans and wrote Van Halen on their vans and other Vans.

So when Susan asked me to participate in the Blume event, I quickly responded, “Sorry.  I never read Judy Blume.” But then, added dramatically, “But imagine how much better my life would’ve been if I had.” 

“I could’ve understood girls as fully-formed humans with detailed interior lives. And possessed tools to process my adolescent insecurities.”

To which she said, “That’s your essay. Get here by 6:30. And wear a nice shirt. ”

“I don’t have a nice shirt.”

 “Okay, then wear that.” 

As I’ve learned many times, you don’t argue with destiny or Susan Hayden. 

So here I am. To discuss an alternate reality, a parallel universe.

One in which boys of Generation X were raised on Judy Blume novels instead of Sylvester Stallone wristwrestling movies.

In which conflict was resolved with compassion, rather than Wet Willies, Atomic Wedgies and blowing up tadpoles behind the little league field.

As you may have discerned, the San Fernando Valley of the 70’s wasn’t the multicultural, mini-L.A. it is today. 

It was Iowa on a skateboard.

It was the Bible Belt. Just replace grits with Tommy’s Chili. 

The masculinity was more toxic than Camp Lejeune.

There were no support groups or sensitivity training or tracking your kid’s iPhone.

Parents had no idea where you were or what you were doing, just as long as you were home by dark.

I literally could’ve been the Hillside Strangler. 

I wasn’t. But I could have been.

Just as long as I did my all stranglin’ before dusk.

In 1974, the girls in my elementary school idolized Judy Blume, a thoughtful author who helped generations of girls understand their places in the world. 

The same year, the boys in my school lionized Evel Knievel, a hyper-macho, hyper-nationalist motorcycle daredevil best-known for beating his business manager within an inch of his life with a baseball bat. 

In the boys’ defense, they also idolized Pete Rose, Bill Cosby, Richard Nixon, OJ Simpson and Sasquatch. 

Against this reactionary backdrop enters one shy, sensitive, half-Sephardic boy with a Dorothy Hamill bob more commonly found on closeted, segregationist senators or boy preachers.

Being a boy in the suburban seventies was a never-ending dance marathon devoted to not being called “gay.” 

It wasn’t about orientation. 

But about “othering” anyone who didn’t adhere to the surfer/stoner/ Spicolli performative manhood found in every Del Taco parking lot from Ventura to Vanowen.

The cool kids from my school smoked cigarettes, even ganja, behind Boys Market.

Drugs? I wasn’t allowed a second coke in a restaurant.

Boys of that era were into dirt bikes, hesher metal, and destroying other people’s mailboxes.

I went around my grade school conducting a survey of kids’ favorite tv shows, then presenting the results in a colored bar graph.

For a class assignment?

No. For fun. How else could I get an accurate, quantitative measurement of market tastes?

Girls seemed unknowable, like every female classmate was one of Charlie’s Angels. And I was Bosley, their asexual scheduler.

They wanted Leif Garrett, not Kid Saul Bellow.

Even worse, before talking to girls, I’d give myself a Binaca Blast. Which a hundred times out of a hundred, I’d spray directly into my own retina.

I know Judy Blume wasn’t a miracle worker. But could her books have helped me understand girls as people, not simply objects of confusion?

They likely wouldn’t have transformed me into the Casanova of Canoga Park.

But without her, all I read were Encyclopedia Brown mysteries.

As a result, I only knew girls as potential forgers. Or thieves who wanted to steal my stamp collection.

A boy in the 70’s needed to show no discernible emotions. 

I cried after a bad haircut.

I cried when the class bully stole my hat, revealing a bad haircut.

When my parents traded-in their Dodge Dart, I wailed for 3 days like a Sicilian widow. And took to my bed to watch ”Dinah.”

I needed Judy Blume.

I saw the Sergeant Pepper’s/ Bee Gees movie 3 times in the theater.

If that isn’t a cry for help, what is?

When it came to feelings-validation, my middle school made elementary school seem like a Phil Donahue taping.

A scrawny, sensitive, Jew with one eyebrow that wrapped around my forehead like a Bjorn Borg headband– what could possibly go wrong at an all boys, Episcopalian, recently-military, prep school?

I didn’t need to watch the Bret Kavanaugh hearings. I lived ‘em.

Jews were accepted. The same way we’re “accepted” at a restricted country club that was forced to accept one Jewish member after a federal consent decree.

They had us read Lord of the Flies–not as a cautionary tale, but as an instruction manual for male “problem-solving.”

It got so bad, in 8th grade, I carried an open knife to school every day, because I wanted to stab the bully who convinced our class I was a drug addict because I was shy.

The story sounds less trench coat-y when I mention the knife was a Swiss Army Knife I’d received as a bar mitzvah gift.

What was I actually going to do? Use the corkscrew to help open him an oaky chardonnay? File his nails to a more presentable finish?

Would Judy Blume have quelled my adolescent rage?

Maybe not. But it would’ve helped more than an open knife in my OP shorts.

What about puberty? All I understood was I felt “funny” when my favorite sitcom moms wore string bikinis on the Love Boat. The medical journals call that “Lido Dick.”

No they don’t. Nobody does.

But without Judy Blume, boys in the 70’s had to learn about sex the old-fashioned way:

From Meat Loaf lyrics, Phoebe Cates movies and scrambled cable porn. Thank you. ON TV.

Kids then had limited options when it came to adults they could speak to. Even the most well-meaning teachers didn’t always possess the language to handle serious mental issues.

And we’ve all seen Spotlight.

Lately, there’s been a counter narrative on TikTok promulgating the myth that our generation had it better BECAUSE no one validated our feelings. 

We were tough. We raised ourselves. They eat avocado toast. 

You can’t tell me anyone is worse off for having more outlets to express their feelings. 

So, what if more boys besides Charlamagne tha God read Judy Blume?

More to the point, what if there was no stigma attached to guys talking about their adolescent emotions?

While much has changed, is it any more socially-acceptable now for men to express vulnerability than it was when Skylab was in the air?

Sadly, I know a bunch of men, including my father, who took their own lives.

I can’t speak to the circumstances of all these tragedies. 

But in my dad’s case, he, like most men of his generation, didn’t possess the tools to healthily  process malign feelings.

He never verbalized his emotions, sought help, went to therapy or took medication.

He grew up in a culture where men didn’t share their feelings. 

If you’re feeling low, just suck it up and move on. 

And tragically, that’s what he did.

So trust me when I say I know what happens when feelings go unprocessed, when fears remain unexpressed.

So, on a night honoring Judy Blume, what can we do to truly “honor” Judy Blume?

To me, it’s simple:

Keep letting boys, all kids really, but especially boys, know it’s okay to have feelings, articulate them, and absorb art that makes sense of them. 

I believe Judy Blume would co-sign that message. It’s been her implicit thesis for the past 60 years.

That, to me, is her brightest legacy– letting kids know there are myriad safe places to explore their complicated emotions.

Like a book. Like a Judy Blume book.

I wouldn’t know– I haven’t actually read any. 

But I can’t wait to get home. I apparently have a lot of important reading to catch up on.