I remember the exact outfit I wore to the first day of my freshman year of high school. The week before school started, I made my mom drive two towns over the to a store called “E-Street,” to buy me a pair of stretchy, dark-wash Mavi jeans, a white Michael Star tank top, and a light blue terry cloth Juicy zip-up sweatshirt. I also wore a necklace made of a rolled-up strip of black nylon fabric, and a disturbing amount of black eyeliner.
It was THE MOST EXPENSIVE outfit I had ever owned at the time, and is probably still in my top ten today. My mom made me pay for half of it with the money I had earned babysitting that summer, but even so, when I dig deep into the recesses of my memory, I think I can actually see the pained expression on her face as she handed her credit card over to the gum-smacking teen behind the register.
And why, you ask, did I force my mom to spend half of her teacher’s salary on an over-priced, J-Lo inspired sweatshirt? Because when I got dressed on that first day of school, and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I felt a surge of absolutely overwhelming relief. At that age, I would have sold a kidney (or, in this case, my mom’s kidney) to guarantee that I could start high school looking EXACTLY the same as everyone else.
I, like a lot of teens, spent way to much time observing the ways in which I did, or didn’t, fit in with my peers. I liked sports, and was kind of good at them, which was a definitely a win. I also did well in school: something kids in my neighborhood seemed to value. However, I wasn’t “casual” about my grades, and had to work for them, which made me not quite the right kind of smart. I also wasn’t loud, or particularly funny, or outgoing. In middle school, I never really had the right clothes. More accurately, I had one or two items of the right clothing, but not enough for 2 weeks of unique outfits. I was a jeans and t-shirt repeater, which was definitively uncool.
When I started high school, I knew I couldn’t change my personality, or the fact that I really did have to study in order to pass Geometry. But, I thought that if I looked a certain way, and hid the fact that I still sometimes listened to Harry Potter audiobooks at night before bed, I could stop teetering on the precipice of coolness, and finally jump in.
Jessie Sima’s book, The Not Quite Narwhal is not really about “coolness,” but it’s definitely about fitting in. Or, more accurately, what we think it means to fit in. In the book, Kelp, a unicorn in scuba gear is born from a clam shell in the depths of the ocean. Kelp grows up among a lively pod of narwhals, knowing he is different, but never actually acknowledging it. One day, Kelp gets swept away to the land of the unicorns and discovers what he truly is. Naturally, an identity crisis ensues.
When Kelp returns home, he struggles to reveal his newfound truth to his narwhal friends, as he fears their rejection. However, when he finally musters the nerve to explain to his friends that he is, in fact, a unicorn, they are completely unphased. “We all knew that,” one says with a smile.
When I look back on high school (and, to be honest, college as well), I cringe at how self-involved I was. I was always looking outward and comparing myself to the people at the “top”: the people who looked, to me, like they had it all figured out. The “narwhals,” if you will.
If I had, at 15, taken a minute to step back, and look around, I would have noticed that a was surrounded by friends who didn’t really give a shit about whether I was, or wasn’t, a unicorn. My friends then (and my friends now, for that matter) were as unique in their interests and appearance as I was. They were smart, and creative, and some of the funniest people I know. We spent every, single, Friday night together and helped each other through so many of those formative, high-school “firsts.” We didn’t all “fit in,” with the popular kids, or even with each other, but we never would have judged each other as much as I am sure we all judged ourselves.
I don’t necessarily regret my teenage self’s attitude, because being an anxious, self-absorbed mess is kind of exactly what the teenage years are all about. But whenever I read The Not Quite Narwhal to my daughter, I really hope that at least a teeny part of her begins to internalize the message. I hope she understands that all of us, at some point, will feel like we stand out, or don’t fit in, but that our differences are usually the last thing on the minds of the people we love, and who love us, unconditionally, in return.
In addition to this fabulous book, I’ll link some of my favorite children’s books about standing out, and fitting in. As always, thanks for stopping by, and happy reading!
The Books (Click to Purchase)
