Ellen Hopkins
Your life was unusual from the start. You were adopted at birth. Your mother was forty-two when you were born, the “May” to your father’s “December.” He was seventy-two, and to put that into perspective, he was born in 1883. The son of German immigrants and the definition of a “self-made man,” your dad parlayed a sixth-grade education into a couple of thriving businesses. He made his million dollars not long before he brought nine-day-old you home to a beautiful Spanish-style house in Palm Springs, California. Comedian Bob Hope lived next door and, having adopted a slew of kids himself, he sent his nanny over to help out for a few days. You were, of course, much too young to appreciate this. But let’s just say that few enough people are given such an auspicious beginning.
The truth is, you were a child of privilege. Not so much because of money (though you never went without), but because of a very large measure of love infusing your childhood. You were doted on, and while your parents’ age denied activities some families shared—skiing or mountain biking, for instance—your mom and dad rewarded you with things many children never have. You took piano and voice lessons. Studied dance—ballet, tap, jazz, even hula. You had dogs, cats, canaries, a lizard or two. You owned horses and rode fearlessly—barefoot, bare-headed, and bareback—across the desert and into the hills.
Your mother read to you every day, taught you to read on your own before you even started kindergarten. From her, you developed an ear for language and a passion for classic literature and poetry. Your father was no Puritan, but he wanted you to have faith, and made sure you went to church every Sunday. From him, you learned the value of honesty and hard work. A favorite saying of his stuck with you: Anything worth doing is worth doing right.
You went to a great private school, where creative teachers encouraged your talents. You excelled at academics, especially anything English or writing-related. You published a poem when you were just nine. Won trophies for your equestrian skills, ribbons at track meets. You aced piano recitals and dance competitions. By anyone’s measure, these were successes. Yet, somehow, you grew up feeling…not good enough.
This probably took root in the knowledge that you were given away as a baby. Your parents were friends with the doctor who arranged the adoption. Curious about where you came from, when you were five you eavesdropped on one of their conversations and heard the doctor say, “Ellen isn’t nearly as pretty as [her half-sister].” Later, you understood your birth mother was only sixteen, unmarried, and unequipped to parent. But as a small child, the message seemed clear: Not pretty enough equaled unworthy. Your birth mother kept her other daughter. She rejected you. You stashed that away, in a cabinet deep inside you, and there it will stay into adulthood.
Elementary school was your “chubby” phase. The kids would chant “Elsie the Cow,” followed by a rousing chorus of moos. And though you shed those few extra pounds before seventh grade, the mirror will always reflect a fat girl. Not thin enough meant unlikeable. In a way, you denied yourself. The Guernsey goes into the internal cupboard, too.
So now you’re a teen. Moving to a small town the summer before your eighth grade year means starting high school as the quintessential new kid. Just about everyone else here has been friends since kindergarten, but you don’t know anyone. That puts you on the perimeter of some tightly closed circles, trying to push your way inside. Outsiders rarely reach “in crowd” status, and no matter how nice you are to the cheerleaders, you are no exception. Instead, you find acceptance among the intelligentsia, artistes, and anti-establishmentarians. In other words, the stoners.
And then, when you’re sixteen, your father dies. Suddenly, you have to grow up very quickly, to help your mother deal with a funeral, probate, death taxes. You do everything you can to ease the process, but she falls into a deep depression, closes herself off from everyone, including you. You try your best to understand why, and on some level, you do. But it’s yet another rebuff, and this time, from the person you’re closest to.
So maybe it isn’t surprising that you look to boys for approval. Not that you’re easy. Your Lutheran upbringing has given you a solid moral compass. You’re not interested in casual sex. What you want is someone who loves you. Someone who makes you feel like you are the most special girl in the world. You definitely connect with a few guys, but high school romances tend to be short-lived. With each breakup, you leak a little more self-esteem.
To sum it up, teen Ellen, this is how you see yourself:
Smart. Pretty much geek-smart, and who wants to hang out with a geek?
Plain. You’ll never be pretty, so why bother with makeup? It can’t hide the big bump in your nose. And forget about top-rung boyfriends. They’re looking for glitzier girls.
Fat. The best part about that is not having to worry about cute clothes. Jeans and baggy T-shirts will do.
Decent at dance, choir, drama. To a degree. You don’t get solos or leads. And you didn’t make the cheer squad.
Different. You’ll never fit into mainstream cliques. Plus, you have this annoying habit of making friends with other kids who are different, too. Which pushes you even closer toward freak distinction.
Probable yearbook description: Most Likely to Be Rejected.
Chin up. You won’t know this for a very long time (when you reconnect with your old classmates through something called Facebook), but this is how other people see you:
Smart. Reliable. You’re the one cheaters want to sit behind on test day. You’ll ace your SATs and get into the college of your choice.
Pretty. You have a natural beauty that doesn’t rely on makeup. Don’t worry about your nose. No one notices it. They’re looking at your smile.
Fit. Between dance, track, and horseback riding, you’ve got amazing legs and a great rear end. These are things no amount of dieting can achieve.
Talented. You continue to publish poetry and win every creative writing contest you enter. And you sure know how to rock ‘n’ roll.
Different. You are sensitive and more caring than most. You are a rebel, and speak your mind, especially about inequalities you see. You are brave.
Probable yearbook description: Most Likely to Take a Stand.
You graduate near the top of your class. Tossing that tasseled cap feels like the first step toward freedom. It is a sprint toward adulthood, where life will be just as confusing as ever. You’ll drop out of college, choose the wrong guys. A couple will hurt you, and one will abuse you. Trust will come harder and harder. But each wrong turn makes you wiser. After a while you’ll realize that love isn’t about control. It’s about mutual respect. Long-term relationships are born of friendship. And that has nothing to do with how you look, but rather who you are inside.
Eventually, you find forever connection with an amazing man. One who embraces you, and the responsibilities of a ready-made family. Yes, you’ll have three children, one of whom will be responsible for an earthquake of pain. But you’ll survive this heartbreak, too, and not only does it make you stronger, it puts you on the path you don’t yet know you’re searching for. (I’ll give you a hint: Keep writing poetry.)
You will parent a fourth child, too. Full circle, you’ll adopt him when you are forty-two, the exact same age your mother was when she adopted you. And, full circle, he will be bullied and struggle with feeling different. Being adopted has that effect. But you’ve been there, and recognize the emotions he experiences. You will help him grow into a brilliant young man, in part because of the things you have been through yourself. Your past helps create his future.
What I wish you could understand, teen me, is that the past does create the future. Everything that sets you apart also makes you unique. You are finding a distinctive voice, and one day that voice will speak not only to many, but also for many who can’t speak for themselves. All that rejection helps you grow a thick skin, one you’ll need when you finally settle into the career you were destined for. Being pushed away makes you want to gather others in. And you will, in ways small and immense.
Of course, if you suspected any of this now, you might just crawl into your closet and stay there, where it’s private. Cozy. Safe. But here’s the thing: Life isn’t always safe. It isn’t always happy or pretty or neat. Sometimes it’s downright sad and ugly and messy. Dangerous, even. You have to take risks to discover courage. You must know pain to understand the true meaning of joy. And only through experiencing the sting of death will you come to cherish living.
You will make mistakes. Everyone does. Accept that—no, value that—and keep moving forward. I promise, in the future you’ll look back and decide you wouldn’t change a thing. Each misstep, each sidestep, each baby step brings you one step closer to where you belong, and once you reach this place, every day will bring immense satisfaction.
Dearest Teen Ellen. You were unusual from the start. Each inimitable day of your life helps create a voice completely your own.
Ellen Hopkins is a poet and the award-winning author of twenty nonfiction books for children and numerous New York Times best-selling young adult novels in verse: Crank (2004), Glass (2007), Impulse (2007), Burned (2008), Identical (2008), Tricks (2009), Fallout (2010), Perfect (2011), Triangles (2011), and Tilt (2012). Her first verse novel for adults, Triangles, was published in 2011. Ellen lives with her husband, teenage son, two German shepherds, one rescue cat, and two ponds (that’s ponds, not pounds) of koi near Carson City, Nevada.
Q and A:
WHO WAS YOUR CELEBRITY CRUSH?
“On my bedroom walls, I had pictures of: John Lennon, Matthew McConaughey, Leonardo DiCaprio, Ani DiFranco, and Bob Dylan.”
Elizabeth Miles
“Molly Ringwold–HUGE.”
Geoff Herbach
“Brad Pitt. He also, coincidentally enough, went to my high school—twelve years before me.”
Tera Lynn Childs
“The Beatles were first. Then Duran Duran and The Police. What can I say? I had a thing for pop rock bands. And it was the groups I obsessed over more than the individuals within them. I’m not sure what that reveals about me.”
Jennifer Ziegler
“Fran Tarkington of the Minnesota Vikings.”
Jenny Moss
“I was infatuated with 80’s soul singer Terrence Trent Darby.”
Bethany Hegedus
Mariko Tamaki
“I didn’t have one. I was too busy crushing on people in my immediate vicinity. I’ve always been practical that way.”
Stacey Jay
“Johnny Depp from 21 Jump Street.”
Gretchen McNeil
“Patrick Duffy. I remember seeing him emerge from the ocean in The Man from Atlantis, and even though I wasn’t ready to admit that I was gay, I knew that I was attracted to this man.”
Michael Griffo
“Mark Hamill, a.k.a. Luke Skywalker.”
Katherine Longshore
“They were all fictional. Laurie of Little Women and Aragorn of The Lord of the Rings. Carlton Buell from the Beany Malone books. Jed Wakeman in Emily of Deep Valley…”
Mitali Perkins
“David Bowie.”
Mari Mancusi
“Jessica Rabbit.”
Josh A. Cagan
“I had a thing for Judd Nelson’s character in The Breakfast Club. He was witty and dangerous and smarter than everyone, though he was a total underachieving bad boy.”
Amy Kathleen Ryan
“Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones.”
Sara Zarr
“I guess it would have been Elizabeth Taylor—or maybe Annette Fabre, whom I fell in love with during grade school after seeing her in Disney movies—before she grew up in Beach Blanket Bingo. Something about girls—and women—with dark hair and soulful looks in their eyes attracted me more than the blondes most guys swooned over.”
Joseph Bruchac
“Joni Mitchell.”
Daniel Ehrenhaft
“Jordan Catalano. Does he count as a celebrity? I didn’t even like Jared Leto, I just wanted to date Jordan Catalano. I had a thing for brooding, wounded birds.”
Robin Benway
“John Cusack. And some things never change.”
Beth Fantaskey