If my recent trips to the library and down memory lane have taught me one thing, it’s never to discount the meaning of revisiting old classics. Granted, I’m usually pretty sentimental, and a hopeless pack rat, so I’m not usually lacking in the department of “reliving the past” (sometimes known as “unable to let things go”). In an attempt to figure out what’s different between today’s YA authors and those of my middle school years, I randomly picked up a much beloved classic, rescuing it from the depths of the library shelves: “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” When I saw it there, I first looked around the library covertly, to make sure no one saw what I was looking at, and then sadly, when I realized it hadn’t been touched in quite some time.
I fear that books like this have been replaced by Harry Potter and “The Princess Diaries”, thus relegating its relevance to nothing more than sly references in episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and Gilmore Girls. But I’ve decided to give it a shot, and wonder whether I’ll still see in it the wisdom that I found so important when I was 11. Blume was already a known favorite when I picked this book up, but I think Margaret catapulted her to heroine status in my world, even more so than Sally J. Freedman. I mean, sure, Sally had a sassy personality and overactive imagination, and was convinced that Hitler was her next door neighbor. But Margaret… was about to get her period! What was more important than that?
My admiration for Ms. Blume has always come from the fact that throughout her literary career, she has always been able to tap into a particular moment in a child or teenager’s life, and create an entire story around it. I don’t think any other writer could pull off an entire novel which centers around a girl waiting for, talking about, and placing such importance on menstruation. Granted, that’s not the only story in the book – Margaret is also desperately searching for religion. But when you’re an 11 year old girl, reading about another 11 year old girl, menstruation is definitely more important. At the time, my mother was trying to explain menstruation to me by reading aloud from an antiquated, faith-based textbook. Just like Margaret, I was being inundated with random facts about biology and religion all at the same time… how did Ms. Blume know that I was going through the exact same thing as a character she made up, who was undoubtedly much more interesting than my mother?
My history with this novel is probably as long and sordid as any female of my generation. Not only did I read it over and over again out of sheer admiration and boredom, I read it aloud to my friends. We read it to each other and giggled under flashlights at sleepover parties and between the stacks at the library where we used to hang out after school. We passed it around to each other during math class, the way young boys pass around copies of Playboy in cheesy movies (we had no idea what was in store for us when we graduated to the next Blume epic, “Forever”). So now, so many years and literature trends later, I’m picking up this book again to see what all the fuss was about.
I’ll get back to you tomorrow, after I’ve pored over this book once more.
Once upon a time in the library... 