Studying the habitat and habits of Teengirl
It is 7 in the morning and I am standing in the doorway of Teengirl’s room, wondering if it had been hit by a meteor. But since there is no hole in the ceiling, the chaos that I’m viewing must have come from within.
The girl has just left for school, looking beautiful as she emerged from the room, leaving the disarray behind. The mess is her symbol of defiance. The drawers that are left open to varying degrees represent her army. The two half-empty Sprite cans, the papers on the floor, the debris on her dresser and the scattered clothes are all elements of her declaration of independence.
Patrick Henry said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” When I asked Teengirl why she didn’t clean her room, she looked at me with her large brown eyes and said, “I can’t.” I said, “Why not?” And she said, “I just can’t.”
My wife, Cinelli, and I try not to make an issue of it. We are not going to go to war over a messy room, because we know we can’t win. We raised two girls and a boy and managed to keep them out of state prison, so we have deemed our methods of enduring the teen years a modest, if not gigantic, success.
One daughter never closed drawers. The other left half-eaten food under her bed. Sometimes the dog came in and ate the food. But other times it was too old for the dog to eat. I remember pulling a dish out from under the bed and everything left on it was green.
Boys do not have the same messy habits. They may be out holding up liquor stores, but their rooms are clean. Our son emerged whole from swaggering male teenhood, but it wasn’t easy. He too longed for independence. We gave him as much freedom as we could to prepare him for the future. Today he says we were too lenient.
Teengirl came to live with us a few months ago, which has led me to study her tribal habits, the way the Leakeys studied ancient man. When she finally departs for a life of her own, I will seal off her room so that thousands of years from now, archeologists will have it to study and ponder why she never finished her Sprite or closed her drawers. They will be at a loss to fathom the defensive nature of her resistance.
Do not misunderstand. We don’t let her do whatever she wants to do. God knows where this could lead. Like Britney Spears, Teengirls fall in love easily. They also fall out of love easily. This creates conditions for emotional highs and lows unparalleled among adults. The computer is a caldron of laughter and tears. Teengirl links to other Teengirls at their computers. One has a boy problem. They are all trying to solve it. They are all feeling sorry for the girl who needs their support. Somewhere in the linkage, a sniveling, rotten, insensitive guy has just broken the gentle heart of a Teengirl. She will never forgive him. At least until Wednesday.
We took Teengirl to the mall. She suddenly screamed. The scream was returned from across the mall. It is a cultural trait among Teengirls. They communicate their recognition of a friend the way baboons in the wild screech their acknowledgment of a clan member. As proof of their evolvement, Teengirls don’t smell each other to confirm their association. The scream, thank God, is enough.
“I love that,” our Teengirl said, pointing to a T-shirt. Across the front it said, “Monkeys steal my underwear at night.” “I am not,” I said, “buying you a T-shirt that talks about your underwear.” She shrugged and said, “OK.” I expected a fight. She declined my challenge. That threw me off. The art of manipulation begins at about 10 and is polished through the teen years. Next, she will want a T-shirt that says, “I don’t wear any.” I will say, “Never!” She’ll say, “It could mean anything. Like I don’t wear shoes. Or I don’t wear animal furs.” “No!” “I compromised on the monkey T-shirt,” she’ll say, “now it’s your turn!”
The telephone is another link to the outside world. Trapped in the house because there’s nothing to do or because the storm of the century rages outside or simply because it’s night, she will work the computer until it loses its magic and then turn to the phone. Her boyfriend calls at night. Whatever dour mood she may have been in suddenly lightens. She smiles. She laughs. She agrees. She is debonair, positive, cooperative, loving.
“OK,” I say, attempting to cash in on all that, “time to clean your room a bit.” I am not expecting her to paint the walls or rearrange the furniture. Throwing away the two half-empty cans of Sprite would do.
“I can’t,” she says, the happy mood swirling away like water from a dog’s bath. “I just can’t.” It’s bigger than both of us.
Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He’s at al.martinez@latimes.com.
