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School’s In (or Teen Queen
or Perky Poseur?)
While teenagers
flock to homecoming dances and academic competitions, I sweat like a varsity
wrestler as I struggle to stay hot on their trail, jotting down their
observations, charting their clothing styles, and recording their beliefs. Kids
may have cooled off during the summer, but my school of adolescence is
unceasingly open. I’m not fronting
when I say I spend hours each week keeping up with Jessica and Nick, Britney and
Kevin, and Brad and … whomever he’s dating now. I know the difference between
Young Jeezy and Jay-Z. And I can’t wait to watch the latest "Gilmore Girls."
Teens’ stances on affirmative action and sex education interest me as much as
their obsessions with belly shirts and cell phones amuse me. Teens are hella
irresistible subjects because they freely share their opinions, even though
they’ve only just begun to form them. But sometimes I, a gal pushing 30, envy
teens’ freedom as I scribble their takes on Harry Potter, pot, and MTV’s "Punk’d."
While chicks chill and scope out fine guys at the food court for hours, I have
to get back to my wack desk after just a jaunt to bone up on the latest hotties
featured in CosmoGIRL! and Seventeen, enduring snickers from more
"mature" colleagues. Despite what they may think, I have to research what makes
teens tick just as political reporters must keep abreast of the antics of Bush
and DeLay. I break down slang like they deconstruct spin. Speaking of slang,
writing from kids' points of view sucks sometimes because teen slang has a shelf
life as slim as Lil’ Kim’s skirts. I’m always bugging about whether I’m using
words in a tight (cool) way, so I’m addicted to online glossaries for hip-hop
and skater slang. Being hit on by a teen guy freaked me out-- not because of the
inappropriateness of his actions, but because he saw me as an "older woman." And
as I write about kids’ summer jobs, dating blunders, and SAT woes, I wistfully
wonder when the years when I stayed out too late turned into the years when I
couldn’t stay up past eleven o'clock. Yet like a pimple
that refuses to pop, I keep calling, e-mailing, and IMing to reach my sources--
and my audience. If I start to doubt my self-image as a youth writer, I listen
to Avril or Rhianna and toss my inhibitions into a locker because I know that
despite their short attention spans and percolating hormones, the kids need me.
They yearn for somebody to take them seriously, so to them, I’m the cool lady
who totally listens to what they have to say about drugs, dating, and other
oh-my-God-don’t-tell-my-mom morsels. I may have trouble mimicking their clothing
styles, but I can always tag along and find out their deepest worries and wishes
for the future. I may sound like a
poseur, but I write about teens, and, like, I love it, OK? Now, if I could just
find my cell phone… Cara Nissman, a freelance writer in West Palm Beach, Fla., and former youth and family reporter at the Boston Herald, refuses to grow up. Her controversial story about a gay youth who tried to turn straight appears in the November 2005 issue of Seventeen. Read more of her stories at www.caranissman.com.
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