My coming of age story: The day I turned twelve, on December 12th, was the day my period first started, the judge signed my parents’ divorce decree, I got my ears pierced (one became infected), and a lumpy rash spread all over my body. My rites of passage were sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
I’m amazed by the stupid risks I took and survived.
And so I was incredibly curious and impressed when a thoughtful friend organized a coming of age ceremony to honor her daughter's menarche, her entry into womanhood. I thought my friend was a pretty cool mom.
Recently I called her to have her remind me of the details of the event.
“The first thing you need to know,” she said, “is that my daughter hated it.”
I’m amazed by the stupid risks I took and survived.
And so I was incredibly curious and impressed when a thoughtful friend organized a coming of age ceremony to honor her daughter's menarche, her entry into womanhood. I thought my friend was a pretty cool mom.
Recently I called her to have her remind me of the details of the event.
“The first thing you need to know,” she said, “is that my daughter hated it.”
Mother had invited a bunch of women she thought might be interesting role models for her daughter. She installed Daughter on a throne of sorts (an overstuffed chair), a blanket spread in front of her on the floor, a pile of sand on the blanket. Mother smoothed the sand into an even layer and then drew a spiral to represent the journey of life. She asked each guest to place a token of their own journey into womanhood on the spiral as we offered Daughter our stories.
I can still see Daughter's face: shy, forebearing. I realize now that she was mortified.
As word of this ceremony had spread among Mother’s friends, such was the hunger for a re-do of their own unremarked coming of age that women showed up who had never even met Daughter. Here was a group of near-strangers discussing anatomical details –worse, the changes, the very private changes, occurring in her own body – while she was forced to sit and listen and smile.
Daughter and Mother have discussed this awkward incident many times in the decade since. In fact, Daughter agreed to help Mother organize a coming of age ceremony for a young woman who had recently lost her mother to cancer – but she agreed only on two conditions.
First, invite only the closest circle of adult women who actually have a relationship with the young woman. This ensures the guest of honor – and not the ceremony itself – is the focus.
Second, avoid any mention of the anatomical details of puberty!
The ceremony – a redo for both Mother and Daughter, a circle of support and remembrance for a motherless adolescent – was, I am told, a huge success.
I can still see Daughter's face: shy, forebearing. I realize now that she was mortified.
As word of this ceremony had spread among Mother’s friends, such was the hunger for a re-do of their own unremarked coming of age that women showed up who had never even met Daughter. Here was a group of near-strangers discussing anatomical details –worse, the changes, the very private changes, occurring in her own body – while she was forced to sit and listen and smile.
Daughter and Mother have discussed this awkward incident many times in the decade since. In fact, Daughter agreed to help Mother organize a coming of age ceremony for a young woman who had recently lost her mother to cancer – but she agreed only on two conditions.
First, invite only the closest circle of adult women who actually have a relationship with the young woman. This ensures the guest of honor – and not the ceremony itself – is the focus.
Second, avoid any mention of the anatomical details of puberty!
The ceremony – a redo for both Mother and Daughter, a circle of support and remembrance for a motherless adolescent – was, I am told, a huge success.
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