Just a quick glance at the cover and it’s clear that the memoir by Emily Lindin is not your typical autobiography. Song lyrics and diary entries, scrawled in the hand of her 11-year-old self, take up every inch of the front and back, and spill onto the spine. Phrases stand out — “purposely slice,” “hurt too much” and “watching myself cry hysterically” — that lead you to pick up the book and turn to the first page. There, the title jumps out at you: UnSlut: a Diary and a Memoir. Lindin is an adult now, but on a recent trip to her parents’ house, she found the diaries she meticulously kept during middle school. Reading the entries brought back memories she had long buried, recollections of being bullied as a “slut” after stories of her first experiences with a boyfriend were spread around school. At a time when she and her young classmates were adjusting to major physical, emotional and social changes, Lindin was basically harassed for growing up. In her childhood town, an unnamed wealthy suburb of Boston having a boyfriend was everything. Courting and dating were almost team sports, as squads of girls would ask out boys for their friends– when they weren’t competing with each other. Girls would use their newly developing bodies to get attention, and then be scorned as “sluts” for it. At the same time, boys confused by their raging hormones would use a girl’s reputation as an invitation: if a girl was considered a slut, they seemed to think, surely she’d put out or, at the very least, not care if he grabbed or groped her. Lindin didn’t do anything outrageous to be labeled this way, at least nothing that countless other young people hadn’t done. Yet once the rumors escalated and the label stuck, her self esteem plummeted. She felt every boy was only interested in how far he could get with her, and when uncomfortable situations or outright sexual abuse occurred, she blamed herself for somehow bringing it on. The way she dressed, the things she did, and even the things she was only rumored to have done were used to taunt and belittle her through three years of middle school. She grew so desperate for acceptance that she’d go farther with a boy than she wanted to because she was afraid of losing him, and eventually she began identifying herself by the cruel word that others used against her. She began cutting herself to numb the pain and considered suicide. Only when she went to high school, and began discovering in herself talents for writing and singing, did she stop identifying herself as a “slut.” Reading Lindin’s diaries may remind some readers of the mistakes they made as they stumbled through adolescence, although some may feel that Lindin’s experiences with boys started much younger than their own. But what makes the book so interesting are the comments that the adult Lindin adds in the margins of each page. With the wisdom brought by 10 years of life experiences, Lindin alternates between mocking her younger self for being flaky about boys (“he’s my soulmate.” “I hate him.”) to expressing disgust at the social structure in her school which promoted what she calls sexual bullying. She also offers advice to young people facing the same issues today and the book includes resources about suicide prevention, bullying, sexual health and self-injury. Lindin discovered that her experience is not unique. After she found the diaries, she published excerpts on a blog and received an overwhelming response from other young women who had experienced “slut shaming.” Those women described being harassed for their developing bodies, something over which they had no control; being made to feel dirty or inferior by cultures that believe a sexual woman is sinful; or feeling at fault as victims of sexual abuse. The response led Lindin to create the UnSlut project, a website devoting to sharing stories and resources for women. The project includes the book and a documentary film where women tell their stories. The goal, Lindin says, is to eliminate sexual bullying and “slut shaming,” and maybe someday remove the harmful label from our language. Reading the book may make you stop and think about how we pass judgement on each other, how the rumor mill gets out of control and how young women struggle with the changes that accompany growing up. The book may help you sort through your own experiences, whether as victim or perpetrator of bullying. At the very least, the book is a look into one girl’s resilience: as bad as middle school was for Lindin, she recovered to become a successful author and adult. For more information about the UnSlut project, visit www.unslutproject.org
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Aron Ralston always prided himself on doing things other people would only dream about. But one day, he found himself in a situation that, for anyone, would only be the stuff of nightmares. Ralston was hiking alone in a remote canyon in Utah when he clambered over an 800 pound boulder. The boulder came loose, he and the rock fell, and when they both came to a rest, the stone had pinned Ralston’s right arm against the canyon wall. Trapped, in excruciating pain with little food and water and no warm clothing, Ralston knew that his hopes of rescue were slim since he hadn’t left a detailed plan of his trip with anyone. After six hellish days, or 127 hours, Ralston resorted to a desperate act to save his own life. It’s not a spoiler once you see the book cover or if you’ve ever seen the James Franco movie: Ralston cut off his own arm. Ralston, who was 27 at the time of the 2003 accident, details the entire grueling experience in his book Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Before reading the book, I could only imagine the anguish and despair Ralston went through in his ordeal — the mental and physical struggles as the days went on without rescue. After reading the book, I was amazed at his endurance, his fortitude, his ability to survive. As Ralston recounts his days of entrapment, he also talks of his many outdoor adventures, from climbing 14,000 foot mountains, in winter, alone, to hiking miles to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back up in record time. It’s clear he thrived on thrill seeking and pushing limits, and had more than his share of brushes with death. Because I don’t share that “need for speed” and am not exactly an adrenaline junkie (I write, as I sit here eating a candy bar), I had trouble relating to his adventures and struggled with judging him as careless — an accident waiting to happen. Still, many other readers may not be bothered by this and may be inspired or thrilled themselves by his adventures. The chapters on his adventures do contain a lot of technical language about mountain climbing and equipment, which slowed me down; the library’s version of the book includes a glossary. Regardless of what I thought of Ralston’s risk-taking, my curiosity in how he survived pushed me to keep reading and the last few chapters move at breakneck speed. I couldn’t put the book down until he was safe and sound. When Alison Smith was 15, her beloved older brother Roy was killed in a car accident. She and her brother were so close growing up that their mother combined their names into the knickname "Alroy." Grief tore her apart, shattering her deep religious faith and sending her into a physical and emotional tailspin. The memoir Name All the Animals details that struggle. In the question-and-answer section at the end of the book, I learned that Alison was an adult when she began writing it. An aspiring novelist, she was looking for a book idea when her professor said "write about yourself." She recalled thinking that nothing significant had ever happened to her. I share this because, after reading the book, I was haunted by Smith's grief and couldn't believe that she had recovered so thoroughly that she wasn't still living with that sorrowful weight every day. In fact, that would be my only criticism of the book: it ended too soon. After describing three years of grief so raw that she disconnected from her peers; saved half of every meal for her lost brother; and found solace in a relationship that her school and parents would never understand, let alone condone, Alison hit bottom. Believing there was no way to end the grief, she considered joining her brother. Thankfully, she did not follow through and the realization she had that day began the difficult journey toward peace. But I wanted to know more about how she carried on. We were with her for three years of sadness and despair, and I wanted to be with her for more of the healing. I feel like that would have given me more closure. Despite that, Name All the Animals is a beautifully honest and vivid account. It's 300 pages, but once you pick it up, it is hard to put down. |
AuthorMrs. McHugh is a librarian and instructional technology specialist. She loves talking books and pop culture with her students at Hanover High School. Archives
February 2024
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