It’s me, Jane. When I was a young girl, I would read books about famous scientists, soldiers, girl detectives and girls like me—middle class kids who wore hand-me-downs, ate Campbell’s soup and Frosted Flakes, watched Scooby Doo on Saturday mornings, and who needed your help understanding the world around them. I would dream of being that girl detective, Nancy Drew, with her blond hair, flipped perfectly in place behind the headband in her hair. I imagined myself as her; standing behind the wheel of the speedboat she was in as she quickly sped off to solve a mystery. Her hair still in place as she darted around the lake, her dress ironed and perfectly fitted to her perfectly fit body. It was the kind of fantasy that seemed so close to reality and there was a part of me that truly thought if I wished hard enough, imagined hard enough, I could be that girl. Or maybe I would find a cure for a disease, like Madame Curie, or become a martyr for a cause, like Joan of Arc. I would have the respect of everyone around me, be famous and, most of all, not be me.
Then there were the other books, of girls like me who had regular lives. Their hair would get messy, they had fights with their brothers and sisters, and they got their periods. I never really wanted to be like these girls, except for the part of their lives that ended up working out for the better. I suppose these stories were meant to give me hope that I would be okay. In a way, I guess they did.
My childhood heroes from all those books that I loved have inspired me to ask for your help. Somehow, some way, I need you to swoop in and help me. If you have been paying attention, you would know that this would be a great time to show me you are here.
I will be waiting.