The Art of Humiliation

[x-posted from First Edition]

I love writing Young Adult books. I could cite the great freedom YA writers have, or our booming market, or even just my adoration of all things snarky. However, my love actually stems from the fact that, despite being over a half-decade out of high school, I still feel like a sixteen-year old half the time. I stress about school, clothes, guys, and whether it's gross that Dan and Serena from Gossip Girl share a sibling.

Only one thing is truly different from my 16 year-old self and I: I'm a writer now. So, when I'm having trouble handling an overload of schoolwork, I have the perfect outlet for my frustration - why not kill off a character in my book? Or when some twit named Kristin seduces my best friend's boy friend? Any guesses what the evil villainess who comes to a bloody and tragic end in my next book will be named?

Which brings me to today's topic- embarrassment. One of the key ingredients in most Young Adult stories is some degree of humiliation. After all, every teenager walking around in American high schools has something they dread happening or a secret that they fear being exposed. The best way to endear your characters to the reader is for them to go through such things - forgetting a huge project that was due, falling off a bike in front of his dream girl, or just finding out that the boy she likes actually likes other boys. I loved high school, but it's not hard to argue that it's one of the most embarrassing periods in life.

Which is also why it's so fun to write about now. All that turmoil and angst, the stories that are hard to think about without blushing, are all fodder for future books. Even my parents - those wonderful, quirky people who brought me into this world, then insisted I wear fish dresses in Elementary School - get face time in various scenes. After all, is there anything more potentially embarrassing than releasing ones parents on your social world? Even now, there are moments when I'm right back in high school, watching my dad insist my boyfriend turn his hat around before he walks into our house.

So, I figured today it's time for a little bit of of Truth or Dare, Originals. Only, you don't get a Dare option, since streaking through Bobby Horton's yard is a little hard to prove over the Internet. Instead we're going to dish about our most embarrassing moments! They can be old ones from your eighth grade dance, or new ones from your book signing last week. Mine's a fresh one, involving -of course - Mr. and Mrs. Danielson of Austin, Tx - aka: my wonderful parents (whom I love, but make for great stories!):

Over Christmas Break, my mom and dad came home from a walk, chilly and beaming at me like they'd just seen Anderson Cooper going door-to-door with a toy poodle. I'd seen this look before. This is the look they get whenever my mom bumps into old classmates of mine and updates them on "what Mary's doing" or my dad meets a cute boy at a golf course and starts hearing wedding bells- this is the dreaded parental gleam. My mom's runs toward the "Nanny-nanny-boo-boo isn't my daughter fantastic?" side, while my dad is just worried I will end up living alone with sixteen alphabetically named cat companions.

This time, their gleams converged. The poor victim - let's call him Aloysius Jenkins - was a guy I'd had a few AP classes with in high school. You know the type...he was nice, funny, ever so slightly rebellious, and good looking in that "I've traveled all over the world and this beard stubble is my only souvenir" sort of way, but - aside from a few Facebook messages since high school and the odd run-in at an Eddie Izzard show- just an acquaintance. Unfortunately, I may have had a short-lived thing for this guy back in the days of AP Bio fruit fly experiments. Even more unfortunate? My parents know this fact.

I know. Teenagers, take heed and those with teenagers avert your eyes...Rule Number One for Growing Up Sane: Unless you are going to homecoming or exchanging promise rings with a guy, never inform your parents of his existence. You may forget about ol'Aloysius, but - trust me - your parents won't. Even six years later.

So, this fateful day my parents were having their daily walk and who should have the unfortunate honor of walking to his car just when they were passing his house? That poor schmuck, Aloysius. In our quasi-suburban neighborhood, it's common courtesy to greet those you come across on the street. A smile or a quick hello and you're done. Unless the Danielsons are passing your house.

In swoops my father, his hearty "Hi there! Didn't you go to Westwood? We're Mary Danielson's parents!" echoing off the perfectly manicured shrubs. As if the mere mention of my name is enough to send mere mortals into spasms of joy, as if I am some great celebrity dog-trainer or a young Presidential hopeful, not a first year Ph.D. student with an unfortunate book addiction. And, here, friends is the rough transcription of that event:

Aloysius: Oh, um, yeah. Well, I'm Aloysius Jenkins. How is Mary?
Dad: She's fine, still in school. So, tell us about yourself, Al. Any good prospects?
Aloysius: (Backing up ever so slowly) Er, just applying to grad school. I'll probably be in school forever, if I don't find out what I want to do. So, Mary's still finishing up undergrad then?
Mom: (Gasping in horror, the gleam fully entering her eye) No, you silly young twit. She's starting her Ph.D. She's going to save blind children, cure cancer, and rid the world of mosquitoes and tapered pants by the time she's thirty!
Aloysius: Oh. Right. Wasn't she doing some book thing?
Mom: (Completely ignoring the fact that Into The Woods being in the hands of agents doesn't mean I'm J.K. Rowling or even signed yet) Why, yes! Yes, she is. In fact, right this very moment her rewrite of the next Great American Robin Hood Novel is in the hands of her agent. She'll probably be the next J.K. Rowling you know, but younger.
Aloysius: Oh, neat. Robin Hood, did you say?
Dad: Yeah, whatever. So, any signs of madness in your family? History of heart disease? Cancer? Abnormal abundance of Siamese twins?
Aloysius: Oh, look at the time! I've got an - uh - underwater basket weaving class to get to. Nice to meet you folks.
Mom: Bye now! If you need any help writing something brilliant or being smarter than all the other little children, let Mary know.
Dad: (Watching Aloysius flee to his car) So, you didn't have a conjoined twin then?

My parents came home, verily bursting with news of their exchange...

Mary: You said what? To whom?
Mom: That nice Aloysius Jenkins! You know, the one whose stubble you were always waxing on about in high school.
Dad: (Eyes gleaming, of course) Seems like a nice enough fellow...You know, my dear spinster daughter, he was wearing a scarf. And a coat. I know how you like boys who wear scarves and coats...
Mom: And he seemed smart enough. Not like you, of course dear, but we can't very well expect that, can we?
Mary: Oh God. I need to do damage control, don't I?
Dad: He had that worldly look too. You go for that, I've noticed. Remember your last boy? That Chilean chap...what was his name? Franco? Bernardo? Chuy?
Mary: You mean Gabriel? He was from France!
Dad: Whatever. He was in a band...there's no future dating musicians, daughter. They won't settle down and give me grandchildren.
Mom: And he wasn't going to graduate school.
Dad: Maybe you should give Aloysius a call? Or send him a note on that Book of Faces thing?
Mom: Yeah! You can talk about your book over drinks...
Mary: (Bursts into flames of embarrassment and horror)

Needless to say, Aloysius didn't respond to my quick Facebook extension of the non-crazy olive branch and will probably avoid me at all future class reunions, for fear of being dragged back to my lair and forced to recite the periodic table of elements while tied naked to my bedpost. Which is good, since you can bet I'm going to be using some of this for characters down the road, so it's best if Aloysius stays far far away from all things Danielson, in case he recognizes himself in a book.

So, Originals, it's time to dish! What was your most humiliating memory from high school? Or, you know, last week? And, our dear parenting Originals out there, have you turned the tables on your kids and accidentally embarrassed them? Anyone else file away their own moments of horror for future literary endeavors?