Ode to New Jersey
The real heroes anyway aren’t the
people doing things; the real heroes
are the people noticing things,
paying attention.
John Green
The Fault in Our Stars
Oh New Jersey – you gungy, glorious bastard…
With your turnpikes and tie-dye, your soul-patches and gold-chains, your permed mallrats and dive-bar heroes. So close but yet so far from the greatest city in the world. But then there are your Sussex County mansions and Sandy Hook dunes, the laidback luxury of your infamous shore. You will never know how much you meant to me back in 1982, when you took over as my coming-of-age cocoon. In went a gangly pre-teen with coke-bottle glasses and out emerged—at least to my mind—a total sexpot.
What about that transformative year on Lake Mohawk made me desperate enough to jazz hands my way through every photo? I wish I could reach through the frame and tell her (in my best Jersey accent) to get over herself already. Give her a hug and reassure her that no one actually notices her sultry smile or her shoe size, her come-hither elbow or the haircut that made her cry in the middle of 5th Avenue. Show her that, despite everything she is feeling, looks will neither define nor destroy her life.
Attracting attention, especially the kind wannabe sexpots get, will never quite fill the gnawing hole in her soul. Not for any length of time, anyway. It will take time, but she will ultimately discover that noticing—rather than being noticed—is the real superpower.