Judy Blume, Judy Blume--I knew your name. I saw it often on the books my daughter read voraciously.
Those titles: Are You Listening God, It’s Me Margaret, Superfudge, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing…
Innocent, kid’s entertainment, fodder for a young mind.
I, at the time, desperately treading deep waters, only gave them a glance.
Three decades later I finally know what was written on those pages that informed my child.
 Had I known the secrets spilled out on those pages—well, better I didn’t know, then.
I started my period at twelve, bleeding in the bathroom one day. My mother handed me a “sanitary napkin” through the cracked open door without a word before or after, or ever.
I learned about sex from stories shared in closets with girlfriends, incredulous disgust and giggles.
My parents slept with the door open, always.
And so I passed on a reticent attitude.  I passed on silence, shame, and ignorance. I didn’t have the words. I didn’t have the freedom, the bold honesty. But you did.
Thank you, Judy Blume. Thank you for saying what I couldn’t say. Thank you for teaching what I couldn’t teach. Thank you for shedding light in dark corners unreached.
I watched the documentary, now I understand. 
 
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