Portrait of Girl with Comic Book by Phyllis McGinley

Portrait of Girl with Comic Book

by Phyllis McGinley

Thirteen’s no age at all. Thirteen is nothing.

It is not wit, or powder on the face,

Or Wednesday matinées, or misses’ clothing,

Or intellect, or grace.

Twelve has its tribal customs. But thirteen

Is neither boys in battered cars nor dolls,

Not “Sara Crewe,” or movie magazine,

Or pennants on the walls.

Thirteen keeps diaries and tropical fish

(A month, at most); scorns jump ropes in the spring;

Could not, would fortune grant it, name its wish;

Wants nothing, everything;

Has secrets from itself, friends it despises;

Admits none to the terrors that it feels;

Owns half a hundred masks but no disguises;

And walks upon its heels.

Thirteen’s anomalous—not that, not this:

Not folded bud, or wave that laps a shore

,Or moth proverbial from the chrysalis.

Is the one age defeats the metaphor.

Is not a town, like childhood, strongly walled

But easily surrounded; is no city.

Nor, quitted once, can it be quite recalled—

Not even with pity.

This poem by Phyllis McGinley was published in The New Yorker on October 18, 1952, which is why the age for what she states in this poem seems a bit old. These days, this in-between state is probably more for 11-and 12-year-olds.

But no matter--the effect is still strong and relatable. At whatever age it hits, we have all experienced this state of pugartory between childhood and adulthood. My very favorite example from the poem is "neither boys in battered cars nor dolls"--this truly sums up this age between playing at being a mommy and starting the rituals of dating that may just lead to marriage and motherhood for real. Of course, "wants nothing, everything" seems apt for most adolescent years, as I recall.

The first line of this poem--two short sentences--sets us up for the tone and the topic. The first stanza continues to explain what 13 is not. The second stanza is more of a mix. It goes back and forth between what 13 is and is not, and is brutal (and that back and forth mimics the poem's topic, creating a symmetry of form and content, which I love in poetry).

This description is heartbreaking:

"Has secrets from itself, friends it despises;

Admits none to the terrors that it feels;

Owns half a hundred masks but no disguises

. . . not that, not this"

Yes. I remember all of this, maybe not the specifics, but the feelings that resulted.

I love how she gives us the metaphor of childhood as a walled town--that's how it feels, looking back, unless your childhood was very disfunctional and traumatic. I also enjoy her use of end rhyme (rhyming words at the end of lines) and her mix of true/perfect rhyme (the words rhyme exactly: fish and wishy]) and slant rhyme (dolls and walls). That, as well as the non-metered rhythm, keeps the poem from becoming sing-songy.

I found this poem when I went searching for poems about childhood for a workshop I led. The name, Phyllis McGinley, was vaguely familiar, but I could not place it. My research about her solved that mystery.

McGinley was born in 1905 in Oregon, spent her childhood in Colorado, and her teen years in Utah. Her adulthood was spent in the New York City area. She won a Pulitzer Prize and wrote for all of the major magazines of the day. Her writing was varied: poetry, children's fiction, humor, reviews, scripts, essays, light verse, short stories, and "domestic pieces." She was married and had one daughter. She died in 1978.

Her name was familiar to me--and may be to you, too, if you were born in the late 1950s-the late 1970s and watched those holiday movies that came on TV once a year. If you missed watching them, you had to wait until the following year!

One of her children's books was turned into a very famous TV movie starring Mickey Rooney and Shirley Booth as Santa and Mrs. Claus. The book and the movie introduced us to the Heat Miser and the Snow Miser. That's right--McGinley wrote the book, The Year Without a Santa Claus. This book was made into a Rankin and Bass stop-motion film that was first on TV in 1974. When it came out, I was 13. I loved those holiday movies.

If you have a young person/people in your life, I bet this poem resonates. If you recall your own tween/teen years and cringe in embarrassment, sorrow, or dismay, cut yourself some slack. Be kind to that inner 13-year-old: read Sara Crewe, write in your journal about your movie star crush, and eat candy for dinner! You deserve it!