Banned Books Week: My Summer of '79

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At 15 I was still playing with Barbies by day and masturbating to my poster of Barry Gibb at night.

But one book helped me safely cross the line between girlish romance and womanly knowledge.

At 15, I was straddling both the simple romantic fantasies of girlhood by day and the hormonal induced sweaty-pink-bit-manipulations by night.

By day, I still played with Barbie & her friends. Still playing with Barbies was not something I advertised; I didn't invite my girlfriends over to play with me. Playing with Barbie was like warm comfort food; I understood the rules and romance in playland, even if I didn't understand the ways of the boys around me who had suddenly started reacting to my well-beyond-just-budding breasts.

But at night, I got hot and sweaty for Barry Gibb. Most girls were hot for Andy Gibb. Sure, Andy was candy; but I wanted a man. That poster of Barry with his dark blue satin baseball jacket worn open to expose what I could only then (and now) best describe as a tree of hair -- with a trunk that went down past the navel to what I can only now bear to imagine as another system of hair at the root... And that magnificent mane of hair on his head, ah... it still works. But before I begin to get lost in teenage masturbation fantasies, there is another tale to tell...

At 15, I knew the score -- or at least what scoring was -- even I wasn't ready for it. At least not with a boy. If I was going to give in -- and I wasn't sure I was -- it would be with a man who knew what he was doing.

Since I was an avid reader, Barbie wasn't my only form of entertainment. (Nor was masturbation, but that's for another time -- quit trying to get me off the subject!)

As an avid reader with a voracious appetite for books, my parents let me read freely from anything on the bookshelves at home and at the library. I hadn't needed my parents' permission for any reading material since what, I was 6, 7? I read what I wanted, and asked questions when I needed to.

For example, when I was about 10 I read a mystery book which presented a mystery it hadn't intended. I forget the title and author, but the passage went like this: "and then he threw the flaming faggot into the fire." Since the only definition for 'faggot' I knew was the same for 'gay' and 'queer' (hey folks, it was 1974, and folks were 'out' in theory even if I didn't know anyone personally); I was at a loss. How could a man who was alone throw another man into a fire? And if there was someone around, why hadn't he been mentioned earlier? Shouldn't there have been some sort of exchange or motive? Was it just bad writing?

Book in hand, I approached my mother, showed her the passage and asked for help. How she kept a straight face (no pun intended) while explaining that 'faggot' was an English word for cigarette, I'll never know... But I do know that not only had she helped me with my vocabulary but I helped her by letting her know what I knew. That's what parenting is all about, yes?

So, flash forward five years, and I am 15. I leave Babs and help myself to a book on my parents' book shelf. A title caught my eye, The Summer of '42 -- something about it was familiar. I remembered vaguely the book making news... something about sex & banning the book... Hmm, I thought, I hope it's not as dumb as Catcher in the Rye. (That book did nothing for me, sorry.) But curiosity won, and I took Summer of '42 to my room and read it.

Summer of '42 The book was well-written, but it was from the point of view of a boy, which I found faintly disinteresting. A group of boys who want to get laid. Gee, that was news to a 15 year old girl with big boobs. But I hung with it (to date, I've only quit reading 3 books -- I'm a girl who believes in commitment), and I learned a few things.

Like Hermie's date with Aggie. Hermie thinks he's getting lucky by touching her breast -- a deformed breast lacking any nipple -- only to discover later that he'd been fondling and groping her shoulder. (Hey, Barry Gibb would never, ever, have made that mistake!) This only confirmed my belief that boys were stupid. They were in such a rush, they missed pretty basic stuff. Idiots.

But at the end of the book, I was once again surprised that I'd read another banned book that left me wondering why it would need to be banned. Frankly, I still am.

Sure, Hermie (an under-age boy) has sex with an older (adult) woman; but it's depressing. It's not erotic. Nor is it abusive or crude. In fact, it scared me about my fantasies about Mr. Gibb. I mean Hermie was in love, head over heels in love -- ga-ga -- and after what he thinks is such a beautiful moment, this woman cries and leaves him. Sure, she was vulnerable with her husband's death and all, but clearly, she didn't want some kid. Ouch. And hey, Hermie's got feelings! Who knew boys had feelings?

This was not some sex-filled-romp of adolescence. This was not some titillating erotic entertainment piece. This was heartbreaking. Even at 15, a never-been-kissed-by-a-boy girl, I recognized the agony of misplaced virginity. I knew that a first time, a first love, a first fuck, was sacred. This wasn't some fodder for a solo-fuck-fest, some sensationalized erotic entertainment -- far from it. It was a warning. Not only were young boys not practiced enough to find a boob, but they were immature enough to not know how to protect their hearts. While I felt that I would fare better in the groping department, I knew I was likely as lame in matters of the heart.

Not long after, Barbie was put away and didn't see sunlight until we had a garage sale. I had mastered what I needed to know: romance was a fickle bitch, boys could indeed be hurt too, and romance could be as plastic as a fashion doll.

I still masturbated to Barry, but I no longer romanticized meeting him after a concert and that he'd leave his wife for me. It was just sex. I was capable of it and so I was equal to boys in that regard. I grew up quite a bit reading Summer of '42, and I likely saved myself some pain. I have Herman Raucher to thank for that. And my parents, for they let me read.

Just last week I asked my mom if she knew that I had read Summer of '42; yes, she had. I asked her if she was, well, creeped out by it. Her reply? "No. You always came to us if you had questions. ...It was a sad story, wasn't it?"

Yeah mom, it was sad. Sadder still to know that some kids weren't allowed to read it. Thank you and dad for being good parents.


Some kids and adults are still not allowed to read or view Summer of '42 because it has been banned from their libraries. Or they've been told to avoid such 'horrible' works. I can't speak for the film, but if you get a chance, read Summer of '42. It might be too late to save yourself from mistakes, but it's never too late to learn something. Read it this week, Banned Books Week, and celebrate your freedom to read.


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You can't prove she's not Marilyn reincarnated. (You really canít!)

DeeDee is a wife and mother, a collector of kitsch and women's history, and a blogger on vintage living.

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