Humor by John Christmann
The New Jersey Girls
My daughter is ten. She was born in New Jersey. She has spunk and brains and attitude and a laugh that fills up a room. Her friends are different but the same.
A scary thought creeps across my mind. I wonder, are they Jersey Girls?
The problem is, my image of a Jersey Girl is stuck somewhere in the 80s, before I moved to New Jersey. In my mind’s eye I flip to a faded image of four young Jersey friends, their arms wrapped around shoulders as one; defiant partiers with big hair, pouty lips, and fashionably ripped shirts revealing bare skin.
Then I realize it is a picture of Bon Jovi.
I ask some of my male friends who grew up in the area to describe a Jersey Girl. “Sassy heartbreakers and beguiling trash talkers,” they say. “Hair and nails and makeup and tans. Some are stylish, some are trashy, some are crass, and some are classy. ”
They sound like they are reciting passages from Dr. Seuss, and I learn what I already know: when it comes to girls, men aren’t much help.
So I go right to a source and ask my friend Henrietta, a self-proclaimed Jersey Girl, to explain herself. She looks at me like I am a toll booth short of a turnpike and immediately wants to know why I want to know.
She finally explains: “Being a Jersey Girl is all about attitude and pride. A Jersey Girl likes a good time and knows how to have one.”
Henrietta is quick to point out that the girls from the MTV reality show, Jersey Shore, are absolutely not Jersey Girls. “They are trash from Staten Island,” she says with a scoff.
This is a little more informative, but the essence of a Jersey Girl still eludes me.
And then, on a warm spring Saturday afternoon, my wife hands me some pre-arranged driving instructions: pick up four girls from a birthday party and take them to their lacrosse game at the high school. The complexity of arranging car pools is beyond me, so I let the more organized Jersey Moms work out the details while I listen to the car radio and be where I need to be at the specified time.
I am to pick up my daughter and three of her classmates from a festive beauty salon just for girls in a neighboring town. When I arrive my daughter and her party-going friends are being made up. All around me is the stuff of girls: glitter and ringlets and bright makeup and sequined t-shirts and painted nails and the incessant chatter of indomitable female energy. I am but a birthday crashing chauffeur from the alien land of Dad.
With a little prodding, the girls grab their sports bags and pink water bottles and giggle their way to the car as they discuss some defenseless boy who has trouble with math and wears the same shirt everyday.
From the backseat they politely instruct me to change the radio station in a reassuring manner which suggests I have no taste in music. Soon a thumping pop song by some woman I have never heard of has them bouncing and crooning under the constraint of their seat belts. Propelled by the music they roll down the rear windows and wave at complete strangers, laughing with every startled hand that returns their uninhibited greeting. “Honk the horn!” they scream. I do, because their rolling party is infectious.
Before long I pull into a parking lot next to a large playing field behind the high school. The girls have directed me there thinking I might not know the way. Still laughing, they reach into their sports bags and secure protective wire goggles over their eyes and mouth guards over their teeth. Then they stop talking and sprint onto the field.
I stay and watch them play. Lacrosse sticks waggle with vigor and purpose around their energetic bodies. Their newly coiled locks bounce uncontrollably behind them as they run, and in the bright sunlight I notice that their nails have been thoughtfully decorated to harmonize with their maroon jerseys. The smiles are infrequent now, flashing here and there as necessary to round out their game faces, and to remind their opponents who is in charge.
They work the hard ball up and down the field victoriously in their little girl makeup and I think to myself, these women will rule the world one day. Their sun kissed faces say “look at me”. Their grass-stained uniforms say “I’m from New Jersey”. Their competitive play says “You got a problem with that?” Their proud lips say “We win!” And their enticing spirit says “Woo Hoo, let’s party!”
I don’t know if this qualifies them to be Jersey Girls, but I sure hope so.
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