ISFD N803 PROFESORADO DE INGLES

GONZALEZ- VELIZ LENGUA INGLESA Y ANALISIS DEL DISCURSO III

PROF.

EXTENSIVE READING: BEING A GIRL, BY JEAN HOLKNER

A. BEFORE READING: Reflect upon the text below and write the answers to
the questions that follow.
Adolescence is a time of great change. The dramatic physical development
that comes with adolescence is easy to observe, but the emotional changes
and growth are even more important. The adolescent is constantly pushing for
more independence, challenging parental control, and experimenting with
different attitudes and opinions. This process helps the teenager create his or
her own adult identity.
At the same time, adolescents continue to need the support and guidance
of their parents. While they often challenge and even disobey parental rules,
adolescents still need to know that the rules exist. The parents of an
adolescent need to have great patience during this stage in their childs life.
1.
2.
3.
4.

Did you enjoy your early teenage years?

What was good or not so good about them?
Did you experience a lot of peer pressure?
How strict were your parents?

B. WHILE READING: Who says these lines to whom? Describe the context
and the significance of the lines.
1. Why cant you be like other girls?
2. I wouldnt worry too much.
3. Basic cooking is what wewill learn here.
4. What am I going to do with you?
5. I think thats a very good idea.

Being a Girl
Jean Holkner

Why cant you be like other girls? was my mothers continual despairing
cry.
You could hardly blame her.
As a girl I was a complete failure.
By the time I was fourteen I was five foot six, making it highly
improbable that I would ever find a Jewish boy I could look up to.
There wasnt much my mother could do about this, except perhaps,
bitterly regret having married my father who was five foot ten and the cause of
it all.
As well as my size, there was the problem of my face.
I never had so many pimples when I was a young girl, said my mother
and dragged me off to the Childrens Hospital.
Im sorry, said the Sister. We dont treat anyone over seventeen here.
But shes only fourteen, pleaded my mother.

Really? said Sister, looking up at me interestedly. Well, fill in this form

and wait over there.
After a couple of hours of sliding along the benches it was finally our
turn.
Dr Newman was very young I was probably his first important case.
He listened to my mother describing the sudden advent of my pimples.
Has she er got her period yet? he asked, looking down at the floor.
Of course, replied my mother proudly. On the tenth of August last year.
It was my turn to look down at the floor.
Has she got any pubic hair? asked the doctor writing very busily on my
card.
Pardon? asked my mother.
Doesnt matter, mumbled the doctor. Has she got any hair under her
armpits?
No, I said indignantly before my mother could give away any more of
my secrets.
Well, he said scribbling furiously, I wouldnt worry too much these
things usually clear themselves up when er its time. Get some of this cream
from the chemist. And he ushered us thankfully to the door.
After that my mother decided that if I couldnt be beautiful Id better
learn to be useful.
So I ironed the family hankies till they turned deep brown, broke nearly
as many plates as I dried and once even emptied the remains of the chicken
soup down the sink mistaking it for dishwater.
Why do you just stand there watching the milk boil over? my mother
asked sorrowfully one breakfast time.
I didnt know what to say. I could hardly tell her Id been dancing under a
tropical moon with the boy of my dreams.
When cooking classes started at school my mother wasnt as pleased as
she might have been.
What are they going to teach you there? she said. How to roast a pork
God forbid or to make oysters?
On the first day of cooking my mothers fears were put to rest.
Basic cooking is what we will learn here, said Miss Bakewell. Stews,
puddings, bread and cakes. You will each bring fourpence every week and
whatever you cook will be your lunch. You will work in pairs.
So Annie and I gravitated towards each other a partnership which
produced many a culinary disaster.
One of our first tasks was to go shopping for the ingredients for a fruit
cake.
You will bring back two pounds of mixed fuit, said Miss Bakewell to
Annie and me.
So we brought back three apples, two oranges and a banana. It took us a
while to work out why everyone laughed.
Except Miss Bakewell of course. She had a rough time of it that year.
Whenever the class was cooking a meat dish, Annie, Frieda Finkle and I would
form a deputation to remind her that we werent allowed to eat any non-Jewish
meat.
So we were appointed housekeepers for that day which meant we
polished the silver, set the table and slid down the banisters, which was our
way of dusting them.
We made ourselves pretty unpopular with the rest of the class who had
to cook things called Shepherds Pie and Irish Stew and then struggle to eat
them or throw them in the bin when Miss Bakewell wasnt looking.
We Chosen Ones made do very nicely with the dessert of the day,
usually custard pudding or junket, along with lots of fresh bread and butter.
One day Miss Bakewell announced that we were now advanced enough
to make our own bread.
Annie took it upon herself to mix the dough so I stole away quietly to the
window and looked out on the street while working out that there were still
seven cooking days before the end of term.
Now, girls, Miss Bakewell was saying when I sneaked back to my benchtop, dont forget to put a tea-towel on your bread while its rising.
Annie was by now nowhere to be seen. I guessed shed gone to the
lavatory where she would spend the next quarter of an hour combing her hair
down over one eye like her favourite film star, Veronica Lake.

I picked up the tray with the dough on it and put it in the oven, tea-towel
and all.
After a few minutes a strange smell began to fill the air.
Whats that burning? cried Miss Bakewell and she rushed towards my
oven.
Bravely she flung open the door and out poured smoke, flame and the
tattered remains of an Education Department tea-towel.
What am I going to do with you? groaned my mother that evening as
she counted out three shillings and sixpence for a new towel. What was she
thinking of course was, Where am I ever going to find anyone to marry you?
But she battled on grimly, trying to make me into a real girl. Once she
put me in charge of polishing the floors.
When I come back, she said, I want to see this lino shining brightly.
As son as she was out of sight Lily and I tied the polishing cloths around
our feet and skated up and down the passage pretending we were worldfamous ice-skaters.
When my mother came back she looked at the fifteen-foot streaks wed
made and sighed deeply.
But she was a forgiving person and when it was time to start knitting at
school she nobly came to my rescue.
Did you knit all these yourself? asked Miss Woolman suspiciously,
examining my scarf, tea-cosy and babys singlet.
Oh, yes, Miss, I replied with my fingers crossed behind my back. But I
dont think she believed me because much to my mothers indignation all she
got for knitting that year was 7 out of 10.
I didnt do any better at sewing.
Now, girls, said Miss Singer, all you have to do is to pin, tack and hem
your square of cotton neatly. With tiny stitches all going the same way of
course.
Of course? What did she mean of course?
By the time Id unpicked my stitches, all of different sizes and all leaning
in different directions, three times, Miss Singer and I were both exhausted. Not
to mention my square of cotton.
I think my mother finally gave up on the day I did the washing. It was a
Sunday and I was alone in the house. Why should my mother have to slave
over a hot copper all day tomorrow? I thought.
It was this noble sentiment that held me up throughout the afternoon as
I filled the copper with dirty laundry and cold water to cover, threw a lighted
piece of newspaper underneath, and got out of the way as fast as possible in
case of an explosion.
By the time my mother came in I was strirring the washing with a
wooden stick, just like Id seen her do.
For a moment she just stood there watching it all boiling away merrily
white sheets, coloured jumpers, everybodys underwear. Suddenly my Dads
best silk socks simmered into view.
With an anguished cry my mother lunged forward in a desperate effort to
save them.
All she got for her trouble was a nasty burn.
Later that evening I stood watching her change the dressing on her
injured fingers.
When I grow up, I said, Im going to be a lawyer and make enough
money to have a full-time housekeeper.
My mother didnt even look up. I think thats a very good idea, she said,
and went on bandaging her finger.