My favorite literary character must be that great hero of Tish Cohen and mine, Trixie Belden. See, Trixie, despite her stripper name and modest background, was a real girl. She wore jeans (unlike Nancy Drew who was more apt to wear something called dungarees) and though she loved her very closest friend in the world, Honey (okay, seriously, what’s going on with these names?!), she also admitted to feelings of lust for her friend’s brother and feelings of jealousy for her friend’s wealth and fabulous twinsets (I never did want a twinset, did you?).
She also refused to be a girly-girl, something I was loathe to become. Being a girly-girl is not a bad thing, and I sort of am one in some ways these days (like the whole lipstick thing), but when you have an older brother who decapitates your stuffed animals and challenges every feminine choice your young heart makes, well, you’re a tomboy or you’re miserable.
So, Trixie knew her stuff. She wore her jeans, she had her rotten little feelings, and she was smart as a whip. Could you ask for much more? It’s still all I really want for myself. Because Trixie was– at seventeen– what I think I might finally be at thirty-seven: accepting and forgiving of who I am.
Trixie was always unabashedly herself. Even if she did have a stripper name.