My Patron Saint Is Judy Blume | Originally Published in Couch Diaries Magazine

The following piece was originally published in Couch Diaries, a publication edited by USC students Liv Coron and Carolyn Knapp. You can read the full issue here: https://issuu.com/couchdiaries/docs/couch_diaries_issue_3

Well, Pope Francis, I have made a decision. My patron saint is Judy Blume.

As is the case for all good Catholic girls, my childhood was filled with a borderline unhealthy obsession with saints. My Grandmothers would get me books entitled “Miniature Stories of the Saints” and “Book of Saints: Part 8,” which I would read religiously (ha ha) until I could school the most pious nun on the differences between the Saint Teresas. I even remember my Mom printing out the Wikipedia pages on all the Saint Katherines for me. All this martyrdom, getting stoned, and direct communication with God fascinated me as much as it frightened me. I mean, these people were hardcore!

 

So, saint-loving girl that I was, I naturally couldn’t wait for the day I would be confirmed into the Catholic church and get to choose a Confirmation saint of my own.

 

Spoiler alert: I’m still not confirmed. Sorry, Grandma.

 

It all started when we moved to Hong Kong at the beginning of middle school, the time when you usually start taking Confirmation classes and all that fun stuff. You know, going on retreats where churchgoers named Nancy Jo lecture you on the dangers of premarital sex while you’re swapping spit with that guy from math class in the back of the bus. Yeah, so I missed all that. 

Once my family had moved back, my twin sister and I made a measly attempt to stage a late-in-life confirmation, but this proved to be more trouble than it was worth. My childhood dreams of a Confirmation saint went out the window. 

 

But lately, I’ve been thinking. I still want a saint of my own. As on-again, off-again as my relationship with organized religion is, I like the concept of a saint – someone you look up to, someone who lived a life you hope to emulate, someone you might even seek guidance from. My 20s are definitely a time when I’m in need of some guidance. And I’m not about to let a lack of confirmation classes deter my dreams of saintly camaraderie.

 

Judy Blume entered my life around the same time the saints did. I had Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing in one hand, The Rhyme Bible in the other. And her stories, too, have stuck with me long after childhood. The books of my youth are so often what I turn to when modern life feels like it’s turning into a dystopian novel, providing me with a sense of calm and focus in an overwhelming world. There were moments in high school when I would pick up the Fudge series (long after I had stopped being the target audience), momentarily transporting myself back into the mental clarity of Katie, age eight.

  

Blume’s life-long willingness to talk about taboo topics in an honest, respectful, and age-appropriate way is as admirable as it is necessary. She doesn’t shy away from subjects like puberty, sexuality, and religion, normalizing and legitimizing the feelings of young women. Her books are like a giant billboard telling you that the way you’re feeling is normal, that you’ll get through this, that everything will be okay in the end. Few writers do this today and even fewer were doing it in the 70s. Blume is in a league of her own.

 

Like a Mister Rogers of the literary sphere, Blume acknowledges that the emotions of adolescents are valid. I first picked up Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great when I was eight and instantly identified with nervous 10-year-old Sheila Tubman (although I told myself I was more of a Mouse Ellis, yo-yo champion of Tarrytown). Maybe you thought Forever was cheesy and were honestly just disturbed by the whole “Ralph” thing (I know I was). But Forever acknowledged the real, complex feelings of pain, joy, and heartbreak that come with first love and high school coming to an end. The farther we get from these ages ourselves, the more inclined we are to brush aside the painful emotions that come with growing up. But Blume doesn’t brush them aside.

 

If I truly want someone to emulate, someone who I could seek saintly guidance from, Judy Blume is my girl. Her books feel like they listen. And this is what I want to do, to listen. To listen a lot, all the time, to everyone. To acknowledge the feelings and emotions of those around me, just like Judy does. I don’t want to shy away from talking about topics that I care about, no matter how they are perceived by those around me. The common thread throughout her work, I think, is compassion. Compassion – it doesn’t get more “saintly” than that.

 

Catholicism will always be in my life, to some extent. It’s too late, I think, to separate myself from something that has been a part of me for so long. I might not agree with everything Catholicism teaches, but I value how it makes me feel closer to my Grandmothers. I love the traditions, the stories, even the way a church smells. I like remembering when my Grandma used to tell me that if you fall asleep before finishing the Rosary, the angels finish it for you. I even pray the Rosary on occasion myself, as more of a meditative act than anything else, but the Rosary all the same. Before COVID-19 began, I had started going to church at school, because I appreciated the hour of calm and quiet in an increasingly loud world. 

 

These might seem like all the wrong reasons to be picking back up my relationship with religion. But they say if you love something, you’ll stick around to see it get better. I want to be there when women can become priests. I want to be there when the church starts protecting its children. I want to be there to see the church start living out what it’s been preaching all along. 

 

And if that fails, I know I’ll always have Judy Blume. Saint Judy Blume.