I once read that the definition of a boy is “noise with dirt on it.” I would have to say that this definition seems remarkably apt—at least until they hit puberty, and then it just needs to be expanded a little so that it also includes the word, “smelly.” Actually, come to think of it, after they hit puberty you could probably leave out the noise and dirt part entirely, and just define boys as “a portable smell.”
I should have seen this coming when my son came home the first week of sixth grade and announced, “They told all of us we have to buy deodorant. Now.” As the mother of the accused, I found this blanket statement given out to an entire class to be rather offensive. (Although, I suppose, not as offensive as it would have been if it had been given out to my child and my child alone.) And I was a little bit worried that it might have some kind of damaging effect on the development of my boy’s self-esteem—after all, I’m not sure how I would take it as an adult if someone told me I needed to go buy some deodorant—right now. What would the effect of a statement like have on the tender psyche of a growing adolescent?
As it turns out: none. In fact, it seems that my concerns about Clyde’s burgeoning ego were entirely misplaced. When the “smell” eventually arrived (as Clyde’s teachers had correctly foretold it soon would), he wasn’t chagrined at all to be told about it—on the contrary, he positively reveled in it. Case in point: the other day he came home from school and took off his shoes; this immediately killed all of the nearest houseplants and sent the cat into a fit of retching. “For the love of all things holy,” we admonished him. “Go take a shower. You stink.”
Clyde, far from taking offense at this greeting, actually stood up a little bit taller. “Really?” he said. “I smell that bad? Huh: I guess that guy on the bus wasn’t kidding.”
We tried to explain to him that having complete strangers tell you how bad you smell wasn’t something to be proud of, but he never even got close to understanding what we were talking about. After a while, just to shut us up he started nodding in agreement, but we could tell by the sparkle in his eyes how proud he still was. I smell bad! Really bad! So bad that people noticed! we could clearly see him thinking.
Which is why, I think, the deodorant lecture fell on such deaf ears. I know now that it was a cry for help from the adults trapped in a closed room with up to thirty adolescents, but in order for it to work they would have needed to have a room full of adolescents who were embarrassed about how badly they smelled—not proud of it. And besides, even if the lecture had worked there is no deodorant in the world that would help with this kind of funk—unless, perhaps, it was a special kind of deodorant that was meant to be applied to the feet. (I think they actually have that type of deodorant—it’s called “clean socks.”)
No: the truth is that the only real help for this kind of funk is a good healthy dose of shame. The kind of shame that should have been accomplished by the lecture the students were given at the beginning of the year, but, alas, apparently was not.
Perhaps next year they can start off by giving the deodorant lecture to the parents. That probably won’t help with the smell any time soon, but it might help with the shame. I know that, personally, I’m ashamed just thinking about it.