The third-grade version of my mom lost herself in the pages of Blubber, and over thirty years later when she passed down the book, the third-grade version of me nestled in my elementary school's library and fell into the same literary hole. For me, 2010 was the year of my encounter with Judy Blume’s Blubber. For some in my class, this year, 2010, was the beginning of the end the closing up of a blissful, innocent lens, and the opening up of social anxieties. Along with increasingly uncanny aromas, a black hole of endless insecurities and body consciousness familiarized among multiple growing children. The no-longer-foreign stench of body odor, which remained unheeded due to the still-undiscovered deodorant, slightly nauseated each third grader. Most days, I found myself in an archetypal scene I held a fresh, chocolate-coated Long John in one miniscule hand and a heaping packet of cursive practice in the other.
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